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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Regalia

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It is possible that readers of these Tales from the Squid and Teapot will be surprised to learn that Durosimi O’Stoat is in possession of something resembling a sense of humour. I agree, it’s hard to countenance, but don’t take my word for it – just  take a look at the picture attached to this tale. 

“That isn’t Durosimi O’Stoat,” some of the more astute of you may say. “That’s Samuel Liddel MacGregor Mathers, a British occultist,” and you would be absolutely correct. So, bear with me, and all will be revealed. 

You may remember that Durosimi had discovered an ancient parchment which apparently detailed, in the long dead Etruscan language, how one might open a portal to other lands. While Durosimi was confident that he could successfully translate the document, he had to bear in mind that there is always a danger when dabbling in such arcane matters, inasmuch as uttering a spell even slightly incorrectly might prove somewhat detrimental to the speaker. This might possibly entail turning him inside-out, or doing something similarly disagreeable.

Such danger would have deterred lesser men, but Durosimi has never been one to flinch from risks in the pursuance of knowledge or wealth… but he is, however, a pragmatist at heart.

“Why put yourself in danger, when you can get some sucker to do it for you?” 

This had long been his motto, and, on this occasion, the sucker in question was to be Doc Willoughby. 

It had taken half a bottle of single malt whisky and most of the day to convince the Doc that he was perfect for the job in hand. Although Willoughby professed to be a man of science and learning, Durosimi had always been aware that he was an out and out Quack, and, when it came down to it, not a particularly bright one, either. But Durosimi was not the sort to hold such failings against him. Besides, it made the Doc extremely easy to manipulate. 

“I can’t see why you’re asking me to cast the spell,” complained the Doc, not unreasonably. “After all, you’re the sorcerer.”

“I have other responsibilities,” replied Durosimi, importantly. “It is necessary that I observe the spell unfolding from a safe dist… I mean from a sensible distance. After all, we can’t be certain exactly where the portal will materialise. Besides, the regalia doesn’t fit me properly.”

“Regalia? What regalia?” Doc Willoughby looked puzzled.

“Oh, it’s nothing much,” said Durosimi, airily. “But wearing it is a crucial part of the ceremony.”

This, of course, was total rubbish, but it amused Durosimi, and gave him the great satisfaction of making Doc look ridiculous. I have no idea how the photographic representation of MacGregor Mathers,  one of the founder members of The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, came into Durosimi’s keeping, but this was the inspiration for the costume that Doc was to be wearing when he cast the spell.  It was, Durosimi reasoned, no more than the old fool deserved for being so gullible. 

“So where is this regalia?” asked Doc. “Perhaps I should try it on. After all, it might not fit me either.”

“Oh, I can promise you, it will fit,” said Durosimi. “But you shouldn’t see it before the ceremony, or the magic won’t work properly.”

Doc was far from happy about this, but held his tongue. It is never very wise to argue with Durosimi.

According to the Etruscan parchment, the most auspicious time to open a portal is at the rising of a full moon. Durosimi had calculated that this would be at precisely 4pm on the following Monday, just two days away. Although being in daylight made the possibility of being seen much more likely, this was offset by the delicious prospect of Doc standing in his ridiculous costume in full view of anyone passing by. Durosimi almost smiled with glee. 

“Have I really got to wear this?” Doc looked aghast at himself in Durosimi’s full-length mirror. The leather helmet was not too bad, he had to admit, but the moth-eaten fur stole, the faded blue cummerbund and a lady’s nightgown, pink and shapeless, were not the clothing he had envisioned himself to be wearing that day. 

“Being on this wretched island means that we have to compromise here and there,” said Durosimi. “Make do and mend, and all that. It’s the intention that’s important, Willoughby old friend.”

“And why do I have to carry a skunk-cabbage stuck on the end of a broom handle? I’ll be a laughingstock.”

“Nonsense,” replied Durosimi, employing his best poker-face. “Anyway, no one will see you, and carrying the plant is an important part of the ceremony. It represents…um… growing life, and other such things. Now come on, it’s time for us to go… have you got the words to the spell?”

Doc looked furtively about him, keen not to be spotted, as the two made their way from Durosimi’s house to the nearby clearing where the portal was to be situated. 

“Stand in front of these two trees, and when you hear the church clock strike four, carefully say those words that I have written,” said Durosimi, pushing Doc forward.

“Where will you be?”

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” replied Durosimi, then hurried off to shelter behind a large rock, some fifty yards away. 

The church clock struck four, and Doc Willoughby began intoning the spell in the way that Durosimi had instructed. It was then that Mireille D’Illay, of Les Demoiselles de Moulin Rouge, chose to wander past. She stopped and stared at the spectacle before her in disbelief, then, with a dismissive shake of her head and a Gallic shrug, she said

“Mon Dieu, he is as mad as the English,” and continued on her way.

“Nothing seems to be happening,” Doc called to Durosimi.

“Then do it again, man. That blasted French dancer must have distracted you.“

Doc repeated the spell, this time without interruption, but the result was the same.

“I don’t know what’s gone wrong,” fumed Durosimi. He hadn’t even had the pleasure of seeing Doc being turned inside out. “I need to study this further… and for goodness sake, get those ridiculous clothes off.”

It was some hours later, and Winston Oldspot , the Night-Soil Man, ventured out on his rounds, accompanied by his friend, Mr Squash. 

“Look,” he said, pointing to the night sky. “It’s the first full moon of the year.”

Mr Squash was about to reply, but suddenly stopped walking, at the same time resting his hand on Winston’s shoulder.

“Stay where you  are, lad,” he said in a gruff whisper.

No more than a dozen yards in front of them, a thin sliver of vertical  light rippled from between the trees, like torchlight shining through a gap in some very long curtains.

“What do you think is causing that?” asked Winston, not a little alarmed. 

“I have no idea,” replied the Sasquatch, “but whatever it is, I don’t think I want to get any closer.”

Even as he spoke, the gap widened a little, bleeding a sickly-green mist into the Hopeless night…

To be continued. 

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Where Morphemes Concatenate

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Durosimi O’Stoat pulled his overcoat tightly around him, in a forlorn effort to keep at bay the icy wind that was blowing in from the Atlantic. He hoped it would be worth his while, following Mr Squash for yet another long night of apparently aimless wandering. It puzzled Durosimi why the Sasquatch should have chosen to return to The Squid and Teapot at Christmas; after all,  there is no good reason why anyone should be celebrating the season here on this most miserable of islands, Hopeless, Maine. The sorcerer, who was inclined to judge everyone by his own set of standards, could only conclude that the Sasquatch must have had an excellent, and probably dubious, motive to want to return.

For night after night, Durosimi trudged around after Mr Squash, keeping a safe distance downwind, and ducking into shadows at the slightest hint of discovery. When, after a week, and the whole enterprise seemed to be fruitless, he finally decided to cut his losses. It was during that eleventh hour that Durosimi overheard a snatch of conversation which, while heralding no clue as to why the Sasquatch had returned, made his catalogue of discomforts almost worthwhile. 

“If the need arises,” he heard Mr Squash declare to Reggie Upton, “I can always build another portal to Tibet, or, indeed, to anywhere I choose. They’re not difficult to do.”

Durosimi held no illusions that Mr Squash would let him in on his secrets, but it was enough to know that these mysterious portals had been man-made (or Sasquatch-made in this instance) and not some natural phenomenon that could never be replicated. Durosimi was confident that, if the business of building a portal could be achieved by some overgrown neanderthal (his words), then he, the greatest sorcerer in the Northern Hemisphere (again, his words, unsurprisingly), would, with the application of his genius, be able to produce something at least as wonderful, if not better. 

With these thoughts in his head, and the metaphorical bit lodged firmly between his teeth, Durosimi was now totally convinced that somewhere in his formidable library, hidden in that vast assortment of ancient tomes, forbidden grimoires, therimoires, diabologues, spell-books and an almost complete set of farmers’ almanacs, would lie the secret words which would open a portal to anywhere in the world, or, who knows, even the universe. 

Over the following week, anyone passing Durosimi’s window might have spotted him at any hour of the day or night, bent over a manuscript of some description, or wrestling with a huge, leather bound book. His candles were burning from dusk until dawn, for having embarked upon this quest, he refused to eat or sleep until he had found the treasure that he was seeking. 

One grey, misty morning Durosimi burst through his front door and exclaimed to the world, in triumph,

“I have it!” 

Doc Willoughby, who happened to be passing by, hoped that, whatever it was that Durosimi had, it wasn’t contagious. To be on the safe side, he looked him over with a wary eye. Even Doc’s limited medical expertise could detect that Durosimi was not quite as he should be. His tired eyes glowed with a wild light, and he appeared to have lost weight. His skin was as yellow as the parchment he held in his shaking hands.

“It’s Etruscan,” Durosimi said excitedly.

“I can’t say that I’ve ever treated a case of that…”

began the Doc, but Durosimi was too excited to hear him.

“It has been copied from a tablet, but the answer is  here, I’m sure…” said Durosimi.

“Ah, so you’ve got a tablet,” said Doc. “Tablets are good. Be sure to take plenty.”

It was then that Durosimi realised that Doc Willoughby had no idea what he was talking about. 

“Willoughby, come on in, old friend, and I’ll explain everything,” he said. “You might be able to help.”

Doc was more than happy to obey. Old friend, eh? That boded well, and whisky seemed to be involved somewhere or other whenever Durosimi wanted to include Doc in his plans. Even at nine in the morning.

“So, you see,” confided Durosimi “It’s not just the likes of Squash who can build these portals, and the proof is all here, on this piece of parchment. I must admit, my grasp of Etruscan is a little rusty. but …”

“Remind me again what Etruscan is, exactly,” said the Doc, tentatively.

“Oh, it’s an ancient language,” explained Durosimi. “Pre-Indo and Paleo-European, of course, but not dissimilar to the Raetic and Lemnian languages.”

“Ah, yes, the Lemon languages. Splendid,” said the Doc knowledgeably. “Sorry, they had temporarily slipped my mind.”

“Anyway, as I was saying,” continued Durosimi, “as far as I can make out, the words on this parchment have been copied from a tablet that was inscribed about three thousand years ago. I’m sure, with a bit of diligence, it can be translated.”

“How are you going to do that?” Doc asked, accepting another tot of whisky.

“Fortunately,” said Durosimi, “Etruscan is an agglutinative language, where words contain multiple morphemes concatenated together. Do you follow my meaning?”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Doc, emptying his glass.

“As you’ll appreciate,” went on Durosimi, “what makes the whole process of translation easier is that the language is constructed in such a manner that each word stem can be isolated and identified as indicating a particular inflection or derivation… you know, passive suffix, causative suffix, etc. on verbs, and plural suffix, accusative suffix, dative suffix, etc. on nouns. Makes it fairly simple, eh?”

“Umm… indubitably,” replied a bewildered Doc, hoping that this was going to yield at least one more glass of whisky.

“So, that’s settled, then. You’ll help me?” urged Durosimi with a smile that he hoped was not too ingratiating. 

“To do what?” asked Doc, who was beginning to wish that he had stayed in bed that morning.

Durosimi sighed and poured them both another shot of whisky. 

It was going to be a long day. 

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Seventh Son

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“He’s been doing that flannel thing again; it’s not natural.”

“Flannel thing?” Mirielle D’Illay eyed her soon-to-be mother-in-law, Mabel Washwell, with curiosity.

“That Reggie fellow. He’s flannelling again.”

“Oh that,” smiled Mirielle. “Flâneuring, not flannelling. Don’t worry, it is fine. Baudelaire did it all the time in Paris.”

“Well, maybe she did, but this ain’t Paris and folks on Hopeless find it strange.”

“Reggie is strange,” said Mirielle, suppressing an urge to laugh, “but that is because…”

“He is English!” said Mabel, finishing the sentence for her. “Yes, you’ve said that before, at least a hundred times, and I can’t help but wonder why you want that mad old fool to give you away when you marry Septimus.”

“Because he is clever, and brave and well-mannered. All things that I wish my own father had been.”

Mabel knew that Mirielle’s father had been sent to the guillotine for strangling her mother.  They seemed to be a headstrong family.

“And he talks to himself,” Mabel said, disapprovingly.

Mirielle had heard enough. She stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her.

“She’s as mad as Reggie,” muttered Mabel. “I just hope that Septimus knows what he’s getting himself into.”

Reggie had, indeed, been flâneuring, wandering aimlessly around the island, waving his sword stick and, apparently, involved in deep conversation with no one in particular. 

“How on earth the family aren’t aware is beyond me, but is it my place to tell them?”

There followed a short pause, then Reggie said,

“But you don’t know that for certain, Annie, after all… no, please don’t interrupt, just hear me out…”

“Is everything alright, Reggie?”

The voice was that of Philomena Bucket. She and Drury were on their way back to The Squid and Teapot, after a bracing walk on The Gydynap Hills.

“What? Oh yes, all is tickety-boo thank you m’dear. Just thrashing out a few thoughts.”

“Only I heard you mention Annie. Is she trying to get out again?”

Annie was Reggie’s tulpa, the thought form he had created years before in India, while serving in the British army.

“No, she’s behaving herself,” smiled Reggie. “I was just running a few things by her.”

“You could run them by me instead,” said Philomena. “It would be a lot safer. You know what happened before…”

She recalled how the tulpa had escaped, and had it not been for a few well-chosen spells and copious amounts of absinthe, the experience might have cost Reggie his life.

Reggie nodded; the prospect of sitting in the snug of The Squid with Philomena, while nursing a tankard of Old Colonel, seemed much more appealing than wandering through an increasingly dismal day, talking to the shadow- form of someone who had walked out of his life twenty years earlier.

“Do you know the legends surrounding a seventh son?” asked Reggie.

Philomena looked at him questioningly. What a strange thing to ask. But surely he meant to say the seventh son of a seventh son?

“I am surprised that you haven’t sensed the power residing in that young man,” said Reggie. “I certainly have, and you are far more attuned to these things than I am.”

“You’re talking about Septimus? He’s nothing special, I don’t think.”

“Look closer, m’dear. I have seen it before. Whatever is brewing inside that lad, it is like a volcano, just waiting to blow its lid.”

“I thought it was only the seventh son of a seventh son who had such power,” said Philomena, suddenly realising what Reggie was trying to say.

“No, not necessarily,” said Reggie. “Occasionally it can fall to the first generation. How old is Septimus?”

“Twenty-one next birthday, I believe,” said Philomena.

Reggie groaned.

“Let me tell you a story” he said. “When I was in India, one of our young subalterns, a chap by the name of Arlingham, was being given a difficult time by some of the more senior officers. You know the sort, they’ll turn against anyone from the wrong class, wrong school and so forth. One way and another, they made his life Hell.”

Philomena wondered where this tale might be going.

“To young Arlingham’s credit, he did not make any fuss about it, he just kept his head down and scribbled away in his notebooks, keeping himself to himself, as far as possible.  On his twenty-first birthday I shared a drink with him, and it was then that he told me that he was a seventh son. Of course, I didn’t think any more of it. I didn’t know as much then as I do now. You see, that was before I met the Theosophist, Annie Besant.”

“So that was the mysterious Annie’s full name,” thought Philomena, storing the information away for later investigation.

“Anyway, I digress. From that moment on, strange things began to happen. My fellow officers started dying off in unusual circumstances. I could not help but notice that there was one common denominator in this spate of fatalities, and that was Charles Arlingham. Each and every victim had at some point given Arlingham a bad time. Outwardly, there was nothing to link him to the deaths, or indeed connect them together. A hunting accident, a snake bite, a mysterious illness, a fall from a building… all random mishaps, to all intents and purposes. But, with each new death, Arlingham looked increasingly petrified, as if waiting to be blamed. However, as I said, there was no way that he, or anyone else, could have been held responsible.”

Reggie took a generous swig of Old Colonel and stared into the fire for a few seconds.

“Then there was the final death,” he said. “That of Charles Arlingham himself. There was no doubt who did it, either. He took half of his head away with his rifle.”

Philomena winced. She sat quietly, waiting for the tale’s dénouement, and how it might affect Septimus.

“When, after his suicide, we went through Arlingham’s notebooks, we found that he had described, in great detail, the manner of death of each of his tormentors. It made no sense; he could not have planned the murders, and indeed, none of the fatalities could even have been ascribed to murder.  Nothing came of it, of course. Even if things could have been explained, the British Army are not in the business of drawing attention to such things. Arlingham and his colleagues were quietly buried with a few military honours and no more was ever said about the incident.”

“So why are you worrying about this now?” asked Philomena.

“I can see the same latent power in Septimus that – admittedly with hindsight – I noticed in Charles Arlingham. What I didn’t tell you, Philomena, was that he had listed that catalogue of deaths several weeks before they occurred. They were fantasies; wishes, if you like, not deeds, but once Arlingham had his twenty-first birthday, and the power of the seventh son was released, those wishes became flesh, so to speak. When he learned of the enormity of that which he had done, it drove the poor chap to take his own life.”

“And you’re worried about Septimus doing something similar?”

“Septimus is the first to admit that he has a violent side – that was how he came to take up Le Danse Apache, as you recall. If that lad has any malign thoughts towards anyone, they need to be purged now, before his birthday.”

“I don’t know what I can do?” said Philomena.

“Your grandmother might have some idea.”

Philomena nodded. Although she had been dead for years, the ghost of Granny Bucket could usually be relied upon to find a solution to most problems of an occult nature. The only problem was that Granny came and went as she pleased, and there was no way of getting hold of her if she had no wish to be contacted.

“She has invited herself to the wedding,” said Philomena, “and that is a few days before Septimus celebrates his twenty-first.”

“That’s cutting it fine,” said Reggie. “In the meantime, I’ll try and ascertain if that young man is harbouring any dark thoughts. Maybe Mirielle might know.”

“Good luck with that!” thought Philomena.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Obsidian Cliff

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Doctor John Dee, alchemist and Court Astrologer to Good Queen Bess, was seeking, through the medium of his scrying-bowl, visions of lands and events far away in time and space. When the clouds had cleared from the dark waters of the bowl, several things had been revealed to the doctor, a few of which he actually understood. Most exciting, however, was the glimpse of three figures exploring the tunnels that wound beneath a mysterious island. This particular vision was especially enthralling, as Dee was convinced that here was the island mentioned by the legendary navigator, Saint Brendan, as being a portal to other worlds. Unfortunately for Doctor Dee his viewing was ruined when the antics of a skeletal dog, or ‘Hell Hound’ as he described it, upset him to such a degree that he had to stop watching.

You will have gathered, by now of course, that the island in question was Hopeless Maine, and the old Elizabethan’s Hell Hound was none other than dear old Drury, the dog who refused to acknowledge that he had died. It took the good doctor some hours to recover, but eventually he boldly decided to light a candle and fill the bowl once more, in the hope that he could find once again this strange land that he one day planned to visit.

Norbert Gannicox, Bartholomew Middlestreet and Philomena Bucket had been concerned that their candle-lanterns would expire before they could get out of the tunnels. It was with some relief, therefore, when they spotted daylight ahead. Upon closer inspection Philomena declared that she could see fog swirling some yards away at the tunnel’s mouth.

“Good old Hopeless Fog,” she had said and, after hours of darkness, it filled their hearts with cheer. Then Norbert had a thought.

“Be careful, Philomena,” he cautioned, “don’t go dashing outside. We must have descended a good two hundred feet or more before getting into the main cavern, and I can’t say we’ve climbed a lot since then. If we’re that far down, this must be an entrance from the cliff-face. All you’ll find on the other side of that hole is fresh air and the Atlantic Ocean.”

The faces of the other two fell, and they regarded the spluttering and stunted candles in their lanterns with some consternation.

“We’d best turn around now, and hope for the best,” said Bartholomew.

They turned to leave, when out of the darkness bounded Drury. He was about to throw his bony frame on to Philomena, as was his wont, when he spotted the foggy tunnel mouth ahead. With a cheerful bark he galloped through the gap before anyone could stop him.

“Drury…” yelled Philomena, her voice filled with panic. Even if Drury was seemingly immortal, a long drop into a raging ocean would carry him far from Hopeless, where his undead status might have little meaning.

After a second or two the dog’s inquisitive skull poked through the mist at the tunnel’s mouth, as if to say, “You called?”

Philomena regarded her friend with some surprise, and then it occurred to her that if Drury could go through with no mishap, then so could she. Without a word to the others she purposefully strode into the fog.

Bartholomew looked at Norbert with a mixture of dismay and resignation.

“Here we go again,” he said, and, as one, they followed in the barmaid’s footsteps.

It had been Philomena’s resolve to pursue Drury that had drawn the three into the labyrinth, far beneath The Squid and Teapot, in the first place. While, at that point, it would have been easy to have turned back, this latest venture was a definite leap of faith. After all, they were on the island of Hopeless, Maine, and anything was possible.

They appeared to have wandered into a sheltered valley, of sorts. The mist swirled about them, but seemed to be gradually thinning. The ground beneath their feet was smooth and hard, not at all like the usual rocky terrain of the island.

“Look at these cliffs,” said Philomena. “They’re like none that I’ve seen before… almost artificial.”

The others had to agree. For as far as the eye could see, the unbroken line of the cliff face rose smooth and black and totally unclimbable. For a while they followed its curve, but found no way out, and the foggy entrance through which they had entered was nowhere to be found.  A soft yellow light suffused the sky above them, giving a clear view of the featureless and unremitting landscape in which they stood. Then Philomena happened to glance up through the thinning mist, and let out a completely uncharacteristic scream.

John Dee watched the mists clear from his simple, obsidian scrying-bowl. His mind was quiet as he waited for the visions to materialise, and his heart leapt to see, once more, the three explorers on the mysterious island. The Hell-Hound was nowhere about, thankfully. Maybe it had returned to the infernal pit, where it belonged.

The woman and her male companions seemed to be wandering through some sort of cavern. They looked confused and frightened, running their hands along the dark walls, obviously searching for some point of egress. Something stirred in Dee’s mind, and he allowed himself to look closer at the scene beneath him, being careful not to touch the water. A second later he almost fell off his seat in surprise as the woman peered up from the depths of the bowl, looked him squarely in the eye and, with terror written all over her face, opened her mouth in a silent scream.

“She can see me!” he said aloud to himself.

“Did you see that face?” asked Philomena Bucket, as she sank to the floor, her voice trembling,

The others shook their heads; they had genuinely seen nothing unusual.

“It was awful,” said Philomena, composing herself. “Not an awful face, I don’t mean that. It was just so… so huge. It filled up all of the sky. I can’t believe you didn’t see it.”

The others shook their heads again. They did not disbelieve Philomena. It was well known on the island that she was in receipt of that dubious gift known as ‘The Sight’. If Philomena claimed to have seen something weird, then no one disputed it. 

“Do you think it was God?” she asked nervously, and slightly concerned, as they had not been on speaking terms for some years.

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” said Bartholomew. “More like the other fellow. Don’t forget, this is Hopeless.”

“He didn’t look particularly good or evil,” reflected Philomena. “Just a bit old, beardy and bewildered.”

“Well, I guess it’s gone now, who or whatever it was,” said Norbert. “Let’s get out of here before it comes back and brings some friends. I don’t like this place. Give me the tunnels any day.”

Doctor Dee pulled off his cap and scratched his head. In all of his years of scrying, he had never been seen by the object of his attentions; it was unheard of. Impossible even. And those people… they appeared to be actually walking in his scrying bowl. He could see its obsidian sides towering above them. That was impossible too. However, impossible or not, if any tiny people were in the bowl they would be placed in a gilded cage and presented as a gift to Her Majesty.

Dee beamed quietly to himself, thinking of the honours and riches such a novelty would reap.

He carried the bowl into a small chamber, annexed to his study. On the floor of the chamber was inscribed a magical diagram, composed of two circles, in which was drawn a pentagram, two heptagons and a heptagram. All around the edges of these symbols could be seen a collection of letters, both Greek and Latin, along with arcane words, said to be the secret name of the God of the Old Testament, and all of his angels. The whole made up the Sigillum Dei, an amulet said to give an initiated magician power over all living things. With care and reverence Dee laid the bowl in its centre and began to chant.

The room grew darker, until all light, except a pale glow emanating from the surface of the scrying-bowl, was extinguished. Then there was a small explosion, and Doctor Dee passed out.

“I have no idea how we get out of here,” said Norbert despairingly. “It was Drury who got us in, he should get us out.”

“There’s no sign of him anywhere,” said Philomena, sadly.

Just then the gentle yellow light that had lit their time beneath the obsidian walls was dimmed, and it was as if the whole world was being turned upside-down. The three of them were thrown roughly off their feet, tumbling over and over through a starless sky.

“Oh, what now?” thought Philomena, testily, just before she drifted into unconsciousness.

Doctor Dee awoke to find the room in chaos. There were scorch marks on the walls, the Sigillum Dei had been wiped clean from the floor and the obsidian bowl upturned. Stranger still, the three explorers were sprawled inelegantly across the floor. They were full-sized, barely conscious and looking not a little bemused. Dee peered across at them and cleared his throat.

“Good morrow,” he said politely, as though all that had occurred was the most natural thing in the world. “Allow me to introduce myself…”

To be continued…

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Island News

Jacob Shell – missing, presumed dead

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By Frampton Jones

Doc Willoughby brought me the news of Jacob Shell’s death. I have done my best to record his words accurately – it was a long, hurried and sometimes garbled bit of reporting but I feel I have kept the most important parts.

Doc Willoughby told me it was probably his own fault and that he must have fallen on one of his own ceremonial knives. He then identified the victim as Jacob Shell and went on to say that when a person is meddling with the occult there’s no knowing what may happen and why wouldn’t a body fall on the same knife more than once? Occult accidents are not like ordinary accidents.

He then said, and I quote this precisely, “Dammit, if I’d known it was him… but how was I to know?”

What followed went something like this: “There was nothing for me to know, not until it was too late and I had to work out what had happened. It’s as well I was on the scene. Not at the time of course. I was on the scene a while later. I wasn’t there at the time, when he fell. I didn’t see anything. Or anyone. No one saw me. Because they wouldn’t have done because I wasn’t there.”

No one else has seen the body, or been able to find evidence of the body. We only have Doc Willoughby’s word for it that Jacob is dead, but, no signs of the man have been found since the report came in. His workshop is neat and tidy as though left that way at the end of a working day.

Jacob Shell made beautiful items – some of them clearly did have occult applications. Most of us have a little something around the place to ward off demons, ghosts and people to whom we owe money or explanations. There is nothing inherent in the making of occult items that invites death. I will make no further observations and leave it to you to come to your own conclusions, dear reader. Whatever trade you practice, I would suggest avoiding out of hours sales, especially after dark.