The skunk cabbage, as mentioned in this tale, is quite an innocuous-looking thing. In fairness, if prepared correctly it isn’t much of a problem at all.
To prepare it, boil the cabbage whole for an hour. Throw away the water. Do not use the water. Really, don’t, not even if you think it smells acceptable. Wash the cabbage in entirely different water, and then cut it up if you like. Cook it for a further three hours, at least. The results don’t taste of anything much, and tend to be sludgy.
Undercooking a skunk cabbage has consequences.
Inevitably, once children become aware of this, a certain percentage of them will set out to eat raw skunk cabbage, with the intention of causing olfactory distress to those around them. The results can be hideous. Sometimes of course the little dears eat far too much raw cabbage, or turn out to be more sensitive to it than anticipated.
The most usual outcome, aside from utter humiliation, is the necessity of burning anything the child happened to be wearing at the time. Quite possibly anything anyone near the child happened to be wearing at the time as well. Skunk cabbage smells do not wash out, or fade in a timely way.
“Far be it from me to gossip, but he definitely isn’t the same these days,” said Doc Willoughby.
Reverend Davies sniffed. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he muttered.
Doc had imparted the news that a complete change of character had come over Durosimi O’Stoat, following his recent stay in a Tibetan monastery.
“You will believe it, I promise you,” replied Doc. “He is wandering around like a man in a trance, gabbling something incomprehensible, and beaming at everyone.”
“Beaming, you say? That is odd. Maybe the experience of being dragged through that Squash fellow’s portal twice has finally sent him over the edge,” mused the Reverend. “I always said that these occult things that he seems to be obsessed with would be his downfall one day.”
Doc Willoughby was not the only person who had registered a change in Durosimi’s behaviour; he had become the talk of The Squid and Teapot.
“It sounds as though he’s gone quite insane,” said Philomena Bucket.
“Not at all,” replied Reggie Upton. “I would guess that a couple of weeks in a Buddhist monastery up in the Himalayas has revealed more to him than just yak-butter tea and chilblains.”
“Such as?” asked Philomena, who found the prospect of Durosimi’s conversion to Buddhism hard to swallow.
“He has doubtless seen what those monks can achieve through harsh discipline and untold hours of meditation,” said Reggie. “I have never been to Tibet, but I know what those yogi chaps in India can do.”
Reggie paused, and stared into his drink.
“And I also know what I achieved myself, with the help of my dear friend, Annie,” he added.
Benjamin Bencombe opened his mouth to ask what that might be, but a glare from Philomena changed his mind. She knew that Reggie, and the love of his life, Annie Besant, had lost contact since he left India for Africa, and the Boer War. She also knew that Annie, a Theosophist, had taught him how to make a thought-form, a tulpa, in her likeness. More than thirty years had passed since then, and the tulpa – who would always be a young version of Annie – still haunted him.
“So what is that gibberish I’ve heard him spouting?” grinned Septimus Washwell. “Sounds like Oh Mammy something something…”
“That would be Sanskrit, not gibberish,” corrected Reggie. He had not liked the way in which Septimus was making light of this, and there was disapproval in his voice. “And it is a well-known mantra, Om Mani Padme Hum.”
Philomena raised an eyebrow. “And I bet that you’re now going to tell us what that means.”
“Of course,” agreed Reggie. “It translates as something like Behold the Jewel in the Lotus.”
“Speaking as a botanist,” piped up Benjamin Bencombe, at last allowed to speak, “I find it most unlikely that this Durosimi fellow is going to have much luck beholding lotuses on Hopeless, bejewelled or no.”
“There are no lotus flowers to speak of,” laughed Philomena, “but we do have plenty of skunk cabbage.”
“Ah, Symlocarpus foetidus, if I’m not mistaken,” said Benjamin, then added in a low voice, “and I rarely am.”
The speculation regarding Durosimi and his apparent transformation was not completely unfounded, but a changed character he definitely was not – at least, not on the inside. He had seen enough during his sojourn in Tibet to convince him that his own form of sorcery was crude compared with the natural magic of the monks, the result of very many years of discipline and study. Although keen to replicate their feats, Durosimi had no intention of investing any more time into the venture than was strictly necessary. He knew his own strengths, and was convinced that he could master, in just a few weeks, powers that some lamas claimed to have devoted several lifetimes to achieve. Besides, Durosimi was not at all sure that he had several lifetimes at his disposal.
Mr Squash, the Sasquatch, was all too aware of the most recent topic of conversation on the island, and was not happy. He had known Durosimi since the sorcerer was in diapers, and he had never trusted the man. He could only imagine what might happen if Durosimi became proficient in Buddhist magic, which Mr Squash had witnessed with his own eyes, and some of it had terrified even him. He felt responsible, and believed that it was up to him to put things right. He would have to take Durosimi through a portal again, somewhere far away, where he could do no harm… and make sure that the sorcerer never came back.
