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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Something Wicked…

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Squid and Teapot logo by Keith Errington, looks like a pub sign, features an angry squid clinging to a teapot.


Even by the dubious standards of Hopeless, Maine, to have a mysterious fissure appear high up between the trees, splitting the grubby air like an annoying chink in the curtains, was more than a little odd. Even odder were the ribbons of sickly green mist that issued from somewhere deep within, mingling promiscuously with the island’s own sickly white mist. 

So alarmed had the islanders been by the sudden arrival of this anomaly that a rota was immediately drawn up, and concerned citizens were recruited to keep a twenty-four hour watch over it. 

To the surprise of all, Durosimi O’Stoat had shown himself to be uncharacteristically public-spirited, adding his name to the list of those volunteering to be watchers. In fact, so keen was Durosimi to help, that he insisted that he should cover those hours of darkness that no one else wanted, and referred to them as ‘The Graveyard Shift’.

As you might imagine, this arrangement made everyone very happy; everyone, that is, except Philomena Bucket. 

Experience had taught Philomena that Durosimi could not be trusted. She had no doubts that he knew more about the anomaly than he was telling, and was up to no good. The fact that just about everyone else on Hopeless, even Mr Squash the Sasquatch, seemed to be convinced of Durosimi’s best intentions, left Philomena feeling isolated and alone in her suspicions. She needed advice as to what she should do; basically, she needed Granny Bucket, but this was a forlorn hope. 

Although her grandmother had been dead for twenty years or more, the old lady’s ghost had invariably managed to show up and invade Philomena’s privacy at the most awkward of times, more often than not causing havoc, embarrassment and generally interfering. On the other hand, however, Granny had a habit of being conspicuous by her absence when her ghostly presence would have been a definite advantage, and this evening was one of those occasions. Granny was nothing, if not consistent.  

“I’m going to have to go down to the anomaly and find out what he’s really doing,” Philomena muttered to herself. 

While wandering around Hopeless in the dead of night would have been daunting to most islanders, Philomena had no such worries. She was the last, and most powerful, of a long line of witches, and wouldn’t put up with any nonsense from the assortment of ghouls, vampires, werewolves and demons who frequented the island after dark.

The anomaly looked stranger than ever when viewed in darkness; a rippling green tear in the fabric of the night. Durosimi was standing in front of it, his arms held aloft and chanting something unintelligible. 

“He’s been doing that for almost an hour,” said a soft voice, no more than six inches from Philomena’s ear. 

Even a witch as powerful as Philomena can be forgiven for jumping with fright, and feeling her bowels turn to water, when an apparently disembodied voice unexpectedly pipes up from nowhere in the middle of the night. 

“Oh, I am sorry,” apologised Miss Calder.

She was hovering by the Ravenstone, a local landmark that reputedly marked a Viking burial, and her wraith shimmered quietly in the darkness. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.

“That’s quite alright,” lied Philomena, relieved and  hurriedly composing herself. “Have you been here very long?”

“Ever since Durosimi  arrived,” replied Miss Calder.  “It occurred to me that he might need watching.”

“I’m glad I’m not the only one with a suspicious mind,” said Philomena. “And it looks as though we’re right. What do you think he’s up to?”

Miss Calder’s pale, attractive face went briefly skeletal, a sure sign that she was either excited or agitated.

“I spotted him a few days ago, lurking around here with Doc Willoughby. It was late in the afternoon, and for some reason Doc was wearing a funny costume. They seemed to be casting a spell of some sort, but at the time it didn’t seem to work. A couple of hours later this what-do-you-call-it suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and I’m sure that Durosimi knows exactly what it is.”

Meanwhile, Durosimi was congratulating himself that he had, apparently, managed to create a portal to some other land. The fact that it was situated high in the air and well out of his reach, however, posed something of a problem. He had tried various spells to encourage the thing to slip down a few feet, to somewhere a shade more accessible, but to no avail. Nothing was working. 

“You might as well go home to bed, Philomena,” said Miss Calder. “I don’t sleep, so I can keep an eye on Durosimi, and will let you know if anything happens.”

For once in her life Philomena didn’t argue. 

Durosimi had been sitting on a particularly uncomfortable tree stump for thirty long minutes and staring fixedly at the anomaly, wondering what to do next. Although there were two more hours before Reggie Upton was due to take over as watchman, the sorcerer decided to go home straight away and look again at the Etruscan spell, in the hope that it would provide an answer to his problem. From her vantage point, Miss Calder watched him leave, shaking her ghostly head in disapproval of his cavalier attitude and lack of commitment.

No sooner had Durosimi disappeared from sight than the anomaly began to act strangely. It flexed wildly, bulging and bending until it formed a perfect circle. Then, belching stifling billows of the green mist, it gradually began to expand, pushing aside the trees surrounding it as easily as if they were no more substantial than reeds. 

Miss Calder’s face was transformed into a grinning death’s-head as she watched a long, sinuous shape slip down from what was now quite obviously a portal, though she did not dare to think where it might lead. 

Her attention was, by now, fixed firmly on the ghastly, snake-like creature slithering menacingly towards her. Although, fairly certain that it could not harm her ghostly form, Miss Calder drifted instinctively back, out of its way, then watched in fascinated horror as it crawled up the Ravenstone, all the while shifting it’s shape, and eventually assuming a malevolent and cadaverous human aspect. The odious aberration turned his head to the portal and gave a high-pitched, unearthly call. Within seconds, other shapes began dropping through the green mist; nameless, fanged horrors with writhing limbs and many eyes. 

Miss Calder, agitated beyond belief and totally skeletal by now, slipped quickly away to raise the alarm. 

All the while a couplet from the Scottish play, Macbeth, taunted her…

‘By the pricking of my thumbs

Something wicked this way comes.’

To be continued…

An ominous figure in black.

Photo by Crow Shaw

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

The Wind that Shakes the Ash Trees

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“That’s not going to happen,” raged Doc Willoughby. “You ignore me when I visit, treat me like dirt and expect me to run around the island undoing the messes that you’ve caused with your mistakes. Well I’ve had enough of you and your ways, O’Stoat. You are nothing but a fraud and a charlatan of the worst kind, and I refuse to be your lackey any more.”

Ever since he had received the note from Durosimi, Doc had rehearsed this speech a dozen times in the comfort of his living room. He had been determined to stand up to Durosimi once and for all. He was sick of being treated like a doormat. Now, standing nervously in the sorcerer’s study, this did not feel to be the best course of action.

“Well, now you mention it, old friend, I do tend to drop into The Squid and Teapot from time to time,” stammered the Doc, hating himself for his total lack of backbone. 

“Splendid!” beamed Durosimi, “I knew that I could rely on you to get young Tenzin to come back to me.”

“I’ll do what I can…” said the Doc, dejectedly.

“I have every faith in your powers of persuasion,” boomed Durosimi, full of false bonhomie. “Now, where did I put that bottle of single malt..?”

“He’s busy meditating,” said Philomena Bucket, when the Doc enquired, later that day, if Tenzin might be available for a little tête-à-tête. The usually gentle Irish lilt had left Philomena’s voice, and it was cold and sharp. In those three words she managed to convey the message that there would be nothing further to add to the conversation, thank you very much.

Doc knew that he had been defeated at the first attempt. Despite his dislike of Philomena, however, he could not help but reflect that she would make a wonderful  receptionist, and keep those blasted idlers from bothering him for appointments all of the time.

Doc was close to panic; he had no idea what he would do now. He briefly considered kidnapping the young monk, but wisely decided that youth and agility would be on Tenzin’s side. Besides that, there was always the possibility that the monastery had instruction in some sort of  martial art in its curriculum, and that the monks routinely went around with an assortment of lethal throwing implements stuffed in their robes. With a heavy heart, Doc decided to go home and sleep on it. Maybe Tenzin would go back to Durosimi of his own accord. Maybe Durosimi would be eaten by the Kraken. Maybe the world would end tonight… 

In the event, none of the above mentioned scenarios occurred, but the problem of getting Tenzin back to Chez Durosimi suddenly became much less important.

The reason that the Yeti (who, for convenience, we know as Billy, or possibly Willy) brought both Durosimi and Tenzin from Tibet to Hopeless, via Mr Squash’s mystic portal, was for them to escape the wrath of the anchorite and sorcerer, Dawasandup. As lamas go, Dawasandup was not as devoted to the notion of peace and love as he might have been, and was extremely keen on sacrificing Durosimi, or failing that, Tenzin,  to a particularly unpleasant tiger demon named Tagsan. Not unreasonably, both believed that a distance of some seven thousand miles would be amply sufficient to keep Dawasandup safely out of the way. After all, he could not come through Mr Squash’s mystic portal… could he?

Reggie Upton adjusted his Homburg to a jaunty angle and set off upon one of his evening rambles around the island, swinging his walking cane as he went. His plan was to meet Winston Oldspot, the Night-Soil Man, near Mr Squash’s mystic portal, a natural archway formed by two ash trees which had collapsed into each other’s branches. 

The evening was, as ever, foggy and the wind was little more than a zephyr. All was peaceful until, apparently from nowhere, a sudden whirlwind shook the ash trees, which thrashed wildly, sending their remaining leaves and odd bits of branch spinning to the ground. Reggie had seen some bizarre weather in his time, but never anything like this. Within the portal a gale raged, while just a few feet away the evening was tranquility itself. Sensing that something unusual was about to happen, he decided that it would be wise to slip into the shadows and keep quiet.

To begin with, Reggie thought he was looking at a ghost. The figure emerging from between the trees was completely unruffled by the tempest that raged all around. Its slender form appeared to be draped in a long white shift, and seemed to drift rather than walk. Then Reggie noticed the long, thick braids of dark hair that hung almost to the ground, and  alarm bells rang in his head. This must be that Dawasandup chap whom Tenzin had described, and the bounder had doubtless come to fetch the young monk back. Well, Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton, late of the King’s own Royal Regiment would have something to say about that – but not on his own. That would be madness. Philomena would know what to do…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Be Careful What You Wish For

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 “It’s beyond me where he gets it from.”  

Reverend Davies peered up from the sermon he was trying to compose, a look of slight irritation on his face.  “Sorry? Who are you talking about?”

“Durosimi,” said Doc Willoughby. ” I was saying, I wonder where he gets all of that single-malt whisky from.”  

“I would be more interested to know why he’s letting you drink any of it. He must have some ulterior motive.”  

“Not necessarily,” said the Doc, trying to sound offended. “It’s not unheard of to share a glass or two with a friend, occasionally.”  

“Indeed,” replied the Reverend, “but you know as well as I do, Durosimi doesn’t have friends. Neither do you, for that matter…  present company excepted, of course,” he added quickly.

Doc was well aware that any friendship between himself and Reverend Davies had all of the warmth of a spoonwalker’s stare, but he smiled and nodded in agreement.  “You’re probably right,” he conceded. “He was desperate to find out everything I know about Mr Squash.”  

“The Sasquatch?” said Reverend Davies in surprise. “Why on earth would Durosimi want to know what he was up to?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” replied the Doc.

Mr Squash had never liked Durosimi O’Stoat. Over the years he had visited Hopeless many times and had watched a vaguely unlikable child grow into thoroughly unlikable adult, and the feeling was, he was certain, totally mutual. Mr Squash was surprised, therefore, when, one night, the sorcerer’s angular form came out of the trees and greeted him like a long lost friend.  

“Mr Squash, my dear fellow,” he beamed. “I heard that you were back on the island. It’s good to see you.”  

“It is?” Replied the Sasquatch, somewhat taken aback.  

“Look, I know we have not always seen eye-to-eye…” began Durosimi.

“Well I am more than three feet taller than you,” said Mr Squash, dryly.

“Ha, you’re always there with a ready quip,” laughed Durosimi, “but seriously, I think it’s time that we buried the hatchet. ”  

“I didn’t know that he could laugh.” Mr Squash had the good manners to keep this observation to himself.  

“I thought you might allow me to walk with you for a while… we could talk over old times.”

Mr Squash’s brow furrowed. There were no old times to talk about. What was Durosimi up to? There was only one way to find out. “Fine,” agreed Mr Squash, and the pair disappeared into the darkness, Durosimi chatting amicably about nothing in particular.

For the next two nights Durosimi appeared from the darkness and spent a companionable hour or two with the Sasquatch. To Mr Squash’s surprise he found Durosimi to be excellent company; had he been misjudging the man for all of these years? It was only when Mr Squash mentioned that he’d be visiting relatives, and unable to join Durosimi for a night of two, that the sorcerer showed his hand.  

“Why, that sounds most interesting,” he said. ” Is it possible that I could join you, my friend? I wouldn’t get in the way… ”  

“It is too dangerous,” said Mr Squash. “Travel through the portals that I use can be perilous for a human.”  

“But I am not an ordinary person,” protested Durosimi. ” That which threatens a mere mortal is as nothing to me.”

It began to dawn upon  Mr Squash that this had been the sole reason for Durosimi befriending him.  “Very well,” thought the Sasquatch to himself. “I’ll go along with it – but people should be careful what they wish for.”  

“If I agree to this,” he said aloud, “bear in mind that however strong you might believe yourself to be, you will not find the experience at all comfortable. The best I can promise is to put you somewhere safe when we arrive.”

They agreed to meet the following night. Mr Squash advised Durosimi to wear his warmest clothes, which surprised the sorcerer. Nevertheless, he donned his thickest coat, gloves, and furry ushanka hat, with generous ear-flaps that he could tie beneath his chin. Standing in the shadow of the two toppled trees that leant against each other to form an archway,

Mr Squash asked,  “Are you ready?”  

“Of course I am,” said Durosimi testily, allowing his true self to flicker through for a moment. Before he could say another word, he felt himself swept off his feet and lifted into the Sasquatch’s huge arms.

Mr Squash had not lied when he described the experience of travelling through his portal as being ‘not at all comfortable.’ Durosimi felt as though he was being slowly turned inside out, with every atom of his body being  removed, examined, and then put back into the wrong place. Then, like a huge wave roaring in from nowhere, oblivion swept over him and, for several hours, he knew no more.

A sharp light shone through the mouth of the cave, some hundred feet from where Durosimi lay. He tried to sit up, but found the effort too great. He would just lie here for a few minutes, until he recovered a little. It took a moment or two for Durosimi to realise that much of his problem was that he was cold; bitterly cold. He needed to move, to get his circulation flowing. The sorcerer made his way to the opening of the cave, where a scattering of fresh snow carpeted the entrance. The only thing disturbing the pristine surface was the imprint of a single footprint, one that had come from a big foot. A very big foot indeed. Durosimi stepped into the daylight. There was no sign of Mr Squash, just a range of huge and imposing snow-capped mountains, for as far as the eye could see. The Sasquatch had said that he was visiting relatives. With a sinking heart Durosimi realised who those relatives might be and, if this was the case, he was now standing, lost and alone on the very roof of the world – the Himalayan Mountains.

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Natural Archway

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Doc Willoughby eyed the half-full decanter hopefully. “That’s some mighty fine whisky you have there,” he said. Then he added, on the off chance that Durosimi O’Stoat had failed to fully comprehend his approval of the liquor, “Yes, that’s some mighty fine whisky indeed.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” drawled Durosimi, making no effort to replenish Doc’s empty glass.

Whenever Durosimi invited Doc to his home, in order to chew the fat, blow some smoke, shoot the breeze, and other unlikely idioms suggestive of folksy camaraderie, there was always an ulterior motive. Durosimi is incapable of camaraderie, and he certainly is not folksy. Doc knows this, of course, but the sorcerer’s unique and mysteriously endless supply of single-malt whisky is the type of bait that one such as Doc is unable to resist.

 “So,” said Durosimi, running his fingers over the decanter’s stopper, “ tell me more about this Bigfoot creature. Squash, isn’t it? What has he been getting up to?”

“I’ve heard a few bits of gossip about him,” said Doc.

He had played this game before. There was a definite art to telling Durosimi just enough to encourage him to lubricate the conversation, while keeping something back in reserve.

“Go on,” said Durosimi, removing the stopper

“Well, he’s been around the island for a few weeks now – keeping an eye on young Oldspot, apparently.”

“Oldspot?”

“Winston Oldspot, the new Night-Soil Man. Squash rescued him from somewhere or other and brought him home.”

“Oh, but that’s hardly news,” said Durosimi, putting the stopper back.

“But Squash has this unsettling habit of coming and going.”

“Coming and going? How do you mean?” asked Durosimi, suddenly interested.

“He doesn’t eat on the island,” replied Doc. “He says that the food here doesn’t agree with him.”

“That ‘s reasonable. It sounds as though he’s a sight more sensible than most,” said Durosimi. “But if he doesn’t eat on the island where does he go, and how does he get there?”

There was an excited glint in Durosimi’s eye, and by now the stopper was well and truly removed and the decanter hovering tantalisingly over Doc’s glass.

“I have no idea,” said Doc, then added hurriedly as the decanter moved further away, ‘but he did say something about a portal.”

“A portal, eh?” said Durosimi, and Doc’s ears were warmed by the comforting sound of single-malt whisky hitting the bottom of his glass. It was as though he had uttered some arcane shibboleth allowing him into Durosimi’s good books.

With the whisky safely in his care, Doc felt safe in mentioning the caveat.

“He did make a point of saying, however, that it was meant only for Sasquatches, and nowhere that a human could pass through safely.”

Durosimi harrumphed irritably. In his opinion, the usual rules governing mere mortals did not apply to him.

“Did he happen to mention where this portal is located?”

“No, sorry,” said Doc, realising that he had no more to give.

He drank his whisky in one gulp. It occurred to him that Durosimi might have wanted it back.

“I daresay you need to be getting back to work now Willoughby,” said the sorcerer, ushering his guest towards the door. “No peace for the wicked, eh?”

“You should know,” thought Doc, but what he actually said was, “No, indeed,” and he feigned a little laugh.

Durosimi knew all about portals. He had been going back and forth, for some months, to Tudor London, via The Underland, which always managed to deliver him to Doctor John Dee’s study while the old alchemist was away from home. It was a pleasant change from Hopeless, to be sure, but Durosimi was rarely satisfied, and wanted more. He wanted to see the places where the Sasquatch went.

The bright full moon that smiled down upon the state of Maine was seriously dimmed by the perpetual fog that hung over Hopeless, like a soiled sheet over a birdcage. This gloom was no great hardship to the commerce of the island, as most rarely ventured any further than ‘The Crow’ or ‘The Squid and Teapot’, after the hours of darkness. Durosimi O’Stoat, however, was not like most islanders. Armed with his magic and an overbearing sense of self-confidence, he felt match enough for anything, with the single exception of the stench of the Night-Soil Man. That was why, on this night, he was keeping well upwind of Winston Oldspot and the huge creature walking by his side. Of course, he had seen Mr Squash before, some years earlier, but he had forgotten just how massive the fellow was.

Watching from a safe distance, Durosimi saw the Sasquatch take his leave of Winston and wander off into the trees. Durosimi scuttled after him, desperate to see where  he might be heading. He saw Mr Squash arrive at a fairly unremarkable spot where two trees had seemingly fallen against each other, forming an inverted V, which no one would have looked at twice. Mr Squash walked beneath the simple, natural archway, and to Durosimi’s surprise, disappeared with a resounding snap.

“Well, that looks easy enough,” thought Durosimi, following in Mr Squash’s footsteps, and stepped confidently through the archway. I have no idea what he expected to happen, but to his disappointment there was no snap, and he was still on Hopeless with a couple of toppled trees squatting like an A frame above his head.

 Lying in his bed, some two hours later, Durosimi tried to puzzle out why the portal had not allowed him in. He could only conclude that Doc had heard correctly, and maybe you really have to be a Sasquatch to get through. But hadn’t Mr Squash carried Winston Oldspot back to the island through a portal? Durosimi suddenly sat bolt upright. That was it. He had to somehow hitch a lift with the Sasquatch. There was only one possible way to achieve this. Durosimi would have to ask the Sasquatch nicely.

To be continued…

 Errors and Corrections.

I have to apologise to Madame Miriele D’Illay-Washwell, having intimated in a recent tale (entitled ‘A Safe Place”) that she and her family inhabit the property known as ‘The Old Blomqvist House’. Madame D’Illay-Washwell has pointed out, in no uncertain terms, that she would never live in a house which is being maintained by some variety of hobgoblin, much less a Swedish one.

I should add that the residence to which I referred is currently the home of Mr and Mrs Bartholomew Middlestreet, and the guardian spirit, described by Madame D’Illay Washwell as a hobgoblin, is in fact a Tomte.