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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Offer

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By Martin Pearson

he reality of his situation was gradually dawning upon Septimus Washwell. At twenty-one years of age he was a married man with a child on the way. Had you told him, just a year ago, that he would be saddled with such responsibility in such a short time, he would have laughed in your face. The Septimus of last year was a confirmed bachelor, a free spirit, with a reputation for fighting his way in and out of trouble with monotonous regularity. And then Mirielle D’Illay, of the dance troupe Les Demoiselles de le Moulin Rouge, had come into his life, and his world was turned upside-down. Mirielle had transformed Septimus’ aggressive tendencies into a passion for dancing, much to the surprise of his parents and the amusement of his six brothers.

“Why do you worry so? The baby is not due until just before Christmas. Everything will be okay.”

Mirielle did not like to see her husband quite so distracted.

“But I do worry,” said Septimus. “Having a baby is big. Really, really big.”

“It will be fine,” reassured Mirielle. “Just keep that drunken quack, Doc Willoughby, well away from me, or I will not be responsible for my actions. Philomena has promised to take care of everything.”

“That’s just as well,” said Septimus, “she has helped deliver a few babies since she’s been on the island. What bothers me is how we’re going to manage.”

“The way everyone else does,” said Mirielle, sounding exasperated. “Mon Dieu, your mother had seven children. Do you think she worried about having to manage?”

“Well I want my kid to have the best of everything,” said Septimus.

Bartholomew Middlestreet stood in the cellar of The Squid and Teapot, surrounded by a variety of barrels of all sizes.

“I’m not used to people asking if they can have a barrel of ale,” he said, “especially people like Durosimi O’Stoat.  I can’t imagine why he wants one so much – he’s not known for throwing parties.”

“How big a barrel does he need?” asked Reggie Upton, whose encounters with Durosimi, to date, had not been memorable for their cordiality.

A firkin – that’s nine gallons, and as small as I’ve got,” replied Bartholomew.

“What was it that my prep school teacher used to tell us? A pint of water weighs a pound and a quarter… why, that’s ninety pounds, plus the weight of the barrel,” said Reggie, doing a rapid calculation.

“I hope you’re not expecting me to lug it along to chez Durosimi,” he added. “I am not the man I once was, y’know. I recall an occasion, just after the battle of Spion Kop…”

“No, of course not,” broke in Bartholomew, keen to derail any long anecdote that Reggie might be planning to inflict upon him. “I’m going to ask young Septimus if he’ll wheel it along in the barrow, later.”

“Good show,” said Reggie, “It will give the lad something to do. He’s been moping around a lot lately. Worried about the trials of parenthood, I’d imagine.”

Septimus stood on Durosimi’s doorstep, plucking up the courage to knock on the door. Like most of those who lived on Hopeless, Maine, he regarded Durosimi with a mixture of fear and awe. What was it that people called him? Sorcerer, or something similar. Warlock as well. Septimus knew what they meant. But Philomena had used words he had not heard before; thaumaturgist and necromancer. Were they good or bad?

While contemplating this, Septimus had not noticed that Durosimi had noiselessly opened the door and was standing in front of him.

“Yes?” it was surprising how much menace could be invested in a single syllable.

“Sorry, Mr O’Stoat. I’ve got your ale from The Squid. Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry that you have my ale?”

“Oh, sorry.”

“For goodness sake, stop apologising man, and bring it along to the kitchen.”

Septimus looked at the mud-splattered barrow and decided that wheeling it through the house might not be the popular thing to do.  

Cradling the firkin in his arms, he dutifully followed after Durosimi.

Over the years, Septimus had visited several houses on the island. There was very little variation in their décor and furnishings. Out of necessity islanders depended upon anything that they could salvage to make their homes as comfortable as possible. This often led to some very odd combinations of furniture and fixtures, but these were generally functional and fulfilled a need. Durosimi’s house, however, was like none he had seen before. There were no sea-stained tables and chairs, upturned orange-boxes or cracked plates and mugs. Everything was pristine. Everything looked new and expensive. Septimus gazed, open mouthed; he had no idea that such opulence existed on Hopeless.

“Come on lad. Put the barrel down in the corner,” said Durosimi, then paused.

“You’re not even breaking a sweat,” he said. “That barrel must weigh eighty pounds, at least.”

“A hundred, according to Reggie Upton,” said Septimus, then paled visibly. He would not want Durosimi to think that he was trying to correct him.

“Indeed? You’re a strong fellow, I’ll give you that,” said Durosimi, sounding uncharacteristically pleasant. “You wouldn’t be wanting a job, by any chance?”

“A job? What sort of job.”

“Working for me occasionally. I could use someone like you,” said Durosimi.

“Someone like me?” said Septimus, warily.

“Someone with a bit of strength. I am not as young as I used to be, and some of my transactions… “

He let the sentence trail off, as though he had said too much.

“Look,” he went on. “I know you’ll have a growing family to support soon…”

“How do you… ?” began Septimus, but Durosimi held up his hand to silence him.

“Just hear me out. I saw you casting covetous eyes over the modest possessions I have in my parlour. Things like those could be yours, for no more than a few hour’s work occasionally.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” said Durosimi. “But you must tell no one. Not even that pretty little French bride of yours.”

The hair on Septimus’ neck prickled. Durosimi seemed to know more about him than he was comfortable with. But all the same…

“What do I need to do?” he asked.

“Nothing at the moment. I’ll send for you in a few days… and yes, I know where you live. I will be in touch with you soon, and remember – tell no one.” 

“He will do nicely,” Durosimi thought to himself, with a mirthless smile, as he watched Septimus make his way down the hill. “Strong in the arm, and not too much in his head. Perfect!”

To   be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

What is The Squid and Teapot?

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If you’re a regular reader of this blog you’ll be aware that Martin Pearson’s Tales from The Squid and Teapot are a Tuesday feature. This has been a thing for such a long time now that it seemed a good idea to take a moment for the project as a whole.

In terms of the island setting, The Squid and Teapot is the name of the pub. Said pub is down near the harbour, and is often the first port of call for people who have survived shipwrecking. It’s a friendly, well meaning sort of space, in that the ghosts are friendly, the tentacles can be very friendly, especially with unsuspecting ankles and oddly enough not everyone feels instantly comfortable with this.

Tales from The Squid and Teapot are a mix of things – some are stories set around this location, and others are the sorts of stories regulars might amuse each other with over a large glass of something murky and fermenting. The tales have their own established cast, and also involve characters from the graphic novel series.

You’ll find The Squid and Teapot in other stories too – while the pub is the invention of Martin Pearson, it’s become an important part of island life and lots of other contributors like to refer to it. This may say some things about the natural affinity Hopeless, Maine people have for places selling that which claims to be beer.

While we do have some photographic evidence of Martin Pearson, his preference is not to have that shared too much, which is also why you haven’t seen him at any of the online festivals. In terms of words on this blog he is without a doubt the most prolific contributor. Zero effort has been made to figure out if that changes when you add in Nimue’s novellas to the equation, but we can say with confidence that it’s not clear.

If you’ve ever read The Squid and Teapot and thought that Martin’s writing style is a bit like Nimue’s, you’d be close. It would be fairer to say that Nimue’s writing style is a bit like Martin’s and that he’s very much been an influence on both her writing style and her interest in getting into writing in the first place.

(The Squid and teapot photo above are also Martin’s.)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Unhappy Medium

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Drury, the skeletal hound, was curled up contentedly on an old blanket in the corner of the Night-Soil Man’s cottage, affectionately known to all as ‘The House at Poo Corner’.

As far as Drury was concerned, all was right with the world.  To all intents and purposes Philomena Bucket had stopped wasting her time worrying about being a powerful witch, or getting married, and was once more ensconced behind the bar of The Squid and Teapot. Even better, Rhys Cranham was back in his rightful place, servicing the cess-pits and outdoor privies of the islanders of Hopeless Maine. All thoughts of marriage appeared to have left them both, at least for the time being. The status quo had been restored to Drury’s satisfaction.

Rhys looked down fondly at the bony old hound. It would soon be time to drag on his boots, strap on the lidded bucket and once more venture out into the darkness. Doubtless, Drury would accompany him, as he did on most nights. Rhys could not help wondering how things would have changed, had his and Philomena’s wedding plans come to fruition. The role of Night-Soil Man had taken up half of his life, first as apprentice to Shenandoah Nailsworthy, then, after Shenandoah’s death, as Night-Soil Man in his own right. Would he have coped with married life? He had no idea; it might have been a disaster. After leaving the Pallid Rock Orphanage, the night soil business was all that he had ever known. It was probably best not to dwell on the question. Happily, Philomena was still a good friend, leaving a couple of bottles of Old Colonel and a wedge of starry-grabby pie on his doorstep every evening.

Despite the all-pervading misery that seemed to seep into every nook and cranny of the island, The Squid and Teapot generally managed to maintain its reputation for good cheer. A visitor could always expect a warm welcome and, more often as not, entertainment, of a sort. Tonight the venerable Bell-Edison phonograph, which always added a frisson of excitement to proceedings, had been taken out to provide the music for Les Demoiselles de Hopeless, Maine, the troupe of Moulin Rouge dancers who had been shipwrecked on the island a year or so earlier. To the strains of Offenbach’s Infernal Galop (or ‘The Can-Can’ to most of us) the aforementioned young ladies performed their ever-popular routine to an appreciative audience. By a strange coincidence, whenever Les Demoiselles performed in the inn, some of those who rarely patronised the establishment found themselves with a pressing need to pay it a visit.

“Reverend Davies, we don’t often see you in here,” said Bartholomew Middlestreet, with no surprise in his voice whatsoever.

“Quite so,” said the Reverend importantly. “I’ve come to see Miss Bucket, if that is convenient.”

He failed to mention that he had already seen Philomena; she had been walking in the opposite direction.

“Sorry Reverend, she’s out at the moment and won’t be back for a while. She said she needed an hour or so to herself.”

“That’s a shame,” replied Davies unconvincingly. “I can’t wait an hour, but as long as I’m here I may as well have a small drink and watch the… er… cabaret.”

Philomena walked purposefully towards the Gydynap Hills. She was troubled and needed to be far away from other people for a while. Despite the hazards of venturing out into the night on Hopeless, Philomena never felt herself to be in danger. It seemed that the ghost of Granny Bucket was right – or maybe she was just lucky.

Granny, and Philomena’s friend, Doctor John Dee, had both impressed upon her that she possessed great magical ability. Unfortunately, Granny was no longer haunting her and John Dee had returned to Elizabethan England. This was bad enough, but to make things worse, her marriage to Rhys Cranham had been called off, following the violent death of his apprentice, Naboth Scarhill. Philomena felt horribly alone in the world and this feeling that her magic was growing more powerful by the day was not helping. She had never been comfortable having the dubious gift of ‘The Sight’, but now it was as if she had been given an even more burdensome gift, like that of some great wild animal, which she had no idea how to tame. If only Granny was here to help. Philomena sat down on the grass and wept in the misty darkness.

“Are you okay?”

Philomena had not heard the young woman approach.

“Oh, yes, I’m fine. Just being silly,” said Philomena, wiping her eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it? I can sit with you for a while. I’m Marigold. Marigold Burleigh.”

“Ah. You’ll be the nurse I heard tell of. Sit, by all means, but I don’t need to talk, honestly” replied Philomena.

She had no idea why she was being so cautious, but somewhere, deep inside Philomena, alarm bells were ringing.

Trickster could feel subtle changes happening to the meat-suit already. That was a pity. He was enjoying being female and they usually lasted longer than this. The other one, the young man Linus, had given him months of wear. On reflection, Linus had resisted and done his best to get rid of Trickster. He had rarely been sober; that probably had some bearing on things. Anyway, all that was in the past, and this girl was not going to hold together for very much longer; he needed someone new to possess.

“That’s fine,” said Marigold, sweetly, “but I’d quite like us to be friends. How about you and I go for a quiet walk in the moonlight? I’m sure we’ll be safe enough if we’re careful.”

She offered the crook of her arm to Philomena, who took it warily.

“Gotcha!” thought Trickster

To be continued…

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What Every Ghost Should Know

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Sixteen can be a difficult age. For Naboth Scarhill things had escalated from being somewhat difficult to becoming annoyingly complicated when he discovered that he was dead. It was not the business of not being alive that concerned him particularly. To begin with he had tried to look on the bright side. At least there was no more work to do, his days and nights unhindered by the niggly little inconveniences that bother the rest of us, smug in the knowledge that our mortal coils are as yet unshuffled. There was no one to berate him for leaving his clothes on the bedroom floor, or neglecting to put the toilet seat down, or forgetting to wash behind his ears, all things that the average sixteen-year old boy might be forgiven for not doing. He found that there was no great joy to be had, even if he decided to revel in this new-found freedom. It would have meant nothing, for Naboth was now a ghost, an apparition as insubstantial as the grey mist that lingered sullenly over the island of Hopeless, Maine.

Being murdered is not at all pleasant. There is more to it than simply having one’s life taken away; there is the sense of being targeted and knowing that someone, somewhere has gone to the trouble of singling you out for a particularly unpleasant method of extermination. It is, indeed, a dreadful thing. More dreadful still, however, is when your violent death has been brought about by a case of mistaken identity. Can you imagine it? Oh, the injustice of it all, especially when you are, or, more correctly, were, just sixteen with the exciting promise of life sitting before you like a map, waiting to be unfolded. This left the shade that was Naboth raging and howling through the night, intent on revenge but having no idea how to exact it.

He had learned from Marigold Burleigh – whom, regular readers may have gathered, had been possessed by the recently returned Trickster – that his death had been caused by a vicious thought form, conjured by Durosimi O’Stoat. In the dim chaos of its mind the thought form only knew that it was to kill the Night-Soil Man, a post that Naboth had held for just one day. You can see why he was not best pleased.  Now the angry spirit of Naboth Scarhill desired nothing more than vengeance, and to see Durosimi suffer horribly. The drawback to this plan was that, while Naboth had both a voice and ghostly presence, he had no power to inflict physical harm upon anyone. When he burst into Durosimi’s home and tried to frighten the sorcerer, the only reaction was scorn.

“You cannot frighten me, you deluded fool,” scoffed Durosimi, derisively. “I have consorted with dæmons, ghouls and foul creatures of the pit, each more hideous than you can imagine. Do you think some stunted phantom muck-shoveller is likely to concern me? Now clear off, go and haunt one of your vile cess-pools. That’s all you’re good for!” 

To say that Naboth was taken aback by this response would be an understatement. It had always been his understanding that almost everyone is frightened by ghosts, and even those who aren’t would not be so dismissive of an obviously angry spirit. He needed to go away and think of what to do.

It was a few nights later when he next appeared in Durosimi’s parlour, screeching, wailing and banging his bucket lid up and down.

“Go away, little man,” said Durosimi languidly. “Did you not hear me the first time? I am not scared one iota by you.”

“Fair enough,” replied Naboth, between wails. “But I ain’t going nowhere. I’m going to haunt you every night. You’ll get no rest from me…Oooooooooooooooh.”

And so, for night after night, over the next two weeks, Naboth made Durosimi’s life a misery, until, out of the blue, the sorcerer said,

“Alright, I give up. I apologise for killing you. Now please go away.”

“No chance,” said Naboth, “you’re stuck with me. Dusk until dawn for the rest of your days… oooooooooooweeeeeeeeeee.”

A few more nights passed by in this way, until it seemed that Durosimi had really had enough. Clapping his hands over his ears he ran like someone possessed, out into the darkness.

“I cannot stand this anymore,” he wailed, “I’ve got get away from this awful noise before it drives me mad.”

Delighted, Naboth chased after him, through the trees and out into the folds of the Gydynaps, banging his bucket lid for all he was worth and screeching like a banshee. This was more like it!

Durosimi ran frantically into a dark, yawning cavern etched into the side of the hill. Enjoying his new-found power, Naboth followed.

“Enough, I beg you stop,” cried Durosimi, holding out his hands, as if in supplication.

“Never!” laughed Naboth, “I’ll never give you any peace… ooooooooaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrggggghhhh”

‘His wailings are becoming ridiculously theatrical,’ mused Durosimi to himself, then, quite unexpectedly, washed the cavern in a ghastly green light, and smiled unpleasantly at Naboth.

“This is one I made earlier,” he said, sprinkling a handful of salt on to the floor, and completing the circle into which the spectral Night-Soil Man had drifted.

“Try and get out, by all means, but I can assure you that you won’t, not as long as the salt circle is unbroken. This is something that every ghost should know. Oh, and by the way, just in case that bony mutt, Drury, comes looking for you, I’m going to block up the entrance when I leave. Goodnight dear boy. Enjoy Eternity.”

And with that Durosimi was gone and the cavern was plunged once more into darkness, save for the faint luminesce that hung about Naboth, eerily reflecting on the ring of salt that encircled him.

In the distance he heard the tumble of rocks, rigged earlier that day to block the cavern’s mouth.

Philomena Bucket laid a basket on the doorstep of The House at Poo Corner. As usual she had brought Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, his supper of starry-grabby pie and two bottles of Old Colonel, courtesy of The Squid and Teapot. Rhys would always consume this half-way through his round, often giving a scrap or two to Drury, whose attempts at eating always ended with the chewed food dropping through his skeletal frame on to the ground, later to be enjoyed once more, but this time by the crows.

Tonight Philomena discovered that Rhys had left her a letter. Intrigued, she picked it up to peruse later, in flickering candlelight, back in her room at The Squid and Teapot.

“My Dear Philly, I hope you are well. I am just letting you know that the troubled spirit of poor Naboth seems to have disappeared. I have not seen him for some time now. I think, maybe, he has come to terms with his dreadful fate and has found some peace at last… “

There were some loving words following this, but these are for Rhys and Philomena’s eyes only.

The barmaid read the note once more. Had Naboth really found peace? The old magic that resided deep within Philomena stirred restlessly.

Something was definitely wrong.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Case of Mistaken Identity

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“God’s wounds! What treachery is the knave up to now?” John Dee gazed intently into the obsidian scrying bowl, casually picking egg yolk from his beard at the same time.

Several hundred years and three thousand miles were the only obstacles separating Dee from the object of his attention. Ever since leaving Hopeless, Maine, with little idea how he might return, the Royal Astrologer to the court of Queen Elizabeth had made it his business to keep an eye on the goings-on of the island through the agency of his scrying bowl.

“I’m blowed if I know, doctor,” said the ghost of Granny Bucket, quietly hovering over the astrologer’s shoulder.

The pair had been watching the somewhat confusing antics of Durosimi O’Stoat. Peering into the dark waters of the obsidian bowl they had witnessed him cast some manner of enchantment over Drury, the skeletal hound, which had left the dog endlessly chasing phantom spoonwalkers around the Gydynap Hills.

“But I’ll try and find out,” Granny added. “I’ve got to get back for Philomena’s wedding soon, anyway.”

“Yes, of course, you must,” said Dee. “Be sure to convey my best wishes to the happy couple.”

“I will,” said Granny, “but I can’t leave until you do your banishing spell. You were the one who invoked me – remember?”

“Oh, silly me,” laughed Dee, “I have so enjoyed your being here that it slipped my mind completely. It has been good keeping up with the island’s gossip, Mistress Bucket; you must come back soon.”

“I intend to, doctor. You just cast the spell, and I’ll be with you. Now, in the meantime, if you’ll be kind enough to banish me, I’ll get back to Hopeless.”

Had either been aware of the sorcerer’s intentions, they would each have been incandescent with impotent rage. Durosimi had kept the osseous hound busy chasing spoonwalker thought forms in order to create a vicious killer; a killer who stalked the Hopeless night in the guise of Drury. In truth, the effort of controlling the creature had nearly been Durosimi’s downfall, but in the end he had prevailed and sent it out into the foggy darkness with one simple instruction: Destroy the Night-Soil Man.

The morning of Philomena Bucket’s marriage to Rhys Cranham dawned grey and misty, as did most mornings on the island of Hopeless. Rhys had very recently given up the role of Night-Soil Man, solemnly handing over the lidded bucket and long-handled shovel to his apprentice, Naboth Scarhill. With the prospect of a lifetime of married bliss stretching before him, Rhys had spent his last evening as a single man with his friend, Norbert Gannicox, owner of the Gannicox Distillery. It would not be unreasonable to believe that the night had been spent in wild carousing, given the surroundings, but the truth was that Norbert never drank strong liquor, except for the odd occasions when Bartholomew Middlestreet had led him to believe that beer didn’t count as an alcoholic beverage. It was, therefore, in a state of clear-headed sobriety that Rhys awoke early and decided to wander along to his old home, The House at Poo Corner, and see how Naboth was managing with his new-found responsibilities.

Rhys was just a few hundred yards from the Night-Soil Man’s abode when he saw a familiar shape loping along towards him.

“Hi – Drury, you old scoundrel, what have you got in your mouth?” he called cheerfully, but the dog took no notice of him. This behaviour was odd; Drury and Rhys had been good friends for years, spending many happy hours wandering the island together.

As the bony hound rattled by, ignoring him completely, Rhys could see that hanging from his mouth was a human limb of some sort. It looked remarkably like an arm, fresh and bloody. The day was getting weirder by the minute. Where had he found that?

Rhys had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach as he made his way towards the spot, out towards the headland, where he had first noticed Drury lurking.

Lying on the ground was something that used to have a human shape, but now was mangled out of all recognition into a bloody scattering of severed limbs and half-chewed viscera. Only the upturned bucket, with its foul contents spilled on to the rocks, gave any clue as to the identity of the victim.

Rhys stood frozen to the ground, staring in shocked silence and hardly able to give credit to the grisly tableau before him.

Although the morning was still barely light outside, The Squid and Teapot was already a hive of activity. While Bartholomew busied himself laying out trestle tables and chairs for the wedding reception, his wife Ariadne was fussing around Philomena, trying to persuade her to put curlers in her hair and generally aim to be a little more glamorous than usual.

“I’ll be fine as I am,” laughed Philomena, “Rhys won’t recognise the woman he’s marrying if I do all that. By the way,” she added, “have you seen anything of Drury? He was nowhere to be found yesterday and it’s concerning me a bit.”

“Don’t get stressed about Drury,” admonished Ariadne, “you’ve got enough to worry about, without that as well. Anyway, that old hound is well able to look after himself.”

Suddenly, a frantic banging on the door of the inn made everyone start in alarm. Who could be calling at this hour? It was with no small amount of trepidation that Ariadne pulled the door open and peeked around it.

“Rhys, whatever is the matter?” she asked, opening the door a little wider, “You can’t be here, not this morning. It’s unlucky for a groom to see his bride before the wedding.”

Philomena pushed Ariadne aside, sensing that there was a problem. Her fears were confirmed, just by looking at her husband-to-be. Rhys was ashen-faced and trembling.

“There will be no wedding today,” he sobbed. “Maybe not at all…”

Philomena could only stare in silence, her mouth suddenly dry.

“It’s Naboth, he’s dead, Philomena,” stammered Rhys. “He’s been ripped to pieces… and I think that Drury did it.”

“No… not Drury. He wouldn’t… not old Drury,” she said, bewildered.

“I saw him. He was carrying… oh, it’s too horrible.”

With some difficulty Bartholomew managed to persuade his wife that, if there was to be no wedding that day, it was permissible to admit Rhys into the inn. Ariadne knew that it was perverse to be worrying about bad luck, given the circumstances, but she had always been a stickler for tradition.

Rhys slumped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. Philomena rested a tentative hand upon his shoulder.

“There is no one to cover the Night-Soil Man’s duties, any more,” said Rhys, in a flat voice. “I’m the only person on the island who knows what to do. I’m sorry Philomena… the island can’t manage without the services of a Night-Soil Man; I’m going to have to go back.”

Philomena nodded, too upset to speak.

“Maybe in another year or so… if I can get another apprentice. Although, I’ve lost two now. I think I must be jinxed.”

Some hours after Rhys had left, and Philomena had shed enough tears to fill a tankard, she found herself sitting in her room, alone on what should have been her wedding night. Her thoughts strayed to the events of the day, and the part that Drury had apparently played in viciously destroying both Naboth and her future happiness.

“Oh, Drury,” she muttered to herself, “How can I… how can any of us ever forgive you.”

“I am so sorry that the lad has died and your day has been ruined, but don’t blame the dog too quickly,” said a familiar voice.

Philomena turned to see the ghost of Granny Bucket sitting on the end of the bed.

“Granny…?”

The old lady’s ghost shimmered faintly in the dimming light.

“Philomena, all is not always as it appears,” she said. “You really need to go and speak to Doctor Dee.”

“Doctor Dee? But how…?” began Philomena, but Granny Bucket had vanished into the ether before the question was formed.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Little Touch of Drury in the Night

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Durosimi O’Stoat stared gloomily through his window; outside, Drury, the osseous hound, was rattling happily along, having spent a rewarding couple of hours chasing spoonwalkers.

“Blasted dog!” muttered Durosimi to himself. “He gets on my nerves. He’s always hanging around and causing trouble.”

While no one could reasonably argue with Durosimi’s assessment of Drury, on this occasion the dog could not be held totally responsible for the black mood currently spoiling his evening. For that he squarely – and quite unjustly – blamed the sixteenth-century visitor to Hopeless, Doctor John Dee.

You may remember that, in order to get Dee’s attention, Durosimi had attempted to abduct Philomena Bucket. This had failed dismally and, to make matters worse, he had no memory of exactly what had happened. One minute he was confronting Philomena, and the next thing he knew was that several hours had slipped by, and he was propped up against his own front door. It was obvious to Durosimi that some sort of sorcery had been employed and, as far as he knew, the only person capable of such a feat would be John Dee. Despite Dee having protested, on several earlier occasions, that he was not a magician, Durosimi chose to disbelieve him. What he did not know was that any magic being wielded in the Town Hall, on the night of the Beltane Extravaganza, was exclusively Philomena’s, and his threat had been the spur that had brought it to full and spectacular fruition. It was to Philomena’s great surprise when she successfully repelled his advances and sent him hurtling along the length of the Town Hall. The force stunned him so completely that he could not even remember struggling to his feet and staggering home afterwards.

It was almost dusk, and John Dee was sitting on a bench outside The Squid and Teapot, gazing up at the soft, pallid lights of the gnii, fluttering high above. Drury clattered up to him, his bony tail wagging furiously. How times change. Just a few weeks earlier, when they first met, Dee was convinced that he was looking at a Hell-Hound, come to drag him and his heresies into the fiery depths of the Underworld. Now he knew that Drury was no more than a regular, friendly dog, albeit one who refused to recognise that he had died many years earlier.

“God’s wounds, I’ll miss these evenings, when I go home again, Drury,” Dee said sadly. “Deep in my bones, I can feel that my own time is trying to drag me back.”

Drury cocked his head, apparently listening intently as the elderly Elizabethan poured out his woes.

“You have no idea of the pressure I’m under,” confided Dee. “Do you know, I had to make an astrological chart to forecast the most propitious time for the Queen’s coronation. Can you imagine what would have happened if I had got wrong? It would have been the Tower, for me, for sure. Oh… I could put up with the fog, the eyes in the sky and those things with tentacles, if I could only stay. But I suppose there is my wife and children; I should take them into account…”

Despite being in his sixties, Dee had married the much-younger Jane Fromond some ten years earlier, and now had eight children to support. They would certainly miss him if he remained on Hopeless.

Drury snuffled and leaned against Dee’s legs. Did he have any idea of what was being said? Your guess is as good as mine, but if nothing else, he was a good listener.

“But enough of my rambling,” said Dee, stoically. “Come on, old friend, let us go into the inn, where I might be persuaded to immerse my sorrows in some of Master Middlestreet’s finest ales.”

For the islanders of Hopeless, the novelty of having a sixteenth-century alchemist wandering around had worn off after the first couple of weeks. Much to his relief, these days Doctor Dee was greeted like any other regular patron of the inn. He settled himself in the snug, ordered a tankard of Old Colonel, and fell into conversation with Norbert Gannicox.

Drury ambled off to the kitchen, where Philomena had just taken a batch of Starry-Grabby pies out of the oven.

“I’m going to take one of these over to Rhys Cranham,” she said, putting a steaming pie into a basket, where it kept two bottles of ale company. “Coming?”

Drury did not need to be asked twice. Joining the Night-Soil man on his rounds was one of the dog’s favourite pastimes, second only to chasing spoonwalkers.

As they made their way to The House at Poo Corner (The official residence of every Night-Soil Man), Philomena allowed herself to voice her concerns to Drury, confident that her secrets would be safe with him.

“This magic business is a worry,” she said. “I have no idea what I’m doing. It seems that I’m last in a long line of witches. Me! Would you believe it, Drury?”

Drury would believe anything that Philomena told him. In his eyes she could say or do no wrong.

“It’s this ‘last-in-line’ bit that troubles me, really,” she said. “After all, if I’ve got a bit of magic floating about inside me, then it’s my choice what I do with it. But, whether I choose to use magic or not, it seems wrong that after a thousand years or more it should have to stop with me. That’s a terrible responsibility to burden a girl with.”

Philomena stopped and looked at her bony companion, who immediately sat obediently at her feet.

“I don’t know if I’d be happy to settle down and have a family,” she said to him. “What do you think, Drury?”

As if in reply, the dog stood up and shook himself.

They walked on in silence, Philomena lost in her own thoughts. Arriving at the Night-Soil Man’s cottage, she lay the basket carefully on the doorstep.

“Ah Rhys,” she said quietly to herself, “I wonder what our futures might have been, if you were anything other than a Night-Soil Man.”

The faithful hound, mindful of the dangers that may be lurking in the darkness, dutifully accompanied Philomena back to The Squid. No sooner had she crossed the threshold of the inn than Drury turned around and raced back to Poo Corner, eager to join Rhys before the Night-Soil Man left on his rounds.

Rhys was already at his door, loading the contents of the basket into his knapsack.

“Who could ask for more than a fresh-baked Starry-Grabby pie and a couple of bottles of Old Colonel?” he asked, with a smile.

“Drury,” Rhys added earnestly, “You and I both think that Philomena Bucket is nothing short of wonderful – agreed? Maybe it’s high time for me to look for another apprentice, seeing that my first one turned into a seal! Perhaps one day I could follow in the footsteps of Randall Middlestreet, the only Night-Soil Man to retire and raise a family. I wonder if Philomena would say ‘Yes’? What do you reckon, old fellow?”

Drury wagged his tail and barked enthusiastically. He knew the answer to that, for certain.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

There’s No Place Like Hopeless

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Doctor John Dee sat in the bar of The Squid and Teapot, happily chatting to his friends, Norbert Gannicox, Seth Washwell and Bartholomew Middlestreet. Occasionally Philomena Bucket would bustle by with a tray loaded with foaming tankards of Old Colonel and platters of Starry-Grabby pie, while Drury, the osseous hound, lay in front of the fireplace, resembling nothing more than a pile of discarded bones. Over the previous few days Dee had enjoyed a stimulating conversation with the shade of Father Ignatius Stamage, the Jesuit priest who quietly haunted a corner of The Squid, and a surreal encounter with Lady Margaret D’Avening, the phantom Headless Lady who occasionally manifested in the inn’s flushing privy. This was, indeed, the strangest of places, but Dee had no great wish to hurry back to Tudor England, where a wrong word or spiteful allegation could bring imprisonment, torture or an agonising death. Good Queen Bess could be as unforgiving and ruthless as her father, the much-wed Henry, when the mood was upon her, and her spymaster, Francis Walsingham, had eyes and ears everywhere.  No, this island of Hopeless, for all of its attendant horrors and privations, could teach sixteenth century England a thing or two about the rights of man.

There was one fly the proverbial ointment, however; Durosimi O’Stoat. During his lifetime John Dee had come across a lot of men like Durosimi – in fact one or two of these had also been named O’Stoat – and each, without fail, had self-interest as their single driving force. His position as Court Astrologer and fame in the field of alchemy had drawn these people to him, and now, hundreds of years later, it was his reputation that had attracted Durosimi. Dee smiled to himself. While it was cheering to learn that his legacy would be remembered far into the future, it was baffling, as well. Durosimi, like many others, was under the impression that Dee was some great sorcerer with dark and mysterious magical powers. The truth was that, having tried a few unsuccessful experiments, he knew that he had no magic; undeterred, however, he continued to possess a keen, not to say dangerous, interest in all aspects of the natural, and supernatural, worlds. Other than studying the heavens, taking part in the occasional séance and having an aptitude for scrying, he was very much like any other man of rank of his time, except that he was much, much cleverer than most, and he knew it. That’s how he had stayed alive for over sixty years.  

 “Another drink, Doctor?” asked Bartholomew, raising a hand to catch Philomena’s attention. Before he could reply, a pitcher was placed on the table and his tankard refilled. This ale was considerably stronger than that which he was used to, and John Dee was beginning to feel somewhat inebriated.

“I do not like Durosimi O’Stoat,” he suddenly declared, his voice slightly slurred. “I believe him to be a rogue and a scoundrel.”

Seth, Norbert and Bartholomew looked uncomfortably at each other. None would have disagreed with this sentiment, but would never have dared put it into words, especially in so public a setting.

“You see,” continued Dee, “he wants me to go back… go back to Elizabeth’s reign and take him with me. Ha! The fool does not know that I cannot do that, even if I wanted to.”

Dee regarded his friends fondly with glazed, moist eyes and patted Norbert reassuringly on the shoulder.

“And believe me, my most faithful of comrades, I have no wish… no wish at all to leave this most magical of islands…”

With that he belched, smiled weakly, then slid gently off his chair and under the table.  

“Methinks the doctor has overindulged in Hopeless hospitality,” said Seth with a grin.

“Well… if living in Hopeless is a better deal than being in his own time, it must be pretty awful there,” observed Norbert.

“At least we don’t hang, draw and quarter people,” broke in Philomena, who had come to clear the table, then added, “so much for Merrie England!”

“It couldn’t have been all bad,” said Bartholomew, “but like it or not, at some point he’s going to have to return. I looked him up in one of the encyclopaedias up in the attic. By my reckoning he’s got a lot to do at home and another twenty years to do it in. Let’s give him as good a time as we can while he’s here, because, one way or another, he’ll be whisked back to his own time without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“Then maybe we should start by getting him off the floor and into his bed,” said Philomena.

Doctor Dee woke with a headache. He could only imagine that the fog outside had somehow seeped into his brain. Fortunately, a crate of coffee beans had washed up on the beach just a week previously, enabling Philomena to make the doctor the finest hangover cure that she knew. It was with no little trepidation that Dee sampled the dark brew over breakfast. At first he pulled a disgusted face, but as the invigorating effects of the caffeine coursed through his body, he brightened visibly. Doctor Dee decided, there and then, that he liked coffee and would make a point of obtaining more of it (sadly for him, however, he would be dead for forty years before the exotic brew would eventually be brought to Europe).

Meanwhile, on a part of the island far less welcoming than the well-lit warmth and hospitality of The Squid and Teapot, Durosimi O’Stoat sat in his austere study and contemplated the problem of how to wheedle knowledge from Doctor Dee. The man had obviously been lying when he said that he had no idea how he had arrived on the island, and that he had no magic to help him. It was well known that Dee was a powerful sorcerer.  Durosimi was also aware that magicians were renowned for being secretive; in fact, none more so than Durosimi himself.  One way or another he would extract Dee’s knowledge from him, even if it meant chaining him up indefinitely.

Durosimi smiled unpleasantly. A sudden thought had occurred to him. Dee had made no secret of the affection that he felt for the Bucket woman, the Irish barmaid who skivvied in The Squid and Teapot. Maybe she could be the tasty morsel of bait which would hook Doctor Dee in once and for all.

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Just One Thing After Another…

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Doctor John Dee, Astrologer Royal, alchemist and occasional necromancer, still cut a handsome figure, despite his years.

This was not the first thought that entered Philomena Bucket’s head as she looked about her. When she had embarked upon a stroll through the tunnels, deep beneath The Squid and Teapot, with Norbert Gannicox, Bartholomew Middlestreet and the now-absent Drury, the osseous hound, she little thought that she would find herself in Tudor England before the day was out. But here they were, and standing before them was the man who had introduced himself as Doctor John Dee. Famous as Dee had become, however, none of the tunnel-explorers had heard his name before, but the décor of the room in which they stood gave every clue as to his many interests.  His shelves were filled with a variety of impressive-looking instruments, which had they known it, could have been identified as astrolabes, armillary spheres, quadrants and sextants, to name but a few. Skeletons of various birds and animals hung from the rafters (Philomena half-expected to see Drury amongst them) while malformed foetuses, preserved reptiles and human brains lurked worryingly in heavy glass jars. Every wall was festooned with a series of anatomical, astrological, alchemical and nautical charts, whilst books from his large library were piled on every available surface. Here was clutter indeed, but clutter of an infinitely superior nature to any found on the island of Hopeless, Maine.

If the three had found the contents of Dee’s study to be strange, they found his accent stranger, though perfectly intelligible. After all, he was a highly educated man who spoke the English of Shakespeare (although, I suspect he never knowingly conversed in iambic pentameters). Above all, John Dee was courteous to his unexpected visitors.

“Welcome to my humble home,” he said, spreading his arms expansively. No sooner were the words out of his mouth, however, than the fabric of the room seemed to dissolve around them, with Dee looking even more surprised than the others. They were falling, falling through a kaleidoscope of people and places, light and darkness, until things began to slow and gloom gave way to brilliant sunshine…

“Stowaways in the jolly boat” cried a harsh voice, and Philomena found herself being dragged by the arms on to the deck of a large sailing ship. A throng of rough and unkempt men had gathered about them.  

“What have we here then? Who’s the geezer in the frock?”  

Philomena thought the speaker was referring to her, but realised that everyone’s attention was focussed on John Dee, tall, bearded and stately in his long velvet robe. Despite his discomfort at being addressed so, the alchemist managed to remain dignified.

“Never mind him,” said another voice, “look what I’ve found!”

Now it was Philomena’s turn to be the centre of attention. She spun around and, with her free hand, hit her captor hard in the face. The experiences of the day so far had given her a sense of unreality, and so she was surprised when he hit her back, and it hurt.

“Tricky little vixen,” said a cultured British voice. “I think I had best take charge now, don’t you bosun?”

The newcomer, obviously the captain, took hold of Philomena, securing both of her arms in his firm hands.

“What about the others, Cap’n Vane,” asked the bosun, still hoping that the woman might be passed around after the captain had finished with her.

“Fish food. That’s all they’re good for,” Charles Vane replied, with a dismissive gesture

A cheer went up, and Bartholomew, Norbert and Doctor Dee found themselves being pushed towards the side of the ship.

“This can’t be happening,” thought Philomena, somewhat prophetically, for it suddenly was not happening. The astonished captives saw the ship and its crew disappear before their very eyes, and once more they were falling through time and space into a field of smoke and noise…

Captain Louis Nolan could not believe his eyes.  He was leading a hare-brained cavalry dash into the jaws of death, and four civilians had suddenly appeared in their way, as if from nowhere. It would take the horsemen very little time to cover the mile-and-a-half to reach their objective, and these four, if they didn’t get blown to bits by cannon-fire, would be trampled underfoot in less than a minute.

John Dee could only think that he had died and gone to Hell. The previous episode had been bad enough, but now he appeared to be witnessing warfare between two sets of demons. The ones on horseback would soon be upon them, with their brazen hooves and flashing swords and spears. He closed his eyes and wished that he had spent his life dabbling in less heretical pursuits.

Was there a man dismayed? I’ll say there was. And a woman. Philomena, Norbert and Bartholomew stood huddled and totally bewildered by their predicament. There were cannon to the right of them, cannon to the left of them, and hundreds of stampeding horses with armed soldiers on their backs bearing down at great speed. Taking Dee’s lead, they closed their eyes and prayed to who – or whatever might be listening.

Captain Nolan, still leading the charge, veered his horse to the left in a noble attempt to avoid careering into the four. He paid for this manoeuvre by catching a Russian bullet in the neck. As he fell, dying, from his steed it crossed his mind that he had been mistaken. The way ahead was clear. The four had disappeared. No one had been impeding charge of the Light Brigade.

This time the travellers knew what to expect, and gave in with grace to the sensation of falling. Whatever was causing these things seemed to be kind enough to remove them, in the nick of time, from the scrape they found themselves in, but the trepidation of not knowing what horrors awaited was still unnerving.

The auditorium of Ford’s Theatre, in Washington was hushed, the lights dimmed and the orchestra struck up ‘Hail to the Chief’, a tune unfamiliar to the party of four who found themselves in very plush and comfortable surroundings for once.

“There must be someone important watching this play tonight,” said Norbert, as the audience burst into cheers and applause as the final strains died away. They craned their heads to see who the ovation might be for, when the spotlight fell upon a box at the side of the auditorium, where a tall, spare-framed man had got to his feet, his hand raised in acknowledgement. Philomena thought dimly that she recognised the lean, bearded face.

The play was fairly tedious, but when the heroine of the piece asked for a seat, away from the draught, and the hero responded, to a certain amount of polite laughter,

“The draft has already been stopped, by orders of the president.”

The President! Philomena sat up straight, and realised, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, exactly where they were.

“We need to be out of here,” she said to the others, urgently. “There will be trouble before long, and with the way things have been going, we’ll be drawn into it.”

“That will make a change,” said Norbert drily. “Where’s the exit?”

Just then they heard a bark.

“Since when do they allow dogs in theatres?” asked Bartholomew, then turned to see a familiar bony figure standing in the corner.

“Drury!” exclaimed Philomena.

“It’s the Hell-Hound,” wailed Dee, shrinking back into his seat and receiving some irate ‘shushes’ for his trouble.

“Grab him and let’s go” said Philomena.

Norbert and Bartholomew took the reluctant alchemist by the armpits and manhandled him to the back of the theatre, where Drury was waiting.

“Quick,” hissed Philomena, and they fled through a curtained opening, Dee still complaining about Hell-Hounds, just as a shot was fired.

The air behind the curtain was cold but welcoming.

“We’re back in the tunnels,” said Norbert, relief in his voice.

“Come on, our lanterns are still over there and they’re alight. It’s as though we have not been away for more than a minute or two,” said Bartholomew.

The journey back seemed to pass surprisingly quickly. They walked again through the great chamber, where the sconces on the walls still flared brightly. Then they came to the staircase, long and steep, which led to the cellar of The Squid and Teapot.

“So this is the enchanted isle of which Saint Brendan wrote,” said Dee, looking about him. “Might I find lodgings here, Master Middlestreet?”

Bartholomew liked the sound of ‘Master Middlestreet’.

“By all means Doctor Dee. Stay as long as you will.”

“Welcome to Hopeless, Maine” said Philomena. “And you may call me Mistress Bucket!”

An hour or so later, after a somewhat bewildered, but unaccountably happy, Doctor Dee had retired to one of the guest-rooms of inn, Bartholomew, Norbert and Philomena sat, with Bartholomew’s wife, Ariadne, in the snug of The Squid and Teapot, trying to make sense of all that had happened.

“It was as though we were being dropped through history,” said Bartholomew, thoughtfully.

“Or maybe it was all no more than an illusion,” offered Ariadne.

“None of that felt like an illusion,” said Philomena, recalling the blow that the pirate had dealt her. “And Doctor Dee is real enough. Maybe he might have some idea what happened to us.”

“Don’t bank on it,” laughed Ariadne. “He looked more confused than the rest of you put together.”

“I can see why Sebastian Lypiatt wanted to get rid of the key to the tunnels,” said Norbert, sipping his sarsaparilla, referring to the old key that had been sent to his grandfather, a century before.

“Yes,” said Bartholomew, “That passage should be locked forever, and the key put where no one will ever find it. Maybe Doctor Dee can take it back to his own time – if he can ever get there, that is.”

So intent had the four been on their conversation that they had not noticed the lone figure who had wandered in, and settled himself quietly in the corner.

“Might I be of some assistance?” he asked.

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Cavern

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“Well!” exclaimed Philomena Bucket, “I really didn’t this expect this.”

Bartholomew Middlestreet and Norbert Gannicox stayed silent, but wordlessly acknowledged to themselves that the barmaid was right; what they had found was totally unexpected. An hour earlier the three had discovered a secret passage beneath The Squid and Teapot, and along with Drury, the skeletal hound, had clambered down countless steps, hoping to come upon the fabled long-lost tunnel which would take them to the mainland.  Instead they had walked into this vast, cathedral-like space, lying deep beneath the fog-strewn island of Hopeless, Maine.

“Maybe this was a smugglers’ den,” said Bartholomew, “and if that is the case, there ought to be another tunnel somewhere, leading to the sea.”

It seemed to be a reasonable assumption, and they immediately set about exploring the area. The meagre light of their candle-lanterns, however, was no match for the blanket of darkness that surrounded them, and there looked to be little hope of finding another way out; then Philomena spotted a sconce attached to the stonework. Further exploration revealed that there were several arrayed around the perimeter of the walls, each one filled with dry rushes. It was obvious that these had, at some point long ago, been prepared in readiness for a gathering of some description. Norbert, who was the tallest of the trio, reached up and lit one of the sconces with his candle. In an instant the rushes burst into flame, casting huge shadows that danced alarmingly against the harsh, unforgiving grey walls that soared high above them.

Norbert lit two more of the torches. It was only then that the trio truly appreciated the space in which they were standing. This was no simple subterranean cavern, but a huge underground chamber with walls of dressed granite, and close-fitting flagstones beneath their feet. Any clue as to who had constructed this, much less the when and why, was apparently lost long ago.

“Over there…” said Norbert, pointing to a point on the far wall that lay in deeper shadow.

He had spotted the mouth of a tunnel, gloomy and uninviting, on the opposite side of the room. The three intrepid explorers were in no hurry to go on, and it was only Drury who seemed to be unfazed by the prospect of entering. With his bony tail wagging and his feet clattering on the hard floor, he wandered nonchalantly across and sniffed at the threshold of dark passage. Filled with uncertainty, the others followed.

“Well, if Drury is happy with it, I have no problem in following,” declared Philomena, stoutly.

Bartholomew looked at Norbert and raised his eyebrows. Unlike Philomena, both men had lived on Hopeless for all of their lives, and were aware that tunnels and passageways were not the nicest of places to frequent at the best of times. Compared to the denizens of The Underland, the creatures who lived above the ground were warm and cuddly. Besides this, Drury was not exactly a barometer of common-sense. It was only the fact that the dog was seemingly immortal, that had saved him from many a scrape in the past.

“I don’t think we should…” began Bartholomew, but he saw the look in Philomena’s eye and hurriedly amended the remainder of his sentence. “I don’t think we should go into these unknown areas completely unprepared. Your idea about taking various bits of equipment with us was sound, Philomena.”

(If you recall, in the tale ‘The Underland’, Philomena had, indeed, suggested that they take a small mountain of equipment on the expedition.)

Before the words were out of his mouth, however, Drury gave a bark and disappeared into the depths of the tunnel.

“Hey, wait for me…” cried Philomena and, with her candle-lantern held aloft, dashed after him.

“Philomena…” shouted Bartholomew, but it was too late, she was out of sight.

For the second time in as many minutes the two men looked at each other with eyebrows raised.

“Ah, what the heck,” said Norbert, getting as perilously close to cursing as he ever did. “In for a penny…”

Reluctantly the two men disappeared into the gaping maw that yawned before them.

Meanwhile, far away in time and space, two men sat hunched over their respective flagons of warm ale. One was Doctor John Dee, necromancer, and Court Astrologer to Queen Elizabeth the First of England; the other, much younger man, was his friend and associate, the spirit-medium and would-be alchemist, Edward Kelley. They had come to The George Inn, in Southwark, in the knowledge that they would not be recognised. This part of the city of London was largely populated by a colourful array of whores, vagabonds, conmen, thieves, escaped criminals, mountebanks, wandering minstrels and other ne’er do-wells. When not guarding their own lives and property, each and every one of these citizens was far more interested in watching the bloodshed occurring in the bear pits, the bullrings, and the alehouses that staged bare-knuckle fights, than spying on Dee and Kelley.

Looking furtively over his shoulder, Doctor Dee opened a nondescript leather satchel and pulled out an ancient looking book.

“What’s that?” demanded Kelley

“Navigatio Sancti Brendani Abbatis,” said Dee, triumphantly.

To John Dee’s disappointment Edward Kelley looked singularly unimpressed.

“The voyage of Saint Brendan the Abbot,” he translated. “So what? I can’t get excited about the antics of some old Irish monk taking a pleasure-trip.”

“Edward… Edward,” hissed Dee, urgently. “Do you not know of Brendan’s discoveries. I grant you, much related in these pages might be brain-addled rubbish from drinking salt-water, but there was one island that he mentions, towards the very end of his voyage, that really seems to be a portal between earth and all the hidden realms beyond. Imagine that, Edward, from that island we can reach the very shores of Heaven and Hell themselves. Who knows what we may discover? I have permission to mount an expedition in the Queen’s name – and at her expense, obviously – and you and I shall find this island, far away on the edge of the New World, and discover all of its secrets.”

“Sorry, I cannot,” replied Kelley, “I’ve just gained a position as alchemist to King Rudolf of Saxony. I’ll be leaving London at the end of this month.”

Dee’s face darkened.

“How on earth do you think that you are going to turn base metal into gold?” he asked brusquely. “The last time I looked, the only alchemical transformation that you’ve managed successfully is turning sour ale into piss!”

“Rudolf doesn’t know that, but I’m sure I’ll be fine” replied Kelley, breezily ignoring the insult. “Anyway, I am sorry I can’t join you on your voyage.  By the way, what is the name of this place you’ll be sailing to?”

“As far as I can tell, Brendan did not name it,” said Dee. “Though, upon returning to Ireland, when asked to describe the place, he clutched his head at the memory, curled up in a ball, and wailed, “It’s Hopeless, I tell you. The island is Hopeless!”

To be continued…

Author’s note: Over the years the George Inn, in Southwark, has been a favourite watering-hole of many famous people, including Shakespeare, Dickens, Chaucer and Winston Churchill. It was rebuilt following the Great Fire of Southwark in 1676.

(Cave image in this post is a chapter cover from Victims, and has a goblin in it, which may cause confusion, but that’s what goblins do…)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Underland

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Secret passages are always a good idea. Yes.

Philomena Bucket had discovered a secret passage, housed in the walls of The Squid and Teapot. It descended, by way of an iron ladder, from the far attic to the cellar.

Bartholomew Middlestreet and Norbert Gannicox had been enjoying a surreptitious pint of ‘Old Colonel’, while ostensibly searching for a hidden door in the cellar of the inn. Norbert normally eschews strong drink, but Bartholomew had assured him that drinking to quench a thirst, as they were, was quite different to social drinking, and therefore, on this occasion, would not count as ‘drinking’. (Similarly, I have never felt that the consumption of digestive biscuits, when dunked into tea or coffee, can ever be regarded as ‘eating’.)

When a section of the wall slid noisily back to reveal Philomena standing before them, her skirt knotted at the waist to facilitate easy ladder-climbing, they realised, with great surprise and a certain amount of embarrassment, that the door had, indeed, been discovered.

Philomena hastily adjusted her dress, and, with the aid of a foaming tankard of the Ebley Brewery’s best bitter, related how she and Ariadne, Bartholomew’s wife, had stumbled on the entrance to the passage, which had been concealed in a small extension to the attic wall, cleverly constructed to resemble a locked sea-chest.

“But it makes no sense,” declared Bartholomew. “What is the point of going to the trouble of making a secret passage which only takes you from the top to the bottom of the inn?”

“None that I can see,” agreed Norbert, peering up the shaft down which Philomena had climbed. “To be honest, it would have been a bit of a squeeze for me to have climbed down there. It’s very narrow.”

Philomena and Bartholomew exchanged a meaningful look. Norbert’s fondness for starry-grabby pies was legendary.

“Maybe there is a similar projecting brick on the back wall which opens up another secret door,” suggested Philomena.

They pushed and prodded the stonework for a few minutes, until Bartholomew remembered that the only things of interest likely to be found on the other side of the wall was a cobbled pathway and the Atlantic Ocean.

Bartholomew scratched his chin, thoughtfully.

“My pa always reckoned that there was a secret tunnel, somewhere under The Squid, that led directly to the mainland,” he said.  

“Now that would be a thing!” said Norbert, enthusiastically. “Nobody has managed to get off this island for the best part of a century.”

It was true, apparently. There were stories on Hopeless of how, years earlier, Joseph, a Passamaquoddy trader who had settled on the island, occasionally ferried back and forth to the mainland. On rare occasions, it was said, he had taken passengers. That was a long time ago, and any who might have verified these tales were long dead (although, in fairness, the mere fact of being deceased has never prevented anyone on Hopeless from voicing their opinion).

“So maybe we’re looking in the wrong place,” said Philomena, dropping to her knees and feeling around the floor of the shaft. It took her but moments to locate a flagstone that seemed to be slightly looser than any of the others. Taking the initiative, Bartholomew dashed outside for a lever of some description, returning less than a minute later with a shovel. Thrusting the blade of the shovel between the flagstones, he put all of his weight on the handle, until his feet left the ground. Philomena bit her lip, anxiously, expecting the handle to snap. Little by little, however, the stone was prised up, gently lowering Bartholomew back on to his feet. Once the gap was sufficiently wide to allow Norbert some purchase for his hands, the flagstone gave up the struggle, obviously realising that it was no match for the joint efforts of a zealous innkeeper and a hefty, not to say slightly tipsy, distiller.

Where the flagstone had so recently lain, a cold breeze now wafted from the dark opening that yawned before the feet of the three friends. The rectangular hole was twice as long as it was wide, and a steep, stone staircase descended into its depths.

“We’re going to need torches,” Philomena was the first to speak.

“We?” said Bartholomew. “I can’t allow you to go down there, Philomena. You’ve no idea what is lurking in that pit. It could be dangerous.”

“Then I resign,” shouted Philomena, angrily, making the other two jump in surprise. “And as you’re not my boss anymore, you can’t be telling me what to do.”

There followed a few minutes of Bartholomew trying not to panic, coupled with a certain amount of hand-wringing, as he attempted to calm his barmaid, assuring her that he didn’t mean to sound as though he was giving her orders, and that The Squid would not be the same without her. When sufficiently placated, Philomena immediately withdrew her resignation, mentally putting herself in charge of the forthcoming adventure.

Once they had retired to the snug of The Squid and Teapot, Philomena began making plans and writing a list of things they would need on their expedition into, what she had already named, The Underland. The attics would have to be ransacked for sturdy boots, helmets, candle-powered head-torches, lengths of rope, various items of weaponry, waterproof clothing, knapsacks, grappling hooks, crampons, carabineers…

“Hold on, just for a minute,” cautioned Bartholomew, treading carefully in case he upset her again. “Maybe, before we load ourselves down with too much equipment, most of which I’m not sure we have anyway, should we just do a reconnaissance with a couple of candle-lanterns?”

Philomena looked disappointed, then Bartholomew had a flash of inspiration.

“If we took Drury along with us, he could sniff out any danger and give us plenty of warning.”

The barmaid brightened at the prospect of her best friend, the skeletal hound, joining their party.

“Well, you can count me out,” said Ariadne, who had been minding the inn while the unearthing of The Underland had been taking place. “I have no wish to go delving about in the bowels of the earth. Anyway, somebody has to look after The Squid while you lot are off enjoying yourselves.”   

 Her light tone belied the worry behind her eyes.

The following morning found Bartholomew, Norbert and Philomena, with candle lanterns held high and Drury rattling happily at the head of the procession, intrepidly descending the steep stone steps, into the stygian gloom of The Underland…

To be continued…