By Martin Pearson
“He is very spirited today; don’t you think?”
There was a note of concern in Reggie Upton’s voice as he watched Drury, the skeletal hound, bounding around joyously, knocking over anything and anyone foolish enough to get in his way.
“Is that what you call it?” snapped Philomena Bucket, picking up an overturned washing-basket and regarding its spilled contents, now generously patterned with muddy paw-prints, with some dismay.
“There’s no point in putting this lot on the line, they’ll need to be washed again,” she grumbled. “Drury has got the devil in him this morning, and no mistake.”
“Do you have any idea why?” asked Reggie.
“It’s ever since that dog goddess, Gula, took a shine to him,” said Philomena. “It’s gone right to his head.”
“Ah, so that’s why he’s gambolling like a spring lamb,” said Reggie.
“I only wish he’d gambol responsibly,” muttered Philomena.
The news that the ghostly Jesuit, Father Stamage, had been rescued from Purgatory, caused quite a stir on Hopeless, Maine. After all, it is not every day that your island home is visited by a seven-thousand-year-old deity, albeit one that next to nobody had heard of. It seems that Stamage had been spared the perils of Purgatory simply because the goddess had taken a liking to Drury. The osseous old hound had been given the responsibility of protecting the priest, who, ironically, was completely unaware of Drury’s role in saving him, as he had spent the entire time hiding in his hat (if all this sounds confusing you will just have to read the previous three tales. Even then you might be none the wiser!) It was indeed fortuitous for Father Stamage that Gula was greatly attached to all members of the species Canis domesticus (even the skeletal ones), so much so that she frequently presented herself as a dog-headed deity.
How the news had spread so quickly is something of a mystery in itself but, unsurprisingly for Hopeless, several had boasted, in The Squid and Teapot that night, that they had seen her wandering around, and one or two even claimed to have actually passed the time of day with her. As Gula had made a point of being visible only to the already dead, who were, in this case, Lady Margaret D’Avening, Granny Bucket and Drury, this was blatantly untrue. It is fair to say that no one really believed them, but a tall tale is better than no tale at all. Even the tallest of tales, however, when planted in the right soil, has a habit of growing and sending tendrils far out into the community.
Not for the first time, Doc Willoughby was experiencing an emotional cocktail; a heady mixture of great pleasure and abject fear. The pleasure was found in savouring a fine and rare single-malt whisky. Its silky, slightly smoky texture, seductively caressed the Doc’s palate, enticing him along primrose paths of loquacious dalliance, and thence, into the icy shadow of his fears, in the shape of Durosimi O’Stoat.
Durosimi rarely chooses to interact with others on the island. When he does, it is with those whom he considers to be slightly superior to the general populace. Obviously, none are deemed to be, even remotely, his equal, but the Doc Willoughbys of this world are useful ciphers; they are easy enough to flatter for information, and equally easy to dismiss.
“More whisky, Willoughby?” Durosimi gestured towards the half-empty bottle.
“That would be shhplendid,” slurred the Doc, not knowing, or caring, how his host came by the spirit. Where Durosimi is concerned, it is never wise to question the provenance of anything.
“Now, tell me more about this goddess creature, about whom I have heard so much.”
Durosimi was keen to harvest as much information as possible before the alcohol rendered the physician totally unintelligible.
“Well, that Bucket woman told Reggie Upton… he’s a bit of a strange fellow, by all accounts…”
“Yes, yes, now get on with it,” urged Durosimi, impatiently.
“…She told Upton that the ghost who haunts The Squid’s privy – you know, The White Lady – claims that some defunct old god rolls up on Midsummer’s Day, once every hundred years, to drag some poor soul off to Purgatory.”
“That’s interesting,” mused Durosimi. “Do you know anything else about it?”
“Only that the three gods that The White Lady has seen have all had dogs’ heads.”
“Dogs’ heads? In a bag, or on a pole, or something?”
“No, no, silly” giggled the Doc, quite forgetting to whom he was speaking. “Their heads were like that of a dog.”
Durosimi pursed his lips and let the slight go by.
“Do you have a name for any of these dog-headed deities?”
“Upton did say, but I can’t remember what they were called. I think he mentioned that one sounded like a new something or other. Can’t remember anymore.”
Doc’s eyelids were beginning to droop.
“Well, I mustn’t detain you any longer, Willoughby. I expect that you have patients to see.”
Durosimi helped Doc to his feet and manhandled him to the door.
“Off you go… and watch your footing on the cobbles… oh, too late. Never mind, it’ll brush off when it dries. Good day Willoughby.”
Durosimi sat in silence for a long while after his visitor had left. He had not allowed Doc Willoughby to see just how excited he had become, following this latest revelation. Old gods had been visiting the island for centuries, and he had known nothing about it! The knowledge that these deities still existed, thousands of years after anyone had stopped believing in them, opened up all sorts of possibilities.
He racked his brain, trying to dredge up whatever information he could regarding dog-headed gods. There was Cerberus, from Greek myth, but he had three heads; besides, he was not a god, but a guardian. Who else was there? Which culture had gods with animal heads? Of course – the Egyptians!
He recalled that their god of the dead, Anubis, had a jackal’s head. Would that count?
Then Durosimi remembered what Reggie Upton had told the Doc. The name of one of them sounded like a new something or other. That must be it. Anubis.
A thrill passed through Durosimi. If Anubis still existed, then he could be summoned, and therefore could be controlled; but only by the right person.
Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, was surprised to see a light burning in Durosimi’s window. It was two o’clock in the morning, and being up so late was almost unheard of on Hopeless, even for Mr. O’Stoat.
Rhys did not like, or trust, Durosimi. He shuddered to think what he might be up to at such an hour.
Rhys need not have worried. To all intents and purposes, Durosimi was doing nothing more disreputable than reading by candlelight.
The tome before him had sat unopened in his library for years, covered in a fine film of dust. It had been a curiosity, as much as anything, apparently having no practical use; that is, until now.
If Anubis was to be summoned, he would first have to be located, and where better for the god of the dead to live than in his own domain.
Yes, the Egyptian Book of the Dead might yet be the very means of Durosimi getting to that old god, and teaching him some new tricks.
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The Hopeless Vendetta 