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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Dull-Brained Bottom-Feeder

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It was, by Hopeless standards, a reasonably fine night. The fog had thinned, and there was only the faintest suggestion of rain on the breeze. High above, the bright autumn moon smiled upon the gentle gnii, their numbers much depleted these days, and ripped through the thin grey rags of mist with ease.

“By Jove, since arriving on Hopeless, I have never seen the moon shining quite so brightly,” exclaimed Reggie Upton.

Winston Oldspot nodded in agreement.

“I can even see Drury lurking over there by the ash trees,” he said. “I wonder what he’s up to?”

“Probably no good, knowing Drury,” said Reggie.

Drury was an old rogue, to be sure, but Reggie’s voice could not hide the affection he felt for the skeletal hound. The pair often accompanied Winston, the Night-Soil Man, on his rounds. Having no sense of smell, Reggie was one of the few people who could stand to be around him.

For once in his after-life, Drury was innocent of all mischief. His attention had been drawn to something odd, which seemed to be happening in the gap between the ash trees. To you or I there would be nothing obviously amiss, but there were hidden forces in action, and these are what Drury’s keen senses had picked up.

*

Far away, high in the Himalayan Mountains, Durosimi was preparing to meet – and hopefully control – a genuine Tibetan demon. The gomchen, Dawasandup, had given him instructions on how this might be achieved, and brimming with unfounded confidence Durosimi set off for the coniferous forest that lay not far from the village of Bajie, a length of rope slung around his shoulder.

Those of you who have read the tale ‘Welcome Home, Doc Willoughby’ will recall that Dawasandup had told Durosimi to put a noose around his neck and tie himself to a tree. After remaining there for three days and three nights, without food or water, the demon would come to him in the form of a tiger.

Most people would have immediately decided that this was maybe not the ideal manner in which to confront a demon, but Durosimi was not most people. Besides this, his knowledge of tigers was, at best, sketchy, never having actually seen one.

Twenty four long hours had passed and Durosimi was already feeling thirsty. The rope around his neck was beginning to chafe, and his stomach was rumbling. He really hoped that suffering all this discomfort would be worth it.

Suddenly there was a movement in the trees, some distance behind him. Durosimi knew that it was unlikely to be one of the villagers, as the forest was widely known to be the haunt of demons, and the locals wisely gave the area a wide berth. No, there was something large barging through the undergrowth. A cold shiver ran down the sorcerer’s spine; if this was the demon, he was early, and more to the point, sounded to be much bigger than Durosimi felt entirely comfortable with. Then a vast, but familiar, shape burst into view; it was Billy (or possibly Willy), one of the Yeti, the Spirits of the Glaciers, creatures whom Durosimi had met when he had first arrived in Tibet.

“You card-carrying imbecile,” raged Billy (or possibly Willy). “What on earth possessed you to think that you could get the better of a vicious tiger-shaped demon? You are the stupidest, most cretinous human I have ever encountered… a total arse, idiot and dull-brained bottom-feeder of the worst kind.”

Fortunately Billy (or possibly Willy) knew no English and Durosimi could not understand a word of whatever language it was that the Yeti spoke, so all that he heard was a series of barks and growls which he took to be expressions of delight that the huge creature had found him. What happened next, however, was less pleasing. Despite his fear and discomfort, Duroimi still had designs on nabbing a demon.

The Yeti snapped the rope tied to the Himalayan cedar as easily as if it were a spider’s web, then picked Durosimi up and tucked him neatly under his arm. The sorcerer started kicking and shouting in a manner reminiscent of an intransigent child reluctantly being taken to the dentist, but all to no avail. The Spirits of the Glaciers are a proud and ancient race, and they had promised their more diminutive cousin, Mr Squash the Sasquatch, that every last one of them would protect the humans whom he had brought to Tibet.

“It’s time to go home, little human,” growled Billy (or possibly Willy).

*

Drury leapt back fully six feet as the gust of icy wind issued through the gap in the ash trees. There followed a sudden flurry of snow, and the old dog slunk back even further as the immense figure of the Yeti appeared with Durosimi, now as limp as a rag-doll, dangling from his left hand.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie Upton, who, with Winston, had by now had caught up with Drury. “You look exactly as Frankie described you.”

Reggie was referring to his friend, Francis Younghusband, who had led a British expedition to Tibet in 1903.

The Yeti looked quizzically at Reggie.

“Sorry, dashed rude of me not to introduce us,” said Reggie, extending a hand. “I am so pleased to meet you. I’m Reginald Hawkesbury-Upton and this is my good friend, Winston Oldspot.”

The Yeti regarded the pair solemnly, twitched his nose at the strange scent that the younger human gave off, then held out a finger for Reggie to shake.

“I see you have returned Durosimi to us,” said Winston, eyeing the Yeti nervously. There were some strange creatures on the island but he had never seen anything quite this large. He made Mr Squash look like a dwarf.

“Is he dead, do you think?”

“No,” said Reggie. “It’s the effect that travelling through a portal which is meant exclusively for the use of Sasquatches- and apparently their close relatives – has on us mere humans. He’ll be back to his old, irritating self in a day or two.”

The Yeti laid Durosimi on the ground with surprising tenderness.

“Thank you. We’ll get him back to his house,” said Reggie.

The Yeti growled softly, turned, and disappeared into the ash trees, leaving a scattering of snow on the earth behind him.

“I wish I could have an adventure like that,” said Winston, with a faraway look in his eyes.

Reggie smiled wistfully.

“You and I both, old chap,” he said.”But somehow I can’t see Mr Squash opening up that portal again in a hurry.”

He looked down at the still figure of Durosimi sprawled on the earth.

“Come on. Let’s get this fellow home and into his bed.”

Mr Squash did not hear of Durosimi’s return until the following morning.

“Thank goodness things are back to normal,” he thought. “I’m beginning to feel that I am doing this island no favours by staying here. As long as I am on Hopeless there will always be people wanting to escape through my portals. It’s definitely time for me to move on, and anyway, I have neglected my old haunts for far too long.”

Just then Philomena Bucket and Drury came out of the front door of The Squid and Teapot. On seeing Mr Squash Philomena gave a cheery wave and Drury wagged a bony tail. The Sasquatch raised a hand in acknowledgement, turned, and walked into the mist, trying to ignore the tears welling up in his deep, wise eyes.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Yak Butter Tea For Two

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“Do they really expect me to eat this muck?” Doc Willoughby regarded his bowl of dark cereal with a look of disdain.

“It’s called tsampa, the staple diet of the monastery, and it is all that there is,” snapped Durosimi O’Stoat. “If you bothered to taste it, you would find that it’s really quite good.”

“I would be happier if I knew exactly what I was eating,” complained the Doc. “I can’t say I trust these fellows…”

“They are monks, for goodness sake!” exclaimed Durosimi, exasperated. “They’ve saved your life. Show some gratitude for once.”

Doc eyed his companion warily. This sudden respect for others was a side of the sorcerer that he had never seen before.

“Well, what’s in it?” asked the Doc.

“As far as I understand,” replied Durosimi, regaining his composure, “it is made of roasted flour and some seeds…”

“And what else?” muttered the Doc, suspiciously.

“Something called bod ja – Tibetan tea. It’s all perfectly good and, I have been assured, extremely nutritious also.”

Durosimi decided not to go into the details of how bod ja is made. Doc did not need to know that a large lump of greasy yak butter gets added to some heavily salted tar-black tea, which had previously been strained through a horse-hair colander. Neither did he need to be apprised of the information that this concoction is then churned until it reaches the consistency of thick oil, and added to the flour and seeds in order to make tsampa. Durosimi felt that knowing this, the Doc may have been disinclined to eat.  Why such facts might have bothered someone who was more than happy to gorge on starry-grabby pie, however, is something of a mystery to me.

 If you have just wandered into this tale after several weeks, or more, away, you may be wondering what Durosimi O’Stoat and Doc Willoughby are doing, enjoying the hospitality of a Tibetan Buddhist monastery, high up in the Himalayan Mountains and many thousands of miles from Hopeless, Maine. To cut a long story short, Doc Willoughby – for reasons yet unknown – had been found, not so much at Death’s door, but wiping his boots on Death’s welcome mat. Philomena Bucket and Mr Squash, the Sasquatch, agreed that the Doc’s only hope of being saved lay in the healing hands of the lamas of the legendary Dge-lugs-pa, or the Yellow Hat sect, (fortunately, these days they are known more for their distinctive burgundy robes than their yellow hats). Durosimi, who had visited the monastery some time before, offered to go and keep an eye on the Doc, and so Mr Squash transported the pair of them to the Himalayas, via one of his mysterious portals. Now you are up to date.

 Philomena Bucket winced as Mr Squash lowered his huge, eight-hundred pound frame onto the old wooden settle bench that had stood for years in the corner of the bar of The Squid and Teapot.

“Is that worried look, etched upon your dear face, placed there for my welfare, or for the settle’s?” he asked mischievously.

“Both,” Philomena admitted. “I wouldn’t want to see either of you damaged.”

“That’s not likely,” said the Sasquatch, “This old seat is as solid as The Squid itself; it will take more than my delicate weight to do it harm.”

Philomena smiled. She hoped that he was right.

“Talking of damaged goods,” said Mr Squash, “it’s high time that I brought Doc Willoughby back from Tibet. If the monks have not cured him by now, they never will.”

“You don’t know, he might want to stay there,” said Philomena, optimistically.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” replied the Sasquatch. “Besides, Durosimi is with him. Having to entertain those two for any length of time wouldn’t be fair on the monks. It would be enough to make them lose their religion completely.”

“And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” laughed Philomena.

 Mr Squash waited until daybreak on the following morning before leaving for Tibet. As ever, wisps of mist curled around the portal, which was just a simple natural gateway formed between two trees. If you or I had stepped through we would have found ourselves to be nowhere other than a stride away from where we had started, but for Mr Squash, and anyone whom he carried, it was a wormhole – albeit a large one – to the Himalayas, the land of his cousins, known to humans as the Yeti.

“Bon voyage, old friend,” said Reggie Upton, who had come to see him off. “Give my regards to your relatives.”

Mr Squash waved and disappeared into the portal. A few seconds later he returned, a concerned look in his wise and ancient eyes.

“Something wrong, old chap?” asked Reggie.

“There has been a rock-fall on the other side,” said the Sasquatch. “It’s totally blocked, and far too much for me to shift. There is no way that I can get through.” 

 To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Once Upon A Tuesday Evening Dreary…

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Mr Squash squatted on the ground outside Neville Moore’s mausoleum-like home, idly stroking the bible-black, though distinctly dishevelled, feathers on the head of Neville’s pet raven, Lenore.

“People have lost fingers for attempting less,” observed Neville, admiringly.

“And over-ambitious birds have lost their heads for trying,” said Mr Squash. “Luckily, Lenore and I have an understanding.” 

The raven gave the Sasquatch a sideways glance and shuffled uncomfortably on her perch.  

“Reggie Upton told me that you’ve been away, trying to find a cure for whatever it is that’s troubling Doc Willoughby,” said Neville, changing the subject.

“Yes. I had to take him to a Buddhist temple high in the Himalayas,” replied Mr Squash. “He’s barely alive, and the monks there are his only chance.”

While it is almost impossible to leave the island of Hopeless, Maine, Mr Squash is able to come and go as he pleases, via a series of secret portals. Convenient as these doorways are, they are potentially lethal for mere humans. As I have mentioned before, in a society more conscious of Health and Safety procedures, each portal would doubtless have carried a notice, proclaiming in large, angry letters:

‘DANGER – NO ADMITTANCE. HUMAN ACCESS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. SASQUATCHES ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.’

“What concerns me,” admitted Mr Squash, “is if the trip kills Doc Willoughby, then so be it. He would have been a dead man anyway if he’d not gone. Durosimi, on the other hand, didn’t really have to accompany him. I would have stayed.”

“Durosimi?” said a surprised Neville.  Mr Squash nodded.

“He volunteered  to keep an eye on the Doc. The trouble is, he looked in as bad a state as Willoughby when I left them. The monks are going to have their work cut out with those two.”

“Good luck with that,” said Neville.  Lenore, who had become restless, and still brooding over recent references to lost heads, flapped noisily up onto a window ledge that had been generously streaked with guano.  

“When are you fetching them back?” asked Neville.

“I’ll give it a week or so. I’ve relatives living up that way.”  

“Ah, the Yeti,” said Neville, who had read about such creatures in several of the many books that Philomena regularly sent along to him, foraged from the attics of The Squid and Teapot.

“Don’t let them hear you calling them that,” said Mr Squash. “It’s not particularly complimentary in Tibetan. It’s almost as bad as referring to me as Bigfoot.” With that, Mr Squash rose to his feet (and yes, they are inclined to be on the largish size) dwarfing the hermit of Ghastly Green. “I need to get back to The Squid and collect Drury,” he said. “We’re keeping young Winston Oldspot, The Night-Soil Man, company tonight. It seems that he thinks we’ve all abandoned him.”

“Yes, apparently so,” said Neville. “He did look a bit miffed when I saw him the other night.”

“Philomena’s sending him over some Starry-Grabby pie,” said Mr Squash. “That should cheer the lad up.”

“If there’s any going spare,” said Neville, hopefully, “Lenore and I would be very grateful…”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said the Sasquatch, quietly wondering to himself how anyone could possibly manage to eat the stuff.

Meanwhile, half a world away, in the high Himalayas, Doc Willoughby and Durosimi O’Stoat were lost in comfortable oblivion, unaware of the burgundy-robed lamas who rotated the prayer-wheels on their behalf.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Spirits of the Glaciers

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You may recall that the sorcerer, Durosimi O’Stoat, had persuaded Mr Squash to take him through a mystic portal to some distant location. As has been described in the previous tale, Mr Squash was less than happy to transport a frail human through a doorway which, in a less adventurous Health and Safety conscious society, would doubtless have carried a notice, proclaiming in large, angry letters:

‘DANGER – NO ADMITTANCE. HUMAN ACCESS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. SASQUATCHES ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.’

Durosimi, being Durosimi, had argued that he was no mere mortal. I suspect that Mr Squash might have secretly thought that a trip through a ‘Sasquatch only’ portal would teach him a lesson. As it was, Durosimi found the whole experience to be extremely unpleasant, but managed to survive. He was unconscious when Mr Squash left him to recuperate in a cave, while the Sasquatch wandered off to visit some cousins. It was only when Durosimi felt strong enough to leave the cave did he realise who these relatives were. Even on the island of Hopeless, Maine, everyone had heard of the fearsome Yeti, who happened to live high in the Himalayan Mountains.

An icy blast chilled Durosimi to the bone. He wrapped his long coat around him and shivered uncontrollably.

“Ah, you’re awake at last!”

He turned as quickly as his ravaged frame would allow. Mr Squash was striding cheerfully through the snow, leaving behind him a trail of impressively big footprints (or should that be Bigfoot prints?)

“Have you found your relatives yet?” asked Durosimi.

“Found them? I’ve been living with them for a week,” laughed Mr Squash. “And now, it’s high time we got back to Hopeless.”

Durosimi reeled. A week? That was impossible. Had he been unconscious for all of that time? Besides, he still felt dreadful. He hurt and ached in bits of his body that he didn’t even know he possessed.

“I can’t go back yet,” he protested. “I honestly think that another trip through your portal, at the moment, would kill me.”

“I hate to say I told you so,” said Mr Squash, “but I did warn you… and I really need to get back today. There’s more to being a Sasquatch than rescuing Night-Soil Men and giving free rides to sorcerers.”

“Then you’ll have to go without me,” said Durosimi. “Would your cousins put me up for a few days until you can come back?”

Mr Squash frowned.

“I’m not sure,” he said at last. “And it might be more than a few days. I usually only come to the Himalayas once every ten years, or so. These high altitudes play havoc with my sinuses.”

“Ten years!” exclaimed Durosimi, aghast.

“I’ll do what I can,” said Mr Squash, “Now let me go and talk to my cousins.”

The two made their way through the snow, Mr Squash striding unconcernedly, Durosimi stumbling.

“It’s here that we part company,” said Mr Squash, when they reached a spot that looked worryingly similar to every other location in that hostile terrain.

At first Durosimi thought that he was being abandoned in the mountains. There was nothing to see but huge rocks and endless snow.

“You need to look properly, and you will see them,” said the Sasquatch, in as low a tone as he could muster.

“I am looking!” said Durosimi crossly. “And there is nothing to… Oh!”

They were indistinct at first, but little by little Durosimi could see them.

“Oh! indeed,” said Mr Squash.

The creatures were suddenly all around them, huge, white and shaggy, dwarfing the Sasquatch.

 “The Tibetan people refer to my cousins as The Spirits of the Glaciers,” he carried on, “and have revered them for thousands of years.”

“I can see why,” replied Durosimi. It was extremely rare for him to feel awe-struck, but awe-struck he was. We can only put it down to his being weakened by the journey through the portal.

“I will arrange for one of them to take you to a nearby monastery. You will find it more comfortable there.”

Durosimi breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t particularly fancy spending any time alone with these massive creatures, however revered they might be.

Much later, when the moon over Hopeless Maine was, as usual, fighting a losing battle with the fog, Mr Squash met up with Reggie Upton and Winston Oldstone, the Night-Soil Man.

“So you’ve left the old rogue up in the Himalayas,” said Reggie. “It must be tempting not to bring him back.”

“No, I wouldn’t do that. After all, I made a promise of sorts,” said Mr Squash. “Besides, the monks wouldn’t thank me if I lumbered them with Durosimi for the rest of his days.”

“So when do you intend to rescue him?” asked Winston, hefting the lidded bucket onto his back.

“I’ll give it a week,” said Mr Squash. “I imagine that after several days on a diet of nothing but tsampa and butter-tea he’ll be more than ready to come home.”

The three ambled off into the foggy night, chatting amiably.

Meanwhile, almost half a world away, Durosimi O’Stoat dozed in the chilly eyrie of a mountain monastery. Despite himself, he felt almost content, listening to the hypnotic chanting of the burgundy-robed monks, while the afternoon sun lit his simple room and gilded the highest peaks and snowfields of the majestic Himalayas.

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 Safe Place

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Since re-visiting the fog-bound island of Hopeless, Maine, following an absence of several years, Mr Squash, the Sasquatch, had spent his nights assisting Winston Oldspot, the young Night-Soil Man. During daylight hours he delighted in looking up old friends and making new acquaintances. It is fair to say that Mr Squash is, and always has been, a sociable sort of fellow, despite his fearsome appearance. This is not his fault; being nine feet tall and weighing-in at eight hundred pounds is enough to make even the most belligerent aggressor feel somewhat threatened.

“It’s good to have you back on Hopeless,” said Bartholomew Middlestreet with a warm smile.

“It is only temporary,” replied Mr Squash. “In fact, if your Night-Soil Man had not got himself lost, I wouldn’t be here at all.”

“We would ask you in,” said Bartholomew’s wife, Ariadne, apologetically. “But our new home is a bit on the small side.”

“Well, it is certainly a lot smaller than The Squid and Teapot,” said Mr Squash with a laugh. “You must miss the old place, sometimes.”

“Oh, we do,” replied Bartholomew, “but it was high time that I retired. It’s a comfort to know that The Squid is in good hands, with Rhys and Philomena running it.”

“And they’ve got some very modern ideas,” added Ariadne, approvingly. “They even have baby-changing facilities.”

Mr Squash frowned, then said in puzzled tones, “Oh well, I guess that there must be some folks who aren’t happy with the one that they’ve got.”

 It was later that day that Reggie Upton suggested that the Sasquatch should go with him to meet Septimus Washwell and his wife, Mirielle. After the birth of their twin daughters at Christmas, the new family had moved into what had long been known as the Blomqvist cottage, a comfortable but quite tiny home, out at Scilly Point. In order to meet Mr Squash, it was arranged that Ariadne would look after the children, and Septimus and Mirielle go to the Dance Studio, where Mirielle’s Can-Can troupe, Les Demoiselles de Hopeless, Maine, taught, rehearsed and, in the case of the unmarried girls, lived. This establishment was formerly known as Madame Evadne’s Lodging House for Discerning Gentlemen and, like The Squid and Teapot, is one of the larger buildings on the island, and easily able to accommodate Mr Squash’s impressive bulk.

Mirielle viewed Mr Squash with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. It must be said that this was inclined to be her default position when it came to meeting anyone, but she had, over the years, heard several stories regarding the creatures generally referred to as Bigfoot, and they did not soothe her. She was glad that the children were safely at home with Ariadne.

Meanwhile, Septimus, sitting with his fingers crossed, reflected that, all things considered, the meeting was going exceptionally well and, so far, Mirielle had not said anything remotely insulting or insensitive, as she was often inclined to do.

Then things changed.

“Monsieur Squash, one thing puzzles me…”

“And what might that be, my dear?” asked Mr Squash, half suspecting what might be the cause of the dancer’s puzzlement.

She waved vaguely in the area of the Sasquatch’s groin and said, “You appear to have no… what is the word…?

No one rushed to supply her with the word that had mercifully eluded her.

You will have noticed that any pictorial depictions of a Yeti, Bigfoot, or whatever you wish to call the creature, have always appeared to be coy in this respect. When confronted by Mr Squash in the flesh (or fur, to be more correct), however, it quickly becomes obvious that coyness has played no part in the matter. Mr Squash, and presumably others of his species, appear to be completely devoid of any obvious sexual characteristics. This feature – or the lack thereof – had been the ‘Elephant in the Room’ on more than one occasion. Certainly no one on Hopeless had felt moved to mention the matter; that is, until now.

“Oh, I certainly do,” said Mr Squash, without a hint of embarrassment. “Would you like to see?”

Mirielle’s face lit up with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “Mais oui…” she began.

“May we spare you the inconvenience,” broke in Reggie hurriedly. “I am sure everyone here is perfectly happy to take your word on this, old chap, though it is no one else’s business, of course.” He gave Mirielle his best parade-ground frown, but she disregarded him.

“But where…?”  she insisted.

“You know how a kangaroo has a pouch..?” began Mr Squash.

“What’s a kangaroo?” asked Septimus.

The others ignored him.

“Well,” continued Mr Squash, “we Sasquatches have a similar arrangement, but we don’t carry our young in our pouch. It has another function altogether, a little gift from nature, allowing us to safely convey and protect our…”

“Fascinating, fascinating,” broke-in Reggie, once more. “Thank goodness that’s cleared that puzzle up. Now, maybe we should go to…”

“A pouch is a most useful, not to say versatile, thing to possess,” reflected Mr Squash. “You humans have to wear clothes with pockets, or carry bags, whereas we Sasquatches have a built-in safe place to store all sorts of useful things. Oh, that reminds me…”

His hand disappeared into a hitherto unnoticed fold in his fur and, after a certain amount of rummaging, extracted a large slice of starry-grabby-pie. “Philomena gave me this earlier,” he explained, “I don’t really like it. Does anyone want a bite?”

Reggie, Septimus and Mirielle hurriedly thanked him, politely pointing out that they had just eaten and could not possibly manage another thing.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Mr Squash

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Having secretly followed Durosimi O’Stoat into the Underland, Winston Oldspot, Hopeless Maine’s newest Night-Soil Man, found himself in the mysterious Crystal Cave. While Durosimi had mastered some of the secrets of the cave, and could use it as a portal to Elizabethan England, Winston had no such skill, and was, instead, deposited onto a seemingly never ending woodland path. Eventually he came upon a sign informing him that he was walking along something called the Appalachian Trail, and heading for Mount Katahadin, in Maine. This, at least, was good news. Winston knew that he lived on an island in the state of Maine, and reasoned to himself that, in that case, he could not be too far away from Hopeless.

How wrong could he be? The Night-Soil Man had been walking for hours, without food or water. What he had hoped would be a short stroll home had become a gruelling, endless torment. Night had fallen and Winston felt afraid, vulnerable, and – more than anything else – exhausted. He dragged himself into a natural shelf scooped out beneath some tree roots, and fell into a deep, bone-weary, sleep.

Mr Squash had been patrolling parts of the Appalachian Trail pretty much since the very first sections were opened, back in nineteen twenty-three. He had, over the years, walked its entire length at least a hundred times, he reckoned. During that time he had made it his business to look out for the welfare of the trail’s many hikers, and keep them safe from bears, cougars and anything else that might threaten them. Not that everyone was grateful, but that didn’t stop Mr Squash. He had learned that he could be anonymous, keep back in the trees, and still help the folks who walked along the trail. Not all were hikers, though. There were some who came out here to do no more than whoop, bang sticks on the trunks of trees and generally try to raise Cain. Sometimes he had the distinct feeling that they were making all that fuss just to grab his attention. Heck, one or two fools had even been known to pour some sort of white muck into his footprints. Much as he was happy to help anyone, he wasn’t in the business of making friends with them. No sir! He had seen the sort of mess that friendships like that can make too many times.

It was the stink that first grabbed his attention. It reminded Mr Squash of some of the less thoughtful hikers who left their scat uncovered too close to the trail. It was a smell which was pretty much like that, but a hundred times stronger. Not that it bothered him. Smells – natural smells, at any rate – were a fact of life. Why, he had even heard himself described as being smelly. That was rubbish, of course, but this fellow sleeping under the tree roots was more than a little ripe.

I ought to mention that Mr Squash was fully nine feet tall and covered in thick, chestnut-brown hair. His face was neither human, nor ape, but somewhere in between. You could understand why his appearance might cause fear, but it is never wise to judge by outward appearances. Mr Squash had hidden abilities. When he put a huge, leathery hand on Winston’s brow, the young Night-Soil Man’s history was revealed to Mr Squash as easily as if it had been in a book (in fact, as Mr Squash was somewhat less than literate, Winston’s life, revealed in book-form, would have remained a total mystery to him). The Sasquatch, Skunk Ape, Bigfoot, call him what you will (but always Mr Squash to his face, of course) hefted the sleeping Winston into his arms as easily as if he were a feather, and carried him away from the trail to a place where two big old trees had fallen into each other’s branches, like reunited lovers. Their trunks formed an archway, through which Mr Squash carried Winston, and immediately disappeared.

The Night-Soil Man yawned, stretched and lay, for a few moments, with his eyes closed. The soft earth of the cave was beneath him, and he realised, with some relief, that he must have nodded off to sleep when the storm was raging outside. He recalled how he had been plunged into some very strange dreams; dreams that were now quickly fading. With a sigh, he picked up his bucket, secured the lid, and made his way to the cleft in the rocks, which had led him into the cavern. It was still not daylight outside, so he couldn’t have been there for too long.

Mr Squash had been around for too many years not to know where the secret portals lay. How many times had he wandered into a cave, or through some other natural gateway, to find himself far away from his intended destination? This morning, however, he was exactly where he needed to be, looking out onto the island of Hopeless, Maine. He had visited the place a few times before and, quite honestly, was not too fond of it. There were not enough trees here for his liking. But it seemed to be the place where the stinky kid called home, though. Standing in deep shadow he watched Winston make his way along the headland. He felt almost fatherly to the boy. Maybe he would stick around for a while and keep an eye out for him. He knew how hazardous the island could be. But not hazardous for him, of course. Nothing much ever troubled Mr Squash.

Author’s note: As you may know, the Appalachian Trail is about two thousand two hundred miles long. It runs from Georgia to Maine, passing through no less than fourteen states.