Winston Oldspot dragged on his boots, and peered out of the window with little enthusiasm. Since taking on the role of the official Night-Soil Man of the island of Hopeless, Maine, he had so far enjoyed his work. While there was always mist, and frequently thick fog, this was somehow a comfort; a cotton-wool blanket seemingly keeping the world at bay. Not that he needed anything like that, of course. Even as a comparative novice, the overarching stench of his calling was enough to keep even the most ravenous predator at bay. Tonight, however, there was the promise of a storm brewing. Something in his young bones told him that he needed to get to work, do as little as was absolutely necessary, then hurry back home before the skies burst and the wind threatened to blow him and his lidded-bucket out to sea.

It took less than an half-an-hour for Winston to realise that he had drastically underestimated the mood of the weather. It was very soon apparent that this was not going to be some gentlemanly tempest which allowed him time to fulfil his obligations before, almost apologetically, deciding to start playfully ruffling the trees. What was sweeping in from the wild Atlantic was a full-on, no-nonsense bruiser of a storm that roared across the island, screaming ‘Come on out if you think you’re hard enough,’ to anyone who cared to listen. Discretion had to be the better part of valour on a night like this and, with his bucket barely sullied, the young Night-Soil Man was forced to seek shelter.

Hopeless is honeycombed with caves, and it took next to no time for Winston to find a narrow cleft in the rocks, which opened out into a spacious cavern. He flopped gratefully onto the soft, sandy floor and prepared to sit patiently until such times as the storm eased sufficiently for him to return to the House at Poo Corner, the place that many generations of Night-Soil Men had called home.. That was the plan, anyway; the reality was that, within minutes, he had eased onto his back and allowed himself to drift into a comfortable slumber.

When he awoke the wind had stopped whistling through the cavern and the sound of rain outside had lessened. He reasoned to himself that in order for the storm to have blown itself out, several hours must have passed. With his joints aching, Winston pulled himself to his feet, then stiffened. There was a faint light illuminating the cave’s mouth. Someone was outside with a lantern and they were coming in. Quietly, he slipped into a recess,deep in the darkness of the cave, far enough away from anyone entering for them not to see, or more importantly, not to smell him.  Even if the newcomer was no threat, Winston had no wish to meet anyone; he did not enjoy the company of others. That is why he had chosen to become a Night-Soil Man.

The yellow gleam of the lantern pierced the gloom of the cave, casting long shadows that swept up the walls. Winston pushed himself further into the recess and watched intrigued, as the sinister shape of the lantern-bearer strode confidently along. It quickly became obvious to the Night-Soil Man that this could be only one person – Durosimi O’Stoat. He had seen the sorcerer skulking around the island in the depths of the night before. It was also clear that this was not the first time that Durosimi had walked this path. On a whim, Winston resolved to follow him, being careful to keep the glimmer of the lantern in view, but maintaining a safe distance; he needed to be far enough behind to ensure that his malodour was not going to betray him.

Following the dancing light of Durosimi’s lantern, Winston lost all sense of time and distance. He may have been walking for an hour, or possibly only for ten minutes, when the darkness became impenetrable. Either Durosimi had doused his lantern, or he had gone into a part of the cave which shielded the flame completely. Winston stopped, straining his ears for the slightest movement, but there was none. He remained standing stock-still for some minutes, until his curiosity, and a sudden cramp in his left leg, forced him to move. Gingerly feeling his way along the wall, he ventured deeper into the cave. He had been aware that the path was gradually descending for some time, but now the gradient became more obvious, then his outstretched hand felt nothing; the wall had disappeared. It took but a moment to realise that he had reached a junction, and that the path had taken a ninety-degree turn. That was why the lantern’s glow had disappeared. Before him, now, he could see a pale, unearthly glow. It emanated from the entrance to yet another cavern. The memory of a snatch of conversation stirred in his mind. It was something that he had overheard  some months earlier, before Rhys Cranham had retired and Winston was still an apprentice. Rhys had been talking to Reggie Upton about Philomena Bucket closing the pathway to somewhere called the Underworld. No, that was not right. It was the Underland. Reggie had said something about some girl getting lost after straying into the Crystal Cave, and that is why the way to the Underland was being shut off for good.

Winston gulped. If that was really the Crystal Cave ahead, and Durosimi was in there, he wasn’t making any noise. Maybe he needed rescuing. Taking his bucket off his back, and placing it on the stony ground, he decided that it was no more than his duty to come to the aid of the notorious Mr. O’Stoat; maybe he would be rewarded for his trouble. Besides that, he was curious to see for himself what all the fuss was about, concerning the mysterious Crystal Cave. With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation he made his way in…

To be continued.