Tag Archives: Philomena Bucket

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Crystal Cave

Leave a comment

You may recall that Philomena Bucket, with skirts tucked into the waistband of her sturdy Victorian underwear, had made her way down the long, vertical ladder which would take her from the attics of The Squid and Teapot to the tunnels which led to the Underland. Why she needed to go there was a mystery, but the compulsion was so great that wild spoonwalkers could not have kept her from her mission.

Unbeknownst to Philomena, after Trickster had discarded the rapidly failing body of Marigold Burleigh, he had attempted to possess her instead. What neither he, nor indeed Philomena, knew was that she was descended from the mysterious Tuatha de Danann, the Old Gods of ancient Ireland, latterly regarded as being Faerie folk, and their blood flowed strongly in her veins. Trickster was confounded; he was no match for power such as this and now he found himself trapped. As for Philomena, totally unaware of what was happening, she had the weirdest sensation that something was bursting to get out of her, wriggling and squirming inside both her mind and body. She did not dare to open her mouth or relax until she had found a place of safety. This was why the Underland was calling.

As she made her way through the underground passage, where the rush lights on the walls burned continuously, every step became more difficult, as though whatever it was that raged within her was furiously resisting her progress. Upon reaching the mouth of the magical cavern, at the end of the tunnels, Philomena stopped, not knowing what to expect. In the past it had been a portal to Doctor Dee’s study in Tudor England. She nursed a faint hope that he would be waiting for her again. Gingerly she stepped through the mouth of the cave, half-expecting to be greeted by the wily old alchemist. But there was no John Dee – just an empty space; the inside of a hollow hill. Minutes ticked by, and Philomena gasped in wonder as the walls gradually took on an eerie light of their own; they were studded now with crystals, as faint and plentiful as stars.  Then, as if somehow called, spectral figures materialised all around her.

“Ghosts? No, these are not ghosts,” she thought to herself, though she had no idea what or who they might be. Each one was tall and slender, pale and beautiful, yet not a little terrifying, at the same time.

“Welcome daughter,” they whispered as one, though in no language that she had heard before, but yet understood.

“You bring a gift for us.”

For the first time in hours Philomena opened her mouth to speak, and as she did so, Trickster tumbled out on her breath, and lay writhing upon the floor of the cave.

Try as she might, Philomena found it impossible to discern the creature’s true shape. The angry tangle of life, thrashing and twisting before her in the crystal light, resembled no more than an indistinct, smoky kaleidoscope image of human and animal forms. Without knowing why, Philomena instinctively recognised the identity of the protean being who had tried to possess her, and as if in confirmation of her knowledge, the strange throng began to chant, though their voices were barely audible, and the shining walls of the crystal cave whispered back the litany of Trickster’s many names.  

To her own surprise, Philomena felt no fear or apprehension as the company gathered closer around her. She knew now, in her heart of hearts, that here she was safe, secure in the bosom of her ancient kinfolk.  She reached out in an effort to embrace each and every one, but they glided through and past Philomena, becoming no more than a dazzling, yet ever diminishing mass, an imploding star with the strange, dark storm that was Trickster at its core. And then they were gone and the crystal cave was empty.

Outside the entrance, the air seemed to be becoming brighter, as if bathed in the light of a spring morning. That was impossible, she reasoned. But the impossible seemed to be commonplace that day, for Philomena could see her own form quite clearly, as if viewed from afar. She watched herself turn, looking to take her leave. Everything about her glowed, her pale hair and skin reflecting the crystal light.

“I am glimmering,” she murmured to herself, then smiled. Glimmering? Whoever used that word? She had no idea where it had come from.

“Time to go,” she thought, and found herself running through the mouth of the crystal cave and out into the brightening air, redolent with the scent of apple-blossom.

She had no memory of her journey back through the tunnels, or the ascent of the vertical ladder to the inn’s attics. In fact, she had only a vague awareness that something quite wonderful had happened. It felt as though the darkness that had been festering within her had been replaced with a pure white light.

“Your friend, Marigold, gave us a fright. She looked half dead when Rhys left her at our door, but she seems fine now,” said Ariadne Middlestreet, the following morning.  “The first thing she said to us, after recovering consciousness, was, ‘Is Philomena alright?’ She will be relieved to know that you are alive and well, that’s for sure. She was quite convinced that whatever it was that had attacked her had decided to set upon you.”

“No, I’m okay, never better,” Philomena smiled, “I wonder whatever put that thought into her head?”

She wandered into the kitchen, rolling her sleeves up. There was plenty to do before the doors of The Squid and Teapot opened for the day. Drury, the skeletal hound, was already there, his tail wagging happily, glad that the worrying version of Philomena, whom he had watched the night before striding purposefully down the Gydynap Hills, seemed to have gone.

As if reading his thoughts, she looked at him and said, thoughtfully,

“You know, Drury, it really feels as though a dark chapter of my life is closed for good.  Hopeless is not the easiest place to live, but I’ve got some good friends and that’s worth a lot.”

Drury wagged his tail again, inclined his head to one side and nuzzled Philomena’s hand with his bony face. Philomena closed her eyes and felt a velvet muzzle, and a soft warm tongue brush against her fingers. A single tear ran down her pale cheek.

“Now then, you old rogue, that’s enough of that,” she gently chided. “And these starry-grabby pies won’t make themselves…”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Woman of the Hill

Leave a comment

“I must be mad,” Trickster thought. “Why did I not recognise what she is?”

He had found himself trapped. Trapped again, if the truth is to be told. How long ago was it? Hundreds… no thousands of years had passed since the last time, but that was no excuse. He should have realised before trying to take such a creature.

Once, a very long time ago, Trickster attempted to possess one of the women of the Tuatha de Danann, the mysterious race who once inhabited the island now known as Ireland. Beguiled by their pale, almost translucent beauty, he had talked himself into believing them to be easy prey.  Biding his time, Trickster waited until the Tuatha were driven into the hills by the fierce red-haired invaders, with their bright iron swords. He assumed defeat would have weakened and demoralised them. Oh, how patiently he had watched from the shadows, counting the long years until the race had passed from memory and into myth; until they had come to be thought of as the Faerie folk, their women the feared Bean Side, or Banshee. Women of the Hills. Trickster was as old as anything which had ever crawled upon the earth, but these Old Gods were more ancient still. They were the spirit of the land. What was it that the bard, Amergin had said, when invoking them?

I am the stag of seven tines,

I am a wide flood on a plain,

I am a wind upon deep waters,

I am a shining tear of the sun,

I am a hawk on a cliff,

I am fair among flowers,

I am a god who sets the head afire with smoke.

I am a battle waging spear,

I am a salmon in the pool,

I am a hill of poetry,

I am a ruthless boar,

I am the roar of the sea,

I am the ninth wave of the sea.

Who but I know the secrets of the unhewn dolmen? 

Why had he not realised what Amergin was saying? He had been standing next to the man as he spoke the words, but the meaning had eluded him at the time. What a fool he had been. It had taken all of Trickster’s strength and cunning to escape from the enchanted flesh of the Bean Side. And here he was again. Trapped.

Philomena Bucket had no idea that she had a guardian angel. Well, a guardian Night-Soil Man, to be accurate. Rhys Cranham had made it his business to watch out for Philomena whenever she ventured alone into the darkness, which she often did.

Rhys had smiled to himself when he heard her footsteps outside his door, leaving the usual gift of starry-grabby pie and a brace of bottles of Old Colonel. He watched from the window as she disappeared into the dusk, but something was not right. She should have been making her way back to The Squid and Teapot, but instead had headed off towards the Gydynap Hills. You may recall that Philomena had told Bartholomew Middlestreet that she needed some time to herself; just an hour or two to collect her thoughts together. The trauma of recent events, and the disappearance of the ghost of Granny Bucket, had taken its toll upon the usually effervescent barmaid.

“Oh, Philomena, for pity’s sake…!” he muttered, quickly dragging on his boots.

Keeping a safe distance behind, and well downwind, Rhys had followed, with Drury rattling quietly by his side.  He watched, with a pained expression on his face, when she buried her face in her hands and wept. He wanted to comfort her but knew that there was nothing he could do, guessing that his malodorous presence would achieve nothing, but only make her troubles worse.  While he looked helplessly on, another appeared on the scene and stood next to Philomena. It was Nurse Burleigh, a bright young woman, fairly new to the island. That was good. She would know what to say.

The Night-Soil Man was dismayed, however, when, after a while, the pair began to walk up into the hills, further into the gloom. Stealthily, he followed.

It was an unusually fine night on the island of Hopeless, Maine, and so the storm that suddenly raged about the summit of the highest hill took Rhys by surprise.  It was totally unexpected.

Thunder and lightning was common enough, but not on a night like this, and besides, it was the sort of thing that might be reasonably expected to emanate from above. This particular meteorological event appeared to be rising up from the Gydynaps themselves.  More worrying was the fact that Philomena and Nurse Burleigh were certain to have been caught in the centre of it. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the storm abated and all was silent, as if nothing had ever disturbed the misty night. Minutes passed, then, to his relief, Rhys saw a pale figure emerge through the folds of darkness. It was Philomena, her pale skin and hair bathed in the meagre moonlight to bone-white. But where was the nurse? Something was very wrong.

Silently, almost ghost-like, Philomena drifted by, no more than a few yards from where Rhys and Drury stood. The old osseous hound growled softly. If he had possessed hackles they would have risen. This was not the usual way in which Drury greeted his friend.  Rhys felt uneasy.

Philomena seemed not to hear, or realise that they were there. It was then that Rhys noticed another woman making her way down the hill, some distance behind Philomena. It was Marigold Burleigh, staggering like a drunkard. No, not drunk; she was weak and probably injured. Without heeding his awful smell, Rhys ran towards her, not a moment too soon. Marigold collapsed into his arms. She was obviously in a bad way, her face drained of all colour.

“She’s dying,” he thought, in alarm.

The nurse raised a feeble arm in Philomena’s direction. Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

“That creature… killing me… killing me,” she gasped.

“Oh, Philomena,” groaned Rhys, “What have you done?”

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Semblance of Normality

Leave a comment

“It’s probably all for the best,” said Philomena Bucket, philosophically. “I don’t think I’m the marrying type, really.”
She was coming to terms with the fact that, on what was supposed to be the morning of their wedding, Rhys Cranham had felt compelled to return to his occupation as Night-Soil Man. Some strange things had been happening in Philomena’s life lately, and she was determined to return to some semblance of normality, or as normal as one could expect things to be on the island of Hopeless, Maine.
“Anyway,” she added, “I’m still young. Well, fairly young, I suppose, and there’s plenty of time…”
She crossed her fingers as she said this. It was never wise to tempt Providence on this dangerously capricious island.
“What do you reckon?” she quizzed her companion.
Despite having hollow eye-sockets, Drury looked up at Philomena lovingly. He had spent the last two days chasing spoonwalkers who, confusingly, had disappeared the moment he caught them. It had been a good game but he was grateful that Philomena had rescued him. Neither were aware that the spoonwalker thought-forms had been created by Durosimi O’Stoat, in an attempt to keep Drury safely out of the way, while a doppelganger of the osseous hound was ripping up Naboth Scarhill, the new Night-Soil Man.
Since bringing Drury back from the Gydynap Hills, Philomena had made a point of writing to Rhys, saying that she understood his decision, and maybe they could look at marriage again in a year or two, at such times as he had trained a new apprentice. She had added a postscript, to the effect that Drury was totally innocent of killing Naboth, having been otherwise occupied when Rhys thought that he had seen him carrying the boy’s arm away.

Sitting in his cottage, commonly known as The House at Poo Corner, Rhys read the letter with no small amount of sorrow. He had so wanted to be free of the back-breaking toil and noxious reek that was a Night-Soil Man’s lot. Now the chances of a better future seemed to have been taken away forever. He had lost two apprentices in recent years; Gruffyd Davies had fallen into the ocean and had been turned into a Selkie, and Naboth had been ripped to shreds by something that, apparently, was not Drury. What were the chances of another promising young lad wanting to take on the role? A loveless, friendless existence followed by the likelihood of an early death was hardly the best job-description to attract willing staff. Rhys sighed, and put the letter on the table. He would have a word with Miss Calder, at the Pallid Rock Orphanage, in a day or two. Maybe she could suggest a likely candidate.

Miss Calder was in unusually high spirits. She had been dead for some time now but this did not interfere with her duties as administrator, responsible for the efficient running of the orphanage. Her ghostly form could frequently be seen flitting hither and thither, organising the orphans and reminding Reverend Davies of various items in his diary which he had chosen to overlook.
Naboth’s misfortune had recently come to her attention and she was expecting a visit from Rhys sometime soon, knowing that he would be looking for another apprentice. Being non-corporeal, Miss Calder had no problem in conversing with the Night-Soil Man, his overpowering stench having no effect on her whatsoever. Indeed, it would be a pleasure, for, in truth, the ghostly administrator was inclined to feel somewhat fonder of Rhys than maybe she should. Although a good friend to Philomena, she was secretly pleased that their wedding had been called-off. Miss Calder had long harboured the vague hope that some form of inter-dimensional union with the Night-Soil Man might one day be possible, although such things were unheard of, even on Hopeless. Before anything of that nature could occur, of course, she would have to learn to control her unfortunate habit of allowing her features to become terrifyingly skeletal whenever she became stressed or over-excited.

The wraith of Obadiah Hyde, The Mad Parson of Chapel Rock, peered down from the ruined chapel with curiosity. A few nights earlier he had watched, with some amusement, as the strange creature, the one that was definitely not Drury, savaged the youngster. In time-honoured fashion, the last remains of the Night-Soil Man would be dropped down the mysterious sinkhole that lay at the end of the garden in Poo Corner. Sadly, by the time islanders came to gather up what was left of Naboth, there was not a lot to be found, with ravens and other assorted carnivores having quickly taken the opportunity of an easy meal. None of these events bothered Obadiah, but the thing that had caught his spectral eye this evening certainly did. He watched with annoyance as a protoplasmic stew gathered at the foot of the rock, writhing and broiling in the moonlight. Obadiah knew only too well what was happening, and he did not like it one little bit. He growled and harrumphed to himself as, little by little, the protoplasm melded itself into the glimmering shape of Naboth Scarhill, complete with lidded-bucket. The newly-formed ghost stood, a little wobbly at first, staring around him, not immediately registering what had happened. Taking the advantage, the Mad Parson swooped from his rock and screamed in Naboth’s face. The boy looked back, impassively.
“You don’t scare me anymore, you old fraud,” he said. “I’m as dead as you are,” and with that, Naboth hit him over the head with his bucket-lid.
Chastened, Hyde scurried back to his ruin.
“This means war,” he thought to himself. “There can only be one ghost haunting Chapel Rock, and it is not going to be that little weasel.”
Not for the first time in his afterlife, Obadiah Hyde was wrong. Naboth had no intention of hanging around Chapel Rock with nothing better to do than scaring passers-by and annoying the Mad Parson. His was vengeful spirit. He had every intention of finding out who was responsible for his grisly death and, quite literally, giving them Hell.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Gossip and Single-Malt

Leave a comment

Doc Willoughby rolled the whisky around his palate appreciatively. This was the real thing, right enough. He could only wonder how Durosimi had come by the stuff and, more to the point, why he was sharing it. Their last meeting had not ended on a particularly cordial note, to say the least, with the Doc being sent away with a flea in his ear for being too ethical when it came to the matter of hurling various unwitting participants back in time. (My apologies to any reader who has just choked on their coffee. I appreciate that it stretches credulity when the words ‘Doc Willoughby’ and ‘too ethical’ appear in the same sentence).

“More whisky, Willoughby?” asked Durosimi, proffering the half-empty bottle.

Despite his concerns, the Doc was not going to refuse. Opportunities of this variety did not arise every day.

“So, what is the gossip in The Squid, lately?” queried Durosimi.

The day was becoming ever more peculiar. Between Durosimi’s unheard of generosity with his precious single-malt, and this sudden interest in the goings-on of the island, Doc could only think that the old scoundrel was going soft in the head. But so what? Where was the harm in humouring the man? Anyway, the world had become fuzzy and warm and, in soft-focus, even Durosimi did not look quite so forbidding.

“Well, that old charlatan John Dee seems to have sloped off. Back to his own time, I wouldn’t wonder. Good riddance too. Couldn’t stand the man,” said the Doc.

“No, neither could I,” said Durosimi, truthfully. “Anything else?”

“Oh yes – the Night-Soil Man, you know, what’s-his-name, has proposed marriage to that blasted Bucket woman. Never much liked her, either.”

“Really?” exclaimed Durosimi, suddenly interested and surreptitiously replenishing the Doc’s glass. “Tell me more.”

“Well,” began Doc, “when she first came to the island I treated her for anosmia. That’s a loss of the sense of smell.”

“I know what anosmia is,” said Durosimi, stiffly.

“Of course… as I was saying, she’d lost her sense of smell, and it seems that within a few yards of leaving the sinking ship in which she had stowed away, something nasty grabbed her with its tentacles and she was within an inch of becoming lunch.”

The Doc took a generous swig of his whisky, dropping all pretence of savouring it.

“How did she escape?” asked Durosimi, tipping the remnants of the bottle into the other man’s glass. “Did she use magic?”

“Magic? What makes you think she’d use magic? That’s ridiculous!” slurred the Doc.

Intoxication had made him bold to the point of foolishness. Durosimi quietly counted to ten and smiled thinly.

“Just a thought,” he replied. “Do go on.”

“Where was I? Oh yes, it looked as though she was done for, when young what’s-his-name, the Night-Soil Man, rescues her. The creature who was attacking her couldn’t stand his reek, and because of her anosmia, the Bucket-woman didn’t know that the wretched fellow stunk like a cess-pool. Of course,” continued Doc, “it was inevitable. He was her knight in shining armour, so the silly girl falls head-over-heels in love with him. All would have been well, but not long after that she got a nose-full of sea water, which flushed out the seeds that had been blocking her olfactory system. That’s the …”

“I know what it means,” said Durosimi, impatiently holding up his hand.

“So, naturally, once she found how awful he smelt, the romance was off.”

“But now it’s back on again?” asked Durosimi.

“Seems so,” said the Doc.

Durosimi said nothing for a moment or two, staring pensively out of the window, then he turned his head sharply and said,

“Doc, I think you should go. We’re both busy men and I have wasted enough of your time.”

“But I haven’t told you about Norbert Gannicox’s verruca, yet.”

“No… but we’ll have to save that one for another day. I look forward to it. Now let me show you out…”

With that, the Doc was unceremoniously bundled out through the door. Durosimi watched him swaying unsteadily down the cobbled pathway, and singing ‘Sweet Betsy from Pike,’ at the top of his voice, almost in tune.  He had just got to the first chorus of too-ra-li-oo-ra-li-oo-ra-li-ay when Durosimi decided that enough was enough and strode back into the house, slamming the door behind him.

Regular readers will remember that Durosimi O’Stoat, having learned that Philomena Bucket had somehow acquired magical powers which were possibly greater than his own, felt threatened, and plotted to get rid of her, once and for all. When, during the previous year, he confronted Philomena in the town hall, she had all but killed him, blasting him from one end of the room to the other. Strangely, she seemed to have no idea or memory of what she had done. Soon after, and to Durosimi’s relief she, and Doctor John Dee, disappeared, seemingly off the face of the earth. He thought – indeed, hoped –  that maybe Dee had whisked her back to Elizabethan England, where, with any luck, she would be burned as a witch. For a whole year there was no sign of either of them, then Philomena returned, apparently more powerful than ever, and able to throw off his strongest spells. It occurred to Durosimi that if he could not hurt the witch – as he now thought of Philomena – then he could at least weaken her, maybe even destroy her, by attacking those she held most dear. He smiled to himself, reflecting how love and grief are two sides of the same coin; there is an inevitability that today’s love will become tomorrow’s grief.

“And grieve she will,” he thought to himself. “That old fool Willoughby has told me all that I need to know. She must be using her magic to mask the stench of the Night-Soil Man – there is no other way she could possibly countenance marrying him. Well, she won’t be needing to do that for much longer. His days are numbered…”

The recently promoted ex-apprentice, Naboth Scarhill, read the note again, his chest swelling with pride. The scrap of paper only contained a handful of words, but they meant a lot.

My dear Naboth, thank you so much for agreeing to take over the role of Night-Soil Man from Rhys. You cannot know how much this means to me. Rhys has told me how highly he regards your work, and that you will one day become as great and renowned as any who have wielded the lidded-bucket and long-handled shovel.

Thank you again,

Your grateful friend

Philomena.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Day of Surprises

Leave a comment

Philomena Bucket busied herself in the kitchen of The Squid and Teapot, attempting, with little success, to keep her mind focused on anything other than recent events. She reddened at the brazen way in which she had confronted Rhys Cranham a few days earlier, almost demanding that he forsake his work and way of life, and marry her. Although he had tentatively – and without any great enthusiasm –  agreed, she was convinced that the Night-Soil Man must really despise her. Whatever had possessed her to do such a thing? She could only think that all this talk of her being a powerful witch, with some impressive magic at her fingertips, must have gone to her head. Well, she was yet to see any evidence that she was any different from how she had always been, despite having had a year of her life stolen in that strange cavern, deep beneath the surface of the island. Far from feeling magical, Philomena regarded herself as being an abject failure, both in love and life, letting down all who came into contact with her.

Wrapped in these dark thoughts, she did not notice Drury, the skeletal hound, wander through the back door, until she heard his bony form clatter noisily down, and sprawl out upon the flagstones. However glum Philomena felt, Drury would always lighten her heart.

“Ah, get from under me feet, you great lazy lump,” she said, good naturedly. “Are there no spoonwalkers for you to be chasing today?”

Drury’s tail wagged, thumping the floor several times, but he made no effort to rise. Instead he regarded Philomena with a baleful eye, or would have, had he actually been in receipt of an eyeball.

“Well, you’re in luck. I’m almost finished here,” said Philomena. “Come on, let’s go for a walk up the Gydynaps.”

If anywhere on the island of Hopeless, Maine, could be regarded as being Philomena’s favourite place, it would be the Gydynap Hills. For many Hopelessians, the reputation of the Gydynaps engendered a certain amount of mystery, not to say terror. For Philomena, however, they always brought back memories of the Nargles Mountains, an area she knew well, a dozen or so miles west of the city of Cork, in her native Ireland.  This was the place to which she would come, whatever the weather, whatever her mood, and always feel better for the experience.  True, she had encountered a few strange characters while walking these hills, which led her to believe that the Gydynaps were home to a portal, of some description, that lead to who knows where, rather like the cavern beneath The Squid, but she never felt threatened. Anyway, with Drury by her side what harm could befall her?

The fog came down with alarming rapidity, even for the quixotic climate of Hopeless. Although Philomena and Drury had been walking side by side, they suddenly disappeared from each other’s vision. At least, Philomena could not see Drury. The dog, on the other hand, spotted Philomena in the thinning mist. She was running away from him, down the hill, back towards the town, and waving her arms above her head. Drury loved a game of chase, and if that is what Philomena wanted, then he was all for joining in.

Usually, it’s fair to say that Drury is nobody’s fool, but the day of our tale was far from being a usual day.

Philomena stood alone, wrapped in a cold blanket of fog. All around her was silent and still. Her world had become abruptly comprised of nothing but this chilly cocoon that seemed to be seeping into her very pores.. And then, almost imperceptibly, the whispering began. At first it was no more than the faintest suggestion of breath in her ears. Then came the taunts and the chuckling, barely audible, but all the worse for that. Philomena hugged her body, trying to force out the strange voices. Where was Drury? This was not supposed to be happening. She felt an icy hand clutch at her heart, squeezing and freezing her from the inside.

“Get a grip, for heaven’s sake,” she thought to herself. “You can beat this. You can beat this. You can beat this…”

Philomena kept repeating these four words, over and over to herself like a mantra, rocking back and forth as she did so. With outstretched arms and, still rocking, she began to turn, slowly, at first. Then the turning became spinning, ever faster and faster, and the mantra grew into a great, roaring song. Grey, grim rags of fog swirled all around her body, gathering speed until they were drawn up into a swirling vortex that rose above her head, dark and menacing, a filthy cloud which swelled until it burst into a mass of screeching, bat-like creatures that fled away into the now clear sky.

Philomena fell to her knees, sobbing and trembling, and wondering what had just occurred.  Shakily, she managed to stand up and steadied herself against a rock, breathing in deep draughts of air. She stood there for several minutes, regaining her composure and a steadier heartbeat, when Drury reappeared, not a little confused by the events of the last half-an-hour.

“And where the hell did you go. Fat lot of good as a guard dog you were!” Philomena cried, uncharacteristically angry at her canine friend. Anger, however, is not an emotion that Philomena can harbour for long, especially where Drury is concerned.

“I think you and I have been attacked by some enchantment, old friend,” she said quietly, patting the dog’s bony skull. “Sorry I shouted… but I’m damned if I know what was going on there. Come on, let’s get home.”

Durosimi O’Stoat stepped out from behind the rock where he had been hiding, visibly shaken by what he had just witnessed. When Doctor John Dee had let slip that he believed Philomena to have very powerful, but yet latent magical abilities, he was sceptical, but Durosimi resolved, there and then, to rid himself of any threat that this Bucket woman might pose. The deal he had struck with the dæmon, Buer, had backfired, thanks to the incompetence of Dee, and now it was up to himself to end matters. The fact that she had thrown off the fog so easily, a spell that had taken no little amount of time and effort to contrive, was beyond comprehension. It was supposed to wreck both her mind and body. Instead, she had spun around like some whirling dervish and cast it off as though it was no more than an old shawl. Durosimi rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He had obviously underestimated her powers. Well, if he could not harm her directly, maybe he could target someone close to her. He would have to make enquiries.

Philomena made no mention of her experience when she returned to The Squid and Teapot, just in time for evening opening. The usual procession of familiar faces filtered through the door, and as the night wore on she was kept busy, ferrying endless tankards of Old Colonel and platters of Starry-Grabby Pie to the tables. The atmosphere was one of warmth and conviviality. It came as a surprise, therefore, when the room fell silent. Philomena, dutifully washing-up, was curious as to what had happened, and came out of the kitchen, tea-towel in hand. Every pair of eyes in the bar was fixed upon the figure of Rhys Cranham. The Night-Soil Man was no more than a legend to some, rarely seen, and then only under the cover of darkness. Now, here he stood, scrubbed clean as a choirboy on Sunday morning, smelling of nothing but soap, and wearing an old, slightly ill-fitting, suit, courtesy of Bartholomew Middlestreet and retrieved from one of the attics of the inn.   

“I’ve been thinking about what you were saying the other day, Philomena, and you’re right,” he said, awkwardly. “Naboth Scarhill has been a good apprentice, and he reckons he’s ready to take on the job as the new Night-Soil Man right away.”

Rhys dropped down on to one knee.

“In view of that, Philomena Bucket, will you please do me the honour of becoming my wife?” 

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Scent of Change

Leave a comment

For some months, following the disappearance of Philomena Bucket and Doctor Dee, Drury had been conspicuous by his absence. While this was a cause of celebration for some, there were others who missed the sight of the old rogue rattling around the island, chasing spoonwalkers, stealing washing from the line and causing general mayhem wherever he went. There were many who came to the conclusion that he had gone looking for Philomena, and to some degree they were correct; the truth was that he had been spending all of his time with Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man. Rhys and Drury had, under cover of darkness, scoured the island looking for the barmaid, becoming ever more despondent when, with each passing day, all hope of her being found grew less. The Night-Soil Man, by necessity, was a natural recluse and was rarely seen in daylight at the best of times. As days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, Drury never left his side, for these two, in their own, individual ways, loved Philomena more than any other creature on earth, and found some small crumbs of comfort in the company of each other.  

A year and one day passed by before Philomena was once more seen on Hopeless. While her return surprised everyone, no one was more bemused by the event than the lady herself, who thought that she had only been away for a few minutes. Although there was a certain amount of curiosity as to where she had been for all of that time, Philomena feigned amnesia. She instinctively sensed that it was best that few knew of the existence of the tunnels, coiling deep beneath The Squid and Teapot, and, at their heart, the mystical cavern that presented a different scene with each visit. Only Bartholomew Middlestreet and Norbert Gannicox were aware of their existence, but neither man suspected that Philomena had returned there, following the revelation that she was a vessel for a deep and ancient magic.

At the insistence of Bartholomew and his wife Ariadne, a celebration was to be held in Philomena’s honour the very next week. There was a great deal to organise, invitations to be sent out, and little time in which to do so. It occurred to Philomena that the one person she wished to be at the celebration would be unlikely to turn up, or, indeed, be welcomed by most. It saddened her that the noxious odour, which pervaded the air around the Night-Soil Man, excluded him from all aspects of island life. Nevertheless, next to Drury, he was Philomena’s best friend, having saved her life when she first came to the island, and she was determined to pay him a visit and, at least, let him know that she was alive and well.

Standing on the pathway, outside the Night-Soil Man’s cottage, Philomena slipped a clothes –peg on to her nose, hoping to negate, to some extent, the inevitable reek that would doubtless assail her nostrils when Rhys came to the door. She took a deep breath and tapped lightly on the open window.

Rhys, exhausted from his night’s work, was fast asleep. Drury, on the other hand, was only dozing, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before, as Edgar Allan Poe would certainly have said, had he been there. Despite this, the dog’s phantom ears were always ready to detect the slightest noise. The tapping on the window caused him to raise his head. For some reason the House at Poo Corner, as the Night-Soil Man’s home was known, had recently become attractive to a particularly decrepit member of the Corvidae family, a fact which pleased Drury not at all. He was in no mood for the annoying tapping that invariably announced the presence of that ghastly, grim and ancient raven, and decided to put a stop to things once and for all.

“Nevermore!” he thought to himself, as he threw his bony old body against the window, which, as I mentioned earlier, was fortunately open.

Instead of finding himself lying on top of an angry pile of black feathers, as he had planned, Drury looked down into the pale face of Philomena Bucket. For a split second he failed to register exactly who it was that he had careered into. Then he went berserk.

Philomena felt the dog’s wet tongue slobbering excitedly all over her face, before realising that his fundamental lack of saliva glands, and indeed, a tongue, made this impossible. Could this extra-sensitivity be part of the newly-released magic? She had no chance to consider the matter further, however, as Drury danced around her, barking happily, in a state of high excitement.

Rhys, bleary eyed and sporting a long, striped nightshirt, appeared in the doorway.

“What is all that noi…”  he stopped abruptly and did a double take.

“Philomena, is that really you? Not your ghost?”

“Yes it is me, you great daft thing!” she laughed. “Have you missed me?”

Rhys did not answer. He had no need to; his face said it all.

 “There is going to be a party thrown for me,” she said. “I really want you to be there. Please Rhys.”

“You know that’s impossible,” he replied, sadly.

“No, it isn’t,” said Philomena. “Don’t ask me where I’ve been, but while I was away I learned a great deal. Some of it was even useful.” She paused, briefly, then asked, almost shyly, “do you still have an apprentice?”

Rhys nodded, wondering why she wanted to know. Following the disappearance of his previous apprentice, Gruffyd Davies, who had been revealed to be a selkie, one of the seal-people, Rhys had felt compelled to return, somewhat embarrassed, to the orphanage and ask Miss Calder for another volunteer. The life of a Night-Soil Man can be unpredictable, and sometimes brief, so the presence of an apprentice is crucial, if the line is to remain unbroken.

“Yes, young Naboth Scarhill is shaping up nicely. In another year or so he should be spot-on.”

“I’ve just lost one year of my life, Rhys. I can’t afford to waste another,” said Philomena.

Rhys looked puzzled, “Sorry, you’ve lost me,” he said.

“No, I haven’t. I’ve found you. Give this up, Rhys. If you love me, as I think you do, give up being the Night-Soil Man.”

 “But I…”

“Bartholomew’s grandfather, Randall Middlestreet, did all those years ago. You could too.”

Rhys looked at Philomena for what seemed like an age, digesting her words.

“I could too,” he said, slowly and deliberately.

Drury, who had been quiet all this time, had been around humans long enough to know exactly what was being said. These were the two people whom he loved most in the world, but now they had each other; how could there be any room for him in their plans? If a beating heart had dwelt in his old ribcage, it would have sunk at that moment. Quietly, sadly, he turned around and made to leave.

“Drury,” Philomena called, “don’t go. If Rhys and I live together, there will always be a place for you in our home.”

The dog turned and wagged his bony tail. There was a definite scent of change in the air. A change for the better. Suddenly, it felt good again to be alive.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Vigil

Leave a comment

Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, was standing silhouetted upon the headland, gazing forlornly across the fog-bound ocean. Drury, the skeletal hound, lay uncharacteristically subdued by his side, his bony old head resting miserably upon his equally bony old paws.

“It seems that she’s really gone, old friend,” said Rhys, in wavering tones. “Where, why or how, I have no idea. Just another casualty of this god-forsaken island, I guess. ”

Drury lifted his head to the heavens and emitted a heart-rending, mournful howl; a howl that chilled the blood of all who heard it.

Philomena Bucket was hungry and cold, the threadbare walls of her tent providing meagre shelter. During the deepest, darkest hours of that first night, she had lain awake and reflected how her mission to discover her latent magical abilities had brought her to the mysterious cavern, far beneath the island of Hopeless, Maine. With the comforting presence of the alchemist, Doctor John Dee, to advise her, she had felt confident that nothing could go wrong. Even the fact that, upon entering the cavern, they had instantly found themselves wandering through a beautiful old forest in springtime, fazed neither of them.  It was very unlike anything that existed upon the Hopeless that they knew, but from past experience each was aware that, within the walls of the cavern, anything was possible. It was only when John Dee disappeared that things started to go awry. Philomena, suddenly alone and panicking, could find no way out of the forest, and was forced to spend the night in an old black tent that nestled beneath the branches of a lightning-struck tree.  Although Philomena had come to terms with her situation, and was sure that the forest, the lightning-tree and the tent all had a purpose in releasing the magic residing within her, it was cold comfort. 

A pale morning sun peered through the trees, and Philomena was glad to get up and walk around. Her back and joints ached. Although lying on the thin palliasse had been preferable to being upon bare earth, it was hardly a feather mattress. If life had taught her anything, it was to make the best of what she had and not feel sorry for herself. Her first priority was to take stock of her situation; she had shelter, of a sort, and access to water. Lovely though the forest was, it provided her with nothing to eat, for even if she had possessed the skills of the finest hunter, Philomena knew that she would probably starve before being able to bring herself to kill and eat any of the animals or birds that lived among the trees.

Hunger is a strange thing, as anyone who has experienced a complete fast for any length of time will tell you. For the first day or so, every thought is fixated upon food. By day three, this feeling generally passes, and a definite air of superiority over those who indulge in the vulgar practice of eating, takes its place. After that, starvation is easy. As toxins are banished from the body, however, the person fasting often experiences strange dreams and hallucinations. Philomena was no exception. Granny Bucket would flutter in and out of her dreams and waking hours, bringing with her a host of spectres, some ethereal and filled with grace, others as grotesque as anything Philomena had witnessed on the island. Giant, shadowy forms seemed to flit among the trees and unearthly singing would fill the air. Philomena knew that these were illusions, and told herself not to be afraid, even when Death itself passed by, her dark robes brushing the side of the black tent. To counter these strange, unnerving visions, Philomena would sit upon the ground, hugging her knees and rocking gently to the sound of her own humming, dredging up tunes from her early childhood, the ones taught to her by Granny Bucket, all those years ago, back in Ireland.

When the stranger first approached, Philomena thought that he was no more than another figment of her imagination. As usual, she was sitting on the ground, rocking and humming, wrapped in her own thoughts. This latest apparition, however, seemed fleshier, more earth-bound than those who had preceded him, being powerfully built, with a broad chest that threatened to burst the buttons of his tweed waistcoat.  He stood before her and extended a large, meaty hand, wordlessly inviting her to take it. Philomena looked up into a pair of laughing, twinkling eyes and a kindly face, which a thick salt-and-pepper beard failed to conceal. She instinctively knew that she could trust this man, and unhesitatingly took the proffered hand, rising unsteadily to her feet. Not a word was exchanged as, hand in hand, they left the lightning-tree and black tent behind them, to where the trees thinned and meadowland began. Philomena could make out a scattering of buildings lying beyond, obviously a village or maybe a hamlet. She wondered to herself why she had not found this place before. After all, she had walked miles, looking for a way out of the forest, and now, within a few hundred yards, this stranger had led her to safety. It made no sense… but there again, nothing in this adventure had made any sense, so Philomena shrugged and stoically decided to give herself up to whatever was going to happen next.

Upon reaching the village they were met by a great throng of people, who all seemed to know Philomena. They clapped and cheered as the bearded stranger took her gently by the shoulders and led her into the midst of the crowd. Weirdly, although she did not recognise anyone there, she felt that, somehow, she knew each and every one of them personally. The air was filled with music and singing as they wandered through the sunlit streets, with Philomena carried aloft, shoulder high, on a litter, looking for all the world, like the Queen of the May. From this vantage point she could see that a feast had been prepared, a street-party, no less, with trestle tables barely visible beneath a burden of food and drink, the like of which she had never before seen. The litter was set down and Philomena seated in the place of honour at the topmost table.

Philomena was never able to recall for how long the party went on.  She could remember that there were toasts and speeches, all in her honour, followed by dancing and entertainment. It made her feel quite dizzy. When darkness fell and fires were lit, old tales were told; tales of kings, princesses, crones and magical beasts. Then, far away, a clock chimed for midnight, and the bearded man raised his hand; the crowd grew quiet.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “It is time, at last, to hear a few words from our very own Lady Philomena.”

All eyes fell upon Philomena, who stood tongue-tied in the silence.  She was frantically thinking of what she might say when a distant, mournful howl, caught her attention.

“Drury!” she cried, her voice filled with excitement. “Dear Drury, where are you?”

She turned her head towards the direction from which the dog’s howl had come, and like Cinderella leaving the ball, dashed away from the party without a thank-you or goodbye.

She had run no more than a dozen paces before she found herself gazing into the mouth of the cavern. This was it, her way out, back to The Squid and Teapot.

There was no trace of the candle lanterns that she, and Doctor Dee, had used, however, a pale glow now suffused the tunnels, as if someone, or something, had been expecting her return. Even so, it was an hour before Philomena found herself at the foot of the ladder which led to the attics. She remembered that there was a hidden one-way door, as well, that opened into one of the inn’s cellars. She felt weary and this would be a far less strenuous mode of entry into The Squid.

Philomena composed herself before pushing open the door. Whenever she had been to the cavern before, time appeared to have been stretched. However long the adventure had been, on Hopeless only minutes would have passed, so she was confident that, quite possibly, her absence had not been missed. She wandered through the cellar, climbed up the flight of stone steps and walked into the bar, where a score of rowdy islanders were enjoying the produce of the Ebley Brewery. Bartholomew Middlestreet turned to serve a customer, when his eye fell upon Philomena. Even in the dim light it was obvious that his face paled visibly. Others followed his gaze and the cheerful hub-bub died to absolute silence.

“Philomena? Where on earth have you been?” asked the ashen-faced barman.

“What’s the fuss? I just popped out for a couple of minutes,” she replied, feeling quite indignant.

“But… but, you’ve been gone for a year,” said Bartholomew. “We all thought you were…  we wondered what had happened to you.”

“A year?” gasped Philomena.

“A year and a day, to be exact,” the voice was that of Norbert Gannicox. “I remember it well. It was Midsummer’s Eve last year when you and Doctor Dee both vanished.”

Philomena flopped into a nearby chair. A year and a day! Granny Bucket had once told her that, in all of the old tales, any task achieved in exactly a year and one day had a deep and magical significance.

What had she done?

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Black Tent

Leave a comment

Philomena Bucket and Doctor John Dee stood hand in hand, gazing into the mist-filled mouth of the mysterious cavern that lay deep beneath the island of Hopeless, Maine.  Philomena was on a mission to unleash the magic which, apparently, resided within her. She had enlisted the aid of the sixteenth-century alchemist, Doctor Dee, who, until being hurled through time and space to the island, had been Court Astrologer to Queen Elizabeth. Exactly how this magic was to be released, however, neither had any idea; they were led here purely by Philomena’s intuition that this cavern was the place where her magical abilities were choosing to manifest.

The two looked around them in wonder. As soon as they had stepped through the misty cave mouth, they found themselves transported to somewhere deep within a rich, green forest, where dappled sunlight played through the leaf canopy, high overhead. The air was filled with birdsong and the scent of the wild garlic and bluebells, growing in profusion all about them.

“It must be Springtime here,” observed Dee. “What a delightful place this is.”

“Well, I’d bet anything that we’re not on Hopeless,” said Philomena. “Spring flowers? Birdsong? No, it is all too perfect. I wonder what we’re supposed to do, now that we’re here?”

“We could look in there,” said Doctor Dee, pointing to a ragged-looking black tent, that neither had previously noticed. It was squatting beneath the branches of an equally ragged-looking black tree.

“It must be there for a reason,” declared Dee, not particularly convincingly.

As they drew closer it became clear that, at some point, the tree had been struck by lightning, leaving its branches blackened and skeletal. The tent, which had obviously seen better days, was based upon a yurt-like design, but without any indication of the comfort that such structures usually provide. Doctor Dee unhitched the door flap and, with no little amount of trepidation, the two ventured in.

Philomena looked about her with a certain amount of disappointment. Daylight showed through the threadbare sides and roof of the tent, while the floor had no covering. Could it possibly have any relevance to her mission? She turned to ask John Dee his opinion.

“Do you think…” she began, but the sentence died on her lips as she watched Dee gradually fade away into nothingness. Her last sight of his semi-opaque form was to see him reaching out to her. She thought that she could hear him calling her name, but the sound came from far, far away. She tried to touch his outstretched arms, but they were as insubstantial as a sunbeam, and then he was gone. Philomena was not a woman who cried easily, but, feeling suddenly alone, she fell to her knees and wept.

Upon entering the tent, John Dee was surprised to find that he was in his study, at home. Everything was as he had left it; his obsidian scrying bowl was still on the floor, where it had dropped when Philomena, Norbert and Bartholomew had first appeared. He turned to speak to Philomena, and was not a little shocked to find her disappearing before his very eyes. He reached out, at the same time anxiously calling her name. As he did so, the thought crossed his mind that, until now, he had always referred to her as Mistress Bucket. It was ironic that it was only when he was losing her that he felt familiar enough to call her Philomena.

“And who is Philomena? Some bawd or other, I do not doubt.”

Dee turned to see his wife standing in the doorway.  

“Jane, my precious, I… I was just contemplating writing a treatise upon Saint Philomena,” he stammered, crossing his fingers behind his back.

“I cannot say that I am familiar with her,” replied his wife, suspiciously. “Anyway, I came in to remind you that you have an appointment with Sir Francis Walsingham in an hour.”

An appointment with Walsingham? Dee suddenly remembered that he had been due to meet with the Queen’s spymaster on the very afternoon that he had been whisked away to Hopeless. It dawned upon him that, incredibly, those weeks of his life spent on that strange little island in the New World had apparently passed by in but a few minutes in Elizabethan England.

“Walsingham… yes Walsingham, indeed my love. I will make myself ready,” he said hurriedly, gathering his composure and relieved that he had somehow succeeded in getting away with inventing a Saint Philomena.  Incidentally, and apropos to nothing at all, it would be another three hundred years before the bones of the third-century Philomena of Corfu, patron saint of Infants, babies and youth, would be discovered, and the girl eventually canonised.

Philomena Bucket was feeling anything but saintly. She was angry; angry with herself for coming to this place, angry with John Dee for disappearing and angry beyond words because she could not find a way out. She wandered back along the path that she was certain they had taken, but there was no welcoming cave mouth to guide her back to The Squid and Teapot. She searched the forest all day, but to no avail. The light was fading and Philomena was tired and hungry. She realised that she needed to get back to the black tent, and shelter within its thin walls for the night. Her main concern was, however, that she would never find it again. She had walked miles, and in no particular direction. What were her chances of stumbling upon it once more? And then the realisation came upon her, that she was here to unearth her latent magical abilities, and doubtless, the forest, the tent and the lightning-tree all had a part to play if this was to be achieved. There was no point in being frightened, or resisting the inevitable. All she needed to do was to surrender to whatever it was that had created this illusion, for illusion it surely was, and hope for the best.   

No sooner had these thoughts formed in her mind than the lightning-tree came into view; the black-tent still sitting beneath its branches. Accepting whatever might befall, Philomena slipped inside its dark interior and closed the door-flap behind her. In the gloom she could see that a pitcher of water had been placed on the ground, next to a simple straw palliasse. Gratefully Philomena drank some water, then sank, exhausted, onto the little bed, desperately wishing that Drury was there to keep her company.

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Summoning

Leave a comment

There are few people brave, or foolish, enough to wander abroad on the island of Hopeless, Maine, after darkness has fallen. Having said this, Philomena Bucket, who is neither particularly brave nor foolish, has done so with impunity, on several occasions. This probably has something to do with the fact that both Drury, the skeletal dog, and Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, have taken it upon themselves to be her personal protectors. Of course, Philomena has no knowledge of Rhys’ presence, as he always makes a point of keeping out of sight and well upwind of the object of his affection. On the night of this tale, however, Philomena was tucked up in her bed, safe in The Squid and Teapot, while Rhys, accompanied by Drury, was busily servicing the earth-closets and outdoor privies of a grateful clientele.

A lone figure stood in the misty moonlight, looking out over the ocean. Had anyone on the island been watching, they would have instantly recognised the long flowing robe and equally long flowing beard of Doctor John Dee, the Elizabethan alchemist lately deposited upon Hopeless. Dee had become popular with many of the islanders, never slow raise a tankard or two, and relate a few treasonous, and decidedly racy, tales regarding the daily goings-on in the court of Good Queen Bess. The old alchemist judged that from this vantage point of being several hundred years in the future, his head was safe enough from the royal wrath.

Dee’s mind, that night, was dwelling on other things. Earlier in the evening Norbert Gannicox had been regaling him with an account of the time that St Anthony’s Fire, otherwise known as ergot poisoning, had caused mass-hallucinations on the island (as related in the tale ‘Baking Bad’). Norbert laughed heartily as he described one of his own hallucinations that day. It had been that of a strange beast with no body, just a lion’s head with five goat-like legs radiating from it. Strangest of all was that the creature moved by its legs rotating, resembling a large, hairy Catherine wheel.

“A creature like that would have been weird, even for Hopeless,” chuckled Norbert. “The strange thing was, though, later on I could have sworn that I saw Percy Painswick pulling its hair. Can you share an hallucination?  Funnily enough, that was the day old Perce disappeared. I never saw him again after that.”

Dee said nothing, a sudden chill running down his spine. He immediately recognised Norbert’s description, and was horribly certain that the distiller had not witnessed an hallucination at all. Even the most ergot-raddled brain could not have invented such a monster. What he had seen was the demon, Buer. A few months before, with the help of his friend and colleague, Edward Kelley, Dee had conducted an experiment intending to summon Buer, following a set of instructions in a book entitled ‘Pseudomonarchia Daemonum: The False Monarchy of Demons’. This had been written by a friend of Kelley’s, Johann Weyer, a Dutch physician and self-styled demonologist. The experiment had been a failure, but Weyer’s description of Buer had haunted John Dee. Until now he believed that the Dutchman was mistaken, and doubted that such an odd looking entity could exist. Norbert’s account proved, beyond all reasonable doubt, that others had seen Buer, and that he was at large on the island. Despite his fears, Dee felt compelled to try and summon the demon once more. Despite his advanced years, he still had a keen mind and an excellent memory; he could easily remember the ceremony.

Dee had scratched a Sigillum Dei on a flat rock. This was a replica of the magical diagram he had inscribed on the floor of his study, as described in the tale ‘The Obsidian Cliff’. Standing at its centre, this was his only sanctuary, should the demon be tempted to attack. With great solemnity, and a slightly nervous tone, John Dee incanted the arcane words necessary to summon Buer. During the silence that followed, a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. For what felt like an age, nothing happened, then the air grew still. Even the roar of the waves seemed to be muted.

“Why do you disturb my rest, John Dee?” The voice was silky smooth and charming… and speaking in Latin.

“Master Buer, is that you? I cannot see you,” said Dee, who fortunately, was fluent in the tongue.

“Then answer me, why do you disturb my rest?” as the words were forming, a great golden shape began to materialise in the mist, terrible to behold.

In truth, John Dee had no idea why he had summoned the demon. Edward Kelley was a magician, and yearned for power, but Dee had no such desires. His driving force, in all things, was curiosity. This, however, was not a sufficient reason to call forth one such as Buer. He had to think quickly.

“Oh mighty Buer,” stammered Dee. “I am lost in a distant time and an unfamiliar land, and have no idea how to return to my home. As one who effortlessly strides through time and space, I beseech you, instruct me in the manner of how this might be done.”

This was totally untrue, of course. Dee, almost uniquely, had enjoyed his stay on Hopeless, and had no real wish to return to sixteenth century England, with its many terrors. However, he had to say something, and hoped that Buer was not given to mind-reading.

“That is easy, John Dee, but there is a price for this information.”

“Of course there is,” said Dee resignedly. “Do you want my soul?”

“What ever would I do with your soul?” asked Buer, with some surprise in his voice. “Of course I don’t want your soul. What I need from you is more solid and far simpler; just a key.”  

“Just a key? Any old key, or one in particular?”

Dee could have sworn that Buer rolled his eyes I disbelief.

“One key in particular will do nicely,” said the demon, sarcastically. Then he added, “and by that I mean the key to the tunnel that brought you to this island. By the way, as far as I am concerned that will not only pay for the information you require, but will compensate me for being disturbed. You have three days. The clock is ticking, John Dee.”

With these words, Buer melted into the mist, and Doctor Dee realised that there was no going back. He had to get that key, wherever it had been hidden, or face the consequences, and he shuddered to think what Buer’s consequences might entail.

“Is it done?” asked Durosimi O’Stoat.

Baur regarded him for a second or two before replying.

“Do you doubt my ability to carry out such a simple task?” he asked, somewhat sardonically. “Why, the old fool actually came looking for me, chanting some mumbo-jumbo that was supposed summon me from the pit, I suppose. It was almost laughable, but worked in our favour. He will bring me the key, and I will bring it to you. Then he will be on his way and my part of our bargain is complete.”

“Good!” said O’Stoat, “Then you will have your reward, as I promised… The Bucket woman will be yours, body and soul.”

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Final Journey

Leave a comment

Some of you may remember, from earlier tales, that the very first Night-Soil Man on the island of Hopeless, Maine, was Killigrew O’Stoat, a young man whose tragic history drove him to find solace in such lonely and unsociable employment. In those days there was no tradition of a boy from the orphanage acting as an apprentice, a lad to whom the bucket would be unceremoniously passed upon his master’s demise; when Killigrew died his younger brother, Barney, naturally assumed the role, and carried out his duties faithfully until his own death, some years later. Upon finding himself sprawled dead in his favourite armchair, and having no heir apparent, Barney decided to summon a Night-Soil Man from the future to fill the vacancy, until such times as a replacement came forward. That is how Rhys Cranham found himself plunged into the past. If you think that this sounds less than credible, you must remember that these events occurred on that weirdest of islands, Hopeless, Maine, and that the O’Stoat family were – and indeed, are – famously odd.

Rhys had been working as Barney’s replacement for two months. During that period he had befriended Drury, the skeletal hound (for the second time), and had met his grandfather, several times removed, learning something of his family history along the way. Although Hopeless had changed little from his own era, it was not home to Rhys. Most of all, he missed looking out for Philomena Bucket and keeping a watch over her when she embarked upon some of her more inadvisable adventures.

It was rare for Rhys to encounter other people while he was working. The lateness of the hour, and the less pleasant aspects of his labours were generally sufficient reasons for his clients to give him a wide berth. Tonight, however, was different. A stocky young man stood in the moonlight that fought its way through the mist, illuminating the privy of a small, stone cottage.

“We heard that Barney had died,” said the young man in slightly muffled tones, as his hand shielded his mouth and nose. “I suppose you did the honours…?”

Rhys guessed that he meant the disposal of Barney’s corpse. He nodded.

“I’m Dara O’Stoat, and it’s my place – my duty – to take over, now. It must be true, as Granny said so. She also said that it’s time for you to go back.”

“Granny…?” Rhys was puzzled.

“She’s in there, with cousin Harriet – Harriet Butterow. Granny wants to see you. She ain’t got long, so hurry,” said Dara, cryptically.

Feeling strangely obliged to obey, Rhys unstrapped his bucket and placed it on the path, then hesitantly pushed open the door of the cottage. He was not used to entering people’s homes but, on the other hand, was well aware that no one argues with an O’Stoat matriarch. Besides this, he was curious; he was fairly sure that the woman he was about to meet must have arrived with the founding families.

Harriet met him in the parlour, immediately blanched, then covered her mouth and nose with a square of material. Rhys winced, uncomfortable that his malodour should dog his every step. Wordlessly the girl led him to a small, ill-lit chamber where a very old, white-haired woman was lying on a simple wooden pallet. A thin blanket covered her frail form. At the sight of Rhys, her dull eyes suddenly glowed.

“At last,” she said, “I’ve been waiting for you.” Her voice was faint and Rhys could see that she was dying.

“I know who you are, young fella, and where you’re from, but now it is time for you to return. Before you go back, though, I’ve got one final job for you to do.”

 If Granny O’Stoat noticed his smell, she did not show it, but her voice was beginning to fail.

“You need to help Granny fulfil her last wish.  Her name is Colleen O’Stoat, and the rest of the family will have nothing to do with her,” explained Harriet, who was keeping as far away from the Night-Soil Man as she could. “They call her a witch, a sorceress, which is good, coming from those hypocrites. That is why no one else will do this last thing she’s asking for, not even Dara,” she added, sadly.

“Then I can return to my own time? But how…?”

“She’ll find a way,” said Harriet.

It was just a few hours later that Rhys found himself carrying the lifeless body of Colleen O’Stoat through the grey mists, down to Tragedy Creek. With all the solemnity he could muster, he placed her into the hull of a battered old rowing boat which lay, as Colleen had said, hidden amongst the reeds. He covered the old lady with the threadbare blanket, as though tucking her into bed. Indeed, she looked serene and peaceful, as if asleep. Wading into the shallow water, Rhys turned the bow of the boat to face the open ocean.

His task completed, the Night-Soil Man stepped away. From safely downwind he watched Harriet kiss her grandmother’s brow for one last time. With surprising ease, the girl pushed the tiny craft out to sea. Despite its apparent unseaworthiness, the boat was borne easily upon the waves, drifting eastwards, until it became no more than a speck upon the pale sun that seemed to be rising from the ocean. It was almost as if the very elements themselves were conspiring to respect Colleen’s dying wish, which was to be sent back to the emerald green isle of her birth.

Deep in thought and walking slowly, Rhys made his way back to his cottage. He shivered, feeling the morning grow colder. Suddenly, in marked contrast to the unusually clear conditions of just a few minutes earlier, a heavy sea-fog rolled inland. Even by Hopeless standards, the visibility rapidly became decidedly poor. Rhys could barely see his hand in front of his face. Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the fog cleared to no more than the swirling mist that the island enjoyed with monotonous regularity. As it did so, a familiar rattling and panting made him turn; it was Drury loping joyfully along the path behind him.

A voice cut through the morning air, freezing Rhys in his tracks.

“Well, there’s a sight we don’t see that often, to be sure. Rhys Cranham, skulking about in broad daylight!”

The teasing, playful lilt of Philomema Bucket’s gentle Irish tones made his heart soar.  She was a dozen yards away but he could clearly see the broad smile on her pale face.

“Philomena,” he called. “Oh, it’s so good to see you. Have you missed me?”

“Not really,” she laughed.

Rhys was taken aback and not a little disappointed.

“Why the devil should I have missed you?” she continued, laughing. “I only saw you yesterday evening, when I left that starry-grabby pie outside your door, you great lummox.”

Rhys grinned. It was good to be back.