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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Great Escape

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“At least, with Mr Squash out of the picture,” said Rhys Cranham,
”there won’t be any more to-ing and fro-ing through his portal to
Tibet.”

“Yes, it will certainly put the brakes on Durosimi’s current
obsession,” agreed his wife, Philomena Bucket. “I’ll miss Mr Squash
being around, though. The island won’t be the same without him. But
until he returns, life goes on, and we will be needing another barrel
of ‘Old Colonel’ brought up.”

Being the landlord of The Squid and Teapot meant that there was always
some job or other to be done. With a sigh, Rhys made his way down the
steps to the cellar.

With the exception of Durosimi O’Stoat, the islanders of Hopeless,
Maine were convinced that they had heard the last of life in the
distant Himalayan mountains. There was, however, at least one person
in Tibet who had not forgotten the name of O’Stoat.

The anchorite, Dawasandup, was as angry as any Tibetan lama ever gets
(and, contrary to popular belief, they have been known to get more
than a little hot under the Shen* when sufficiently provoked). This
was a man who was reputed to have dominion over demons, could fly
through the air and be able to kill an enemy at a distance. In short,
he was not someone to be trifled with.

“This wretch, called O’Stoat, has cheated me,” he raged. “I owe a
tribute to Tagsan, the tiger demon, and he was the unwitting fool who
was chosen for that honour. Now he has fled, and it is all your
fault.”

The recipient of Dawasandup’s ire was a young monk named Tenzin, who
cowered, terrified, beneath the icy gaze of the anchorite. Tenzin, you
may recall, had found himself in the unhappy position of being the
reluctant translator in Durosimi’s dealings with Dawasandup.

“I explicitly told him to tie himself to a tree and wait for the demon
to appear,” raged the anchorite, “and I expected you to ensure that
this happened. Now you leave me no choice; I need to find a sacrifice,
and so it will be you who must feel the claws and teeth of the demon
Tagsan.”

Although Dawasandup was indeed powerful, despite his terror, Tenzin
trumped this by being youthfully nimble. Before he could be grabbed,
the young monk slipped out of reach, and dashed blindly away,
following whatever direction his sandalled feet chose to bear him.

“There can be no escape, ” roared Dawasandup fiercely. ”I will find
you and Tagsan will have his tribute.”

Tenzin ran until there was no more breath left in his body. At last he
fell exhausted to the hard earth, allowing  the shadows of night to
wash over him, and bathe the surrounding rocks and boulders in deep
darkness.

When his breathing finally steadied and his senses grew accustomed to
his surroundings, Tenzin felt more at ease, but then a figure shambled
from between the rocks and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Could it be Dawasandup? Or the demon, Tagsan, himself, maybe?

But no, it was certainly not any human; the shape was not right.
Besides that, whoever or whatever this newcomer was, everything about
it was too big; much too big, even for Tagsan, unless the demon walked
on his hind legs.

Suddenly the creature was standing before him, blotting out the stars,
and Tenzin gasped in awe.

“You must move, little monk, this is no place for you to rest.”

The voice, although deep and sonorous, sounded strange to his ear.
While It was known that the Spirits of the Glaciers were fluent in his
language, he never dreamt that one would ever choose to speak to him.

“I have nowhere to go,” said Tenzin, timidly, and to his own surprise,
he poured out the story of how he came to be in this predicament.

“Then you are in great danger,” said the Yeti (whom, I trust, will
forgive me for referring to him by his not-particularly complimentary
nickname).

 “I know of this Dawasandup,” he continued, “and he has allowed great
darkness into his soul. There is no doubt that he will pursue you, and
your death will not be pleasant.”

“Then where can I go to escape him?” wailed Tenzin, a cold sweat
breaking out all over his body.

The Yeti said nothing for what seemed to be an age. Then he spoke.

“I know of a place, and although the journey will be brief, it will be
hard on your body. You will escape, but most probably, never be able
to return to Tibet.”

“That is fine by me,” said Tenzin. “How do I get there?”

“Do you trust me?”

“More than I do Dawasandup,” was the reply, and with that the Yeti
scooped the surprised Tenzin up into arms and strode towards a cleft
in the rocks.

Two weeks had passed since Billy (or possibly Willy) the Yeti had
rescued Durosimi from the clutches of the demon Tagsan, and dragged
him through Mr Squash’s mysterious portal. Durosimi had no idea of the
danger in which he had placed himself, and decided that his recent
indisposition had been caused by no more than having to spend time
under a Yeti’s armpit. By now he felt sufficiently recovered to
contemplate indulging in a spot of rough magic, in the hopes of once
more getting back to Tibet and learning all that he could from
Dawasandup.

For the past few days he had been in the habit of wandering to the
portal, which was formed by two innocuous looking ash trees learning
drunkenly into each other’s branches. There he tried every opening
spell that he could remember, in the forlorn hope that one of them
might provide the key that unlocked the entrance. So far,
unsurprisingly, his success rate had been precisely nil.

“I’ll give it one more go,” he muttered to himself as he made his way
through the early morning fog.

Not many islanders were inclined to venture abroad at this hour, and
Durosimi could feel confident that his persistent failure to penetrate
the portal would not have been witnessed. Today, however, he found
himself to have company. While the realisation came as something of a
shock, the fact that the aforementioned company was lying on the
ground was a comfort. This person was obviously either dead or drunk,
and therefore unlikely to trouble him.

Durosimi, being Durosimi, could not help himself taking a look as to
who his prostrated companion might be.

“I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed.”That’s young Tenzin, my
translator, and he has somehow managed to get himself through the
Sasquatch’s portal. I need to know how he managed to do that,
although, by the looks of things, I don’t think that he’ll be in any
condition to talk to me just yet.”

Elated by this recent turn of events, a tumble of thoughts flashed
through Durosimi’s mind.

“Except for Doc Willoughby, I am the only person on the island who he
will have met. He will need a friend, and somewhere to stay. Certainly
not at The Squid and Teapot – I’ll keep him well away from the
influence of that witch, the Bucket woman. No… he can live in my
outhouse and teach me how to get back through the portal without the
help of that blasted Sasquatch, or his relatives.”

With no more ado, the sorcerer hooked his hands beneath the young
monk’s armpits and dragged him unceremoniously across the rough
ground, all the way back to Chez Durosimi.


*Author’s note: A Shen is the shoulder wrap worn by a Tibetan Buddhist
monk, under which, in the absence of a collar, an irate lama might get
hot.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Joy of Yaks 

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“What we need on this island,” declared Durosimi O’Stoat, adjusting his nightcap, “are yaks. Yaks, Willoughby, and lots of ‘em.”

“Yaks?” queried Doc Willoughby, with surprise.

The Doc was paying a professional call on Durosimi, following the sorcerer’s recent return from Tibet. You will recall that this latest trip had been something of an ignominious affair, dragged back, as he was, through Mr Squash’s mysterious portal by a huge Himalayan Yeti. It was perhaps fortunate that Durosimi had little memory of this, as such a journey invariably renders non-Sasquatches comatose for several days thereafter. At the time of our tale, however, he had recovered sufficiently to enable him to sit up in bed and eat an occasional soft-boiled gull egg.

“You were there too,” said Durosimi. “You must remember how useful the yaks were.”

“Not really,” admitted the Doc, who had been trying to expunge from his mind all memories of his stay at the monastery.

“Only that they provided the butter for all of that awful tsampa that we had to eat. A delicacy, incidentally, which I never intend to pass my lips again.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad,” said Durosimi, “but yes, you’re right, they provided the butter for the food, but also for everything else, including oil for their lamps. They are good for milk and meat, and they have thick, warm hides as well. And don’t forget their dung.”

“Their dung?” echoed the Doc, more than a little disturbed as to how it might have been used.

“Yes, their dung,” said Durosimi. “When dried it makes excellent fuel for the fire, and of course, it’s wonderful as compost.”

“And you think that we should have some of these beasts roaming around Hopeless?”

The Doc sounded unimpressed.

“How do you propose to get them here?” he added.

“Simple. I will go back to Tibet and persuade one of those Yeti creatures to carry a breeding pair back under his arms. It shouldn’t be too difficult to achieve,” replied Durosimi, airily.

By now Doc Willoughby was beginning to believe that Durosimi had suffered some sort of trauma which had not only affected his brain, but subsequently altered his character. The man sounded positively jovial. Despite this, he chose his next words carefully.

“I think you might find that you’ll run into one or two difficulties achieving that,” he said.

“And what might they be?” asked Durosimi, with the sort of smile that would turn milk into vinegar.

“According to that Upton fellow, who was there when the Yeti brought you back, he got the impression that the creature wasn’t too thrilled with you. I’d be surprised if you could persuade him to carry a couple of yaks.”

“There are plenty more Yetis – I’m sure that I could get one of them to do it,” said Durosimi.

“The other thing,” said the Doc, “is that Mr Squash seems to have disappeared. No one has seen  him for days. The word on the street is that he has gone off to pastures new, and no Mr Squash means no portal.”

A cloud passed over Durosimi’s face, chasing away his recent sunny disposition.

“That blasted Sasquatch!” he exclaimed. “He has no thought for anyone but himself.”

*

The mood in The Squid and Teapot that evening was subdued.

“I can’t believe he’s cleared off and not said goodbye,” said Seth Washwell.

“Maybe he’s not fond of goodbyes,” said Reggie Upton.“On the positive side, he told young Winston Oldspot that he intends returning to Hopeless.”

“But when is that likely to be?” asked Seth. “After all, Mr Squash is practically immortal. A hundred years means nothing to him.”

Seth was wrong about this. The Sasquatch was by no means immortal, but had certainly been around for several hundred years. This was related in the tale ‘Friends Reunited,’ when Mr Squash revealed that he was given his name by Daniel Boone’s daughter, Jemima, who could not say ‘Sasquatch’.

“He was last on Hopeless when I was a youngster. It was just after Shenandoah Nailsworthy died, and being his apprentice, I found I was suddenly a full-time Night-Soil Man,” Rhys Cranham recalled, adding, “so that would be about fifteen years ago.”

“If he waits another fifteen years before coming back.” broke in Reggie Upton, “then I fear that Seth and I might not be in any position to see the fellow again.”

“Why, where are we going?” asked Seth, then his voice tailed off as the meaning of Reggie’s assertion sank fully in.

They were joined by Philomena Bucket, who had been tucking little Caitlin into bed.

“He’ll be back sooner than that,” she said, catching the last snatches of conversation.

The others looked at her, but no one asked how she could be so certain. They all knew better; Philomena could often see things that were hidden from others.

 No more than a second after leaving Hopeless, Mr Squash emerged from his portal in the depths of a forest, some two and a half thousand miles away to the west. He stopped, took a deep breath and viewed the landscape that had unfolded before him with pleasure. This was home, the place where he had been born, almost half a millennium earlier, and where his friends and family still lived. It would be good to speak his own language again and breathe once more the clear, cold air of the Pacific Northwest.

 *

Yaks

 “What we need on this island,” declared Durosimi O’Stoat, adjusting his nightcap, “are yaks. Yaks, Willoughby, and lots of ‘em.”

“Yaks?” queried Doc Willoughby, with surprise.

The Doc was paying a professional call on Durosimi, following the sorcerer’s recent return from Tibet. You will recall that this latest trip had been something of an ignominious affair, dragged back, as he was, through Mr Squash’s mysterious portal by a huge Himalayan Yeti. It was perhaps fortunate that Durosimi had little memory of this, as such a journey invariably renders non-Sasquatches comatose for several days thereafter. At the time of our tale, however, he had recovered sufficiently to enable him to sit up in bed and eat an occasional soft-boiled gull egg.

“You were there too,” said Durosimi. “You must remember how useful the yaks were.”

“Not really,” admitted the Doc, who had been trying to expunge from his mind all memories of his stay at the monastery.

“Only that they provided the butter for all of that awful tsampa that we had to eat. A delicacy, incidentally, which I never intend to pass my lips again.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad,” said Durosimi, “but yes, you’re right, they provided the butter for the food, but also for everything else, including oil for their lamps. They are good for milk and meat, and they have thick, warm hides as well. And don’t forget their dung.”

“Their dung?” echoed the Doc, more than a little disturbed as to how it might have been used.

“Yes, their dung,” said Durosimi. “When dried it makes excellent fuel for the fire, and of course, it’s wonderful as compost.”

“And you think that we should have some of these beasts roaming around Hopeless?”

The Doc sounded unimpressed.

“How do you propose to get them here?” he added.

“Simple. I will go back to Tibet and persuade one of those Yeti creatures to carry a breeding pair back under his arms. It shouldn’t be too difficult to achieve,” replied Durosimi, airily.

By now Doc Willoughby was beginning to believe that Durosimi had suffered some sort of trauma which had not only affected his brain, but subsequently altered his character. The man sounded positively jovial. Despite this, he chose his next words carefully.

“I think you might find that you’ll run into one or two difficulties achieving that,” he said.

“And what might they be?” asked Durosimi, with the sort of smile that would turn milk into vinegar.

“According to that Upton fellow, who was there when the Yeti brought you back, he got the impression that the creature wasn’t too thrilled with you. I’d be surprised if you could persuade him to carry a couple of yaks.”

“There are plenty more Yetis – I’m sure that I could get one of them to do it,” said Durosimi.

“The other thing,” said the Doc, “is that Mr Squash seems to have disappeared. No one has seen  him for days. The word on the street is that he has gone off to pastures new, and no Mr Squash means no portal.”

A cloud passed over Durosimi’s face, chasing away his recent sunny disposition.

“That blasted Sasquatch!” he exclaimed. “He has no thought for anyone but himself.”

The mood in The Squid and Teapot that evening was subdued.

“I can’t believe he’s cleared off and not said goodbye,” said Seth Washwell.

“Maybe he’s not fond of goodbyes,” said Reggie Upton.“On the positive side, he told young Winston Oldspot that he intends returning to Hopeless.”

“But when is that likely to be?” asked Seth. “After all, Mr Squash is practically immortal. A hundred years means nothing to him.”

Seth was wrong about this. The Sasquatch was by no means immortal, but had certainly been around for several hundred years. This was related in the tale ‘Friends Reunited,’ when Mr Squash revealed that he was given his name by Daniel Boone’s daughter, Jemima, who could not say ‘Sasquatch’.

“He was last on Hopeless when I was a youngster. It was just after Shenandoah Nailsworthy died, and being his apprentice, I found I was suddenly a full-time Night-Soil Man,” Rhys Cranham recalled, adding, “so that would be about fifteen years ago.”

“If he waits another fifteen years before coming back.” broke in Reggie Upton, “then I fear that Seth and I might not be in any position to see the fellow again.”

“Why, where are we going?” asked Seth, then his voice tailed off as the meaning of Reggie’s assertion sank fully in.

They were joined by Philomena Bucket, who had been tucking little Caitlin into bed.

“He’ll be back sooner than that,” she said, catching the last snatches of conversation.

The others looked at her, but no one asked how she could be so certain. They all knew better; Philomena could often see things that were hidden from others.

 Seconds after leaving Hopeless, Mr Squash emerged from his portal in the depths of a forest, some two and a half thousand miles away to the west. He stopped, took a deep breath and viewed the landscape that had unfolded before him with pleasure. This was home, the place where he had been born, almost half a millennium earlier, and where his friends and family still lived. It would be good to speak his own language again and breathe once more the clear, cold air of the Pacific Northwest.

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

Welcome Home, Doc Willoughby

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Doc Willoughby blinked and gazed warily around the room. It certainly looked like his home, but life had been so strange these last few weeks that he was inclined to trust nothing and no one.

“Ah, you’re finally awake.”

The Doc strained to see who was addressing him, but he seemed to be alone.

“Who’s there?” he asked nervously.

The grey early-evening light took on an ominous shimmer as the ghostly shape of Granny Bucket slowly materialised before him.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, grumpily.

Under other circumstances Granny might have swiftly fired back a barbed comment but, with great restraint, she let it pass today.

“How long have I been unconscious?’ he asked.

“I don’t know,” confessed Granny, “But you were discovered by Mrs Beaten a few nights ago.”

“Mrs Beaten?” Doc looked aghast.

“Yes. You were sitting in her privy,” said Granny, deciding not to go into details, but only because she had promised not to.

“The last thing I remember was being scooped up by something that looked like a huge, hairy snowman,” said the Doc. “Then everything becomes hazy.”

“Things must have been hazy long before that, if you think you were abducted by a snowman,” said Granny.

Her knowledge of the fauna peculiar to the mountainous regions of the world began and ended with the denizens of MacGillycuddy’s Reeks, so, unsurprisingly, she had never heard of the Himalayan Yeti.

Doc didn’t reply. Maybe she was correct and he had been hallucinating.

“I think I need some air to clear my head. A brisk walk to The Squid should do it.”

 Doc was barely ten minutes down the road when a surprised Mr Squash crossed his path.

“You’re back!” he exclaimed.

“So it would seem,” observed the Doc, drily.

“Ah… it must have been The Spirits of the Glaciers,” said Mr Squash. “My cousins are good sorts, and they have saved me a trip back to Tibet.”

“Maybe not,” replied the Doc. “Durosimi is still there. He’ll need rescuing.”

He related to the Sasquatch how Durosimi had wandered off, hoping to talk to some hermit fellow or other, and had not come back.

“Knowing Durosimi, I can only imagine that he went looking for the gomchen, Dawasandup,” growled Mr Squash, “and if he finds him, that is not good news.”

“Why not?” asked the Doc.

“Anyone crossing Dawasandup is likely to be chewed up and spat out, possibly literally. Durosimi is little better than a child with a magic set compared with the gomchen. On the other hand, if he acquires even a fraction of Dawasandup’s power we could all be sorry.”

“So what are you going to do?” asked the Doc.

Mr Squash frowned at him.

“Absolutely nothing,” he said. “ I have no intention of scouring Tibet in search of him. If he wants to come back, he can find his own way.”

‘But…” began the Doc.

“But nothing,” said the Sasquatch coldly. “If, by some chance, Durosimi is still alive it means that the gomchen has wished it so, and in that case Hopeless will be better off without him.”

*

Seth Washwell was holding court from his favourite chair, in the snuggery of The Squid and Teapot, relishing the fact of his having been the sole witness of Doc Willoughby returning to the island in the arms of a Yeti.

“They were big,” he said to his audience. “They must have been twice the size of old Squashy.”

“Careful he doesn’t hear you call him that,” said Philomena, “or you might end up being a bit squashy yourself.”

“They sound just like the chaps Frankie Younghusband encountered,” said Reggie Upton, enthusiastically, recalling the expedition his friend led to Tibet in 1903.

Seth took a long swig of Old Colonel. “I hear that they eventually put the Doc in Mrs Beaten’s privy,” he said.

“The less said about that the better,” said Philomena, who had been sworn to secrecy, as had everyone else whom Mrs Beaten had encountered.

*

Meanwhile, half a world away, Durosimi squatted uncomfortably in the small dark chapel that Dawasandup called home. The single room was lit at one end by a tiny window. Incense sticks burning in a niche mingled their fragrance with that of tea and melted yak butter. The gomchen sat upon a pile of threadbare, faded cushions, and gazed at  Durosimi with cold eyes. The young monk, Tenzin, who had agreed to be Durosimi’s translator, stood trembling in a corner.

“If you seek wisdom, do not expect explanations,” said the gomchen. “Learn through experience.”

Durosimi nodded, keen to know more.

“There is a place, not far from here, haunted by a demon,” said Dawasandup. “Only by defeating him will you gain his power.”

“I can deal with demons,” thought Durosimi. “There are plenty on Hopeless.”

“You must put a rope about your neck and tie yourself to a tree, remaining there for three days and three nights, without food or water. Be warned, only the strong will survive this encounter, but the rewards are great.”

In Durosimi’s experience, while demons might look ferocious, they held little sway over a magician such as himself.

“I can do this,” he said, “but how will I recognise the demon when it comes?”

“Oh, you will recognise him,” said Dawasandup, with a smile that was less than reassuring. “He always chooses to take the shape of a tiger.”

Durosimi had never seen a tiger in the flesh and, due to their complete absence on the island, he had displayed no interest in learning anything about the creatures. He vaguely recalled that one of his books referred to them as ‘big cats’. That didn’t sound too daunting. What could possibly go wrong?

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Billy and Willy

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Reggie Upton had certainly been in fine voice, this evening.

Walking unsteadily home from a particularly satisfying night at The Squid and Teapot, Seth Washwell smiled to himself at the memory. After a few pints of Old Colonel, Reggie was always good for a tune or two. As usual, tonight’s songs were from his army days, and one in particular had lodged in Seth’s mind. Now, how did it go…?

 “I left the line and the tented field

Where long I’d been a lodger.

A humble knapsack on my back,

A poor, but honest soldier…”

 You had to laugh, though. Seth couldn’t imagine that Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton had ever been required to carry a knapsack on his back, humble or otherwise. But it didn’t matter; old Reggie was not only a good friend, but an excellent drinking companion.

 Seth had probably downed more Old Colonel than was good for him, but it would take more than a few pints of ale to get him drunk; he could definitely walk a straight line without stumbling. At least, this is what he told himself, until an icy blast bowled him over as easily as if he had been a wooden skittle. Dazed, he scrambled to his feet with difficulty, sliding about uncomfortably in a puddle of slushy snow.

“That shouldn’t be there,” he mused, and he was not wrong. Until that moment Seth had been happily wandering through a fine, albeit misty, evening in early fall. By Hopeless standards the weather had been positively balmy, but now, from nowhere, a bitter winter wind, with snow upon its breath, was weirdly raging through a gap between the ash trees.

“Well, that’s sobered me up,” thought Seth, but immediately revised his opinion when a vast, white figure, fully fifteen feet tall, appeared.

“I’m going to give up the booze, I’m hallucinating,” he thought. “But why am I seeing an overgrown snowman in September?”

Before the thought had left his, admittedly befuddled, brain, the hallucination became doubly disturbing when yet another overgrown snowman materialised, apparently bearing a comatose Doc Willoughby in his arms.

 In order to make sense of all that is going on, we must backtrack a few hours and travel some seven thousand miles in an easterly direction. We need to go to Tibet, where, you will recall, Doc Willoughby and Durosimi O’Stoat had been recently sojourning in a Buddhist monastery and, needless to say, outstaying their welcome.

I have no idea what the names of Seth’s identical ‘hallucinations’ might be, and even if I did, it’s unlikely that I would be able to pronounce them. So, for the sake of easy identification, I will refer to them as Billy and Willy. They belong to a species known to Tibetians as ‘The Spirits of the Glaciers’, but to the rest of us simply as ‘Yeti’.

When a sudden avalanche completely blocked the portal through which Mr Squash, the Sasquatch (a close relative of the Yeti)  had taken the Doc and Durosimi to the high Himalayas, there had been a nagging worry that they would be marooned there forever. This, as you might imagine, would have tested the monks’ patience, not to mention their policy of non-violence, to the limit. Something needed to be done, and done quickly, so Billy and Willy had been given the job of removing the offending rocks, before things got entirely out of hand.

 The work had taken next to no time to complete; the pair could throw huge rocks around with ease (indeed, rock-tossing has long been a favourite sport of the Yeti, as many a nervous Sherpa will testify). The next part of their task, however, was less easily accomplished. The abbot, or rinpoche, of the monastery suggested that, rather than waiting for Mr Squash to appear, Billy and Willy should waste no time in returning Doc Willoughby and Durosimi to Hopeless. This was easier said than done. You may remember from the tale ‘The Hilly Layers’ that Durosimi had gone to visit the gomchen, Dawasandup, and  was nowhere to be found. Doc Willoughby, on the other hand, took fright at the prospect of being left in the care of the Spirits of the Glaciers, and hid under his bed. When he was eventually discovered it took little persuasion for a couple of monks to drag him out by the feet. As he scraped across the floor, Doc could not help but notice that the monks seemed to be enjoying their work a little too much.

 Once through the portal, Billy and Willy wandered into Hopeless with a certain amount of trepidation. Yes, they may have been fifteen feet tall and weighed a ton and a half each, but they were strangers in a strange land, and, as you well know, there are few stranger lands than Hopeless, Maine. For a start, there was no snow. How could there be no snow? This was beyond their experience. There were no mountains, either, and the sky was obscured by mist. They looked in wonder at the things with tentacles that scurried out to observe them, and having registered that these large hairy creatures were not to be messed with, the things with tentacles hurriedly scurried back.

“Let’s get rid of this fellow and get back home,” said Billy. “I don’t like this place.”

Willy had to agree. He had just noticed the sea in the distance, and didn’t like the look of it at all.

“There’s a little shed over there,” said Billy. “We can put him in there. Someone will find him in the morning.”

Although the shed doorway seemed unnecessarily narrow, they managed to ease the sleeping Doc through the gap and onto a handy seat, which was perfect for their purposes. Having made sure that he was not going to topple over, the pair hurried thankfully back to the portal between the ash trees, confident that the Doc, who would probably be totally dormant for the next few days, had been deposited somewhere where he could be easily discovered.

Mrs Beaten had always strongly disapproved of  chamber-pots, viewing them as being vulgar beyond words. Now, fast approaching the age when ‘calls of nature’ could occur at the most inconvenient times, she was beginning to regret this decision. Midnight on Hopeless is not the best time to be wandering to the end of the garden, but needs must. Luckily it was a moonless night, so even if someone was out and about at that late hour, they would not see her.

The darkness within the walls of the privy was positively stygian, but being a small space, and very familiar, she had no difficulty in negotiating her way in. With a sigh of relief, Mrs Beaten lifted her nightdress, and gently lowered herself onto the lap of the silently sleeping Doc Willoughby…

 Author’s note: Should you be interested, the song that Reggie had been singing in The Squid and Teapot was ‘The Soldier’s Return’, a popular ballad adapted from a poem by Robert Burns, “When Wild War’s Deadly Blast Was Blawn.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Yeti

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Reggie Upton, as you may recall, has no sense of smell, a relic of his days as an army officer in the India of the British Raj. As a result of this, and unlike others, he is able to happily enjoy the company of Winston Oldspot, the young Night-Soil Man, without fainting, gagging or throwing up.

There had been a recent occasion when Winston had gone missing for the best part of a week. Reggie had been terribly worried, and made a promise to himself that he would, in future, keep an eye on the lad, and make sure that he stayed safe. For a short while there seemed to be no threats to Winston’s well-being, then, one evening, to his horror, he discovered the young man apparently entertaining what appeared to be a Yeti. Although Reggie felt immediate panic, the old soldier that he was came swiftly to the fore, and he chose not to betray his feelings. Instead, he set his homburg firmly on his head, and prepared himself to join the pair with a jaunty air, a welcoming smile, and his trusty sword-stick at the ready.

You may ask why Reggie believed Winston’s companion – whom we know as Mr Squash – to be a Yeti, or indeed, how he had even heard of such beings. This is no great mystery; it was simply because the creature bore a marked resemblance to a sketch he had once been shown by a certain Lieutenant Colonel Francis Younghusband, a fellow officer who had led a British expedition to Tibet in the early 1900s. Reminiscing on his adventures a year or two later, Younghusband claimed, over a few drinks in the mess one evening, to have encountered a family of very large, ape-like animals, high in the Himalayas. As if to prove his point, he produced a sketch of the group, which he had purportedly drawn from life.

“Our Sherpa guides called them ‘Metoh Kangmi’ which translates as ‘The Scruffy Snowman’,” he explained. “It’s not a very complimentary moniker, is it, chaps? To my eyes they seem quite noble, in their own way. I prefer the other name by which they’re known, which is ‘The Bear of the Rock-Strewn Places.’ That’s a bit of a mouthful in English, but in Tibetan it sounds something like ‘Yeti.’

Until now, Reggie had taken Frankie Younghusband’s account with a large pinch of salt. It had become evident to all that, since returning from Tibet, the fellow had taken onboard quite a few rum ideas which he had picked up on his travels. However, seeing Mr Squash in the flesh, as it were, certainly forced Reggie to reconsider his opinion; Younghusband might have been on to something, after all. This ‘Metoh Kangmi’ with Winston, however, was far from scruffy and bore not the remotest resemblance to a snowman. As for being a ‘Bear of the Rock-Strewn Places,’ the impressive pelt of dark brown hair was somewhat bear-like, but there the similarity ended.

 “Reggie, meet my very good friend, Mr Squash,” said Winston, proudly.

Although Winston was obviously comfortable in the Yeti’s company, Reggie remained wary, but good manners dictated that he should be polite, at least until he knew more.

“How do you do,” said Reggie, instinctively offering a handshake, then immediately feeling foolish for having done so. He was surprised, therefore, to find that Mr Squash extended his own, huge leathery hand in response, and caught him in a firm, but gentle, grip.

“It is very good to meet you,” said Mr Squash in dark, velvety tones.

Despite his previous concerns, Reggie felt immediately at ease. Very few things fazed him anymore, and the fact that Mr Squash could engage in intelligent conversation seemed to be the most natural thing in the world. Dash it, this chap was considerably more civilised than most of the people who lived on the island of Hopeless, Maine.

Winston looked on with approval as his two best friends conversed amicably; it was almost as though they had known each other for years.

 “Yeti?” said Mr Squash. “Is that what the humans call my relatives who live in The Land of Snow? Unfortunately, I don’t get to visit them very often these days – once every fifty years or so at best, I suppose. Oh, it isn’t about distance. These doorways we use – portals, you could say – mean that we’re only ever a few steps away from anywhere, but honestly, it’s too darned cold up there in those high, snowy mountains for me. Give me forests any day. Why, even this island is a better option.”

 “I hate to interrupt,” said Winston, “but I need to get to work, and time is getting on. You two carry on talking, I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Nonsense,” said Reggie.“Go and get your bucket, and put your boots on, lad. I’m sure that Mr Squash will be happy to walk with us.”

The Sasquatch nodded in agreement and, for the first time that evening, rose to his feet. Reggie gasped audibly and looking up, nearly lost his hat. He had not fully appreciated how incredibly huge the fellow was.

“With an army of chaps like him you could conquer the world,” he mused to himself. “It is a jolly good job that we’re on the same side,”

A thought crossed his mind and he caught Mr Squash’s eye.

“I must introduce you to a very dear friend of mine,” he said, with a mischievous grin. “Her name is Philomena Bucket…”