Mr Squash regarded the great wall of rocks barring his way, and absently scratched his mighty head. Reluctantly he had to accept that it was beyond even his ability to shift them. No one else would be strong enough to help him, either; besides, such aid would have been impossible. The rockfall was blocking a portal that only he could see. It was the blessing and curse of this liminal gateway that anyone who did not happen to be a Sasquatch would simply find themselves staring at two old, unremarkable, ash trees, their trunks leaning against each other like a pair of companionable drunkards. Non-Sasquatches wishing to pass beneath that natural archway could happily do so, and would, as expected, find themselves to be still on the island of Hopeless, Maine.

 You will doubtless be unsurprised to learn that Mrs Beaten does not approve of Mr Squash. It is not just that he is eight feet tall, covered in coarse hair and weighs-in at eight-hundred pounds. Neither is it the fact that he insists on wandering around totally devoid of any sort of clothing. She can let this point pass, purely because he has no discernible ‘bits’ on display (to use her own terminology). Heaven knows, she has looked often enough. Obviously, this was a sacrifice she was forced to make in order to ensure that proper standards of decency are maintained on the island. (You may recall that the mystery of Mr Squash’s private parts was discussed in the tale ‘A Safe Place’). What really disturbs Mrs Beaten is that the creature pretends to be so civilised, casually conversing with one and all, and dropping six-syllable words all over the place, as if he were human – which he most certainly is not. Worse still, he seems to have lately joined forces with Durosimi O’Stoat, someone else for whom Mrs Beaten has little time. Far be it from her to gossip, but various snatches of conversation that she has overheard seem to imply that this Mr Squash fellow and Durosimi have conspired to take advantage of Doc Willoughby’s recent illness. It appears that they have kidnapped the poor man, imprisoning him in some ghastly monkey-house, which, as far as she understands, is situated in somewhere called the Hilly Layers, wherever that is.

It’s just not right, not right at all. Something should be done about it!

“Do you think that Squash has forgotten about us?”

Doc Willoughby scowled at his bowl of tsampa, and wished that it would magically transform into a slice of starry-grabby pie.

‘What? No, of course not,” said Durosimi reassuringly, whilst crossing his fingers behind his back. “Just have some patience, Willoughby. He’ll be here soon enough.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when Tenzin, a young novice monk, appeared at the door of their lodgings. He bowed and said,

“I have news from The Spirits of the Glaciers.”

(Tenzin’s ability to speak perfect English is one of those mysteries of the orient with which we need not concern ourselves.)

“Who are they?” asked a somewhat irritated Doc Willoughby.

“They’re a bit like Squash,” said Durosimi. “Cousins of his, I believe. I saw them when I came here before. Come to think of it, they’re a lot bigger than Squash. Much, much bigger, in fact, and covered in white fur.”

Doc gulped, and paled visibly.

“The Spirits of the Glaciers tell me that the path to your island is blocked and your friend will not be able to get through,” said Tenzin. “It is their intention to clear a way for him, but it will take time.”

Doc’s face fell.

“That’s all I need,” he grumbled. “I want to go home, and I am sick of the smell of Yak Butter.”

Durosimi nodded. The lamas splashed butter around everywhere and anywhere that oil or grease might be needed, including using it to fuel their lamps. Its ubiquity could be off-putting, but that did not prevent him, however, from scheming to take a generous supply back to Hopeless when the time came.

Unlike the Doc, Durosimi was enjoying his time in Tibet. Although regarded as something of a mystic by the islanders of Hopeless, he was aware that his powers were as nothing compared with many of the lamas whom he had encountered here. Durosimi wanted to learn everything that he could.

“As our rescue doesn’t appear to be imminent,” he said, “I’d like to visit an anchorite who lives a mile or so away. Tenzin, will you come and act as my translator?”

A cold hand seemed to grip Tenzin’s heart. He knew who the anchorite was, and he had little wish to visit him. It would, however, break the rules of hospitality to refuse the apparently simple request of an honoured guest.

They found the anchorite standing at his door, as if expecting his visitors, although no word had been sent ahead. The fellow cut an odd figure, not being dressed in the familiar burgundy robes of the monks, but instead clothed in a simple, sleeveless white shift which reached his feet. Beneath this he wore a saffron-yellow shirt with voluminous sleeves. A rosary, apparently fashioned from small ivory beads, hung around his neck. Strangest of all, his long black hair fell in thick braids, almost touching his heels.

To Durosimi’s surprise, Tenzin immediately prostrated himself at the feet of the anchorite who, as if used to such behaviour, waved a hand in blessing, then turned, retreating into the dark doorway of his hut and signalling for his visitors to follow.

“Who is this man?” whispered Durosimi, who had been expecting to meet some gentle and saintly lama.

“He is Dawasandup, a powerful gomchen, who has lived alone in the hills for many years. It is said that he has dominion over demons, is able to fly through the air and can kill a man at a distance. They say that the rosary which he wears is made of one hundred and eight pieces of bone, each cut from a different human skull.”

Durosimi smiled grimly.

“He sounds exactly like my sort of holy-man,” he gloated.

“And that’s what troubles me,” thought Tenzin, but wisely decided to keep such concerns to himself.

To be continued.