3. 2 - The Squonk Hunters's POV
The card came through the door one Saturday morning. I was getting ready to go to the football match. It was an important match and I was nervous. Having supported the Owls for years we were on the verge of promotion and my mood was euphoric. When you have so long in the wilderness you can’t help but be excited. The mood changed when the card dropped.
‘Tarquin Fitzherbert request the pleasure of Philias Wreek on Saturday 12th May at 2pm‘
I checked the date, today. Damn, you didn’t say no to the Fitzherberts. Maybe I could say I’d not received it and go to the match. That thought was soon dispelled by seeing the large black car parked outside. They’d even sent transport.
Sighing, I reluctantly put the scarf away and grabbed a coat and my ever ready suitcase and went to the car. The driver was as usual not very chatty and so I settled back wondering why they wanted me. Their Squonk was well as far as I knew and as my only use for them was in hunting Squonks it seemed quite odd. I opened my laptop and scrolled through my documents.
I tried to keep my eyes open for new Squonks who I could use in the future. It was a case of scouring the internet to discover strange healing powers. I shook my head, Squonks couldn’t help themselves. They’d help those who were ill not realising that sometimes it gave them away. I had a couple of leads I was going to look into, including one in Scotland which I was going to investigate when I had the chance.
The Wreeks were known for their Squonk hunting powers. My ancestor Radimous had been the greatest Squonk hunter ever, netting many Squonks in his life including the great Marmaduke, who’d served as a pirate in Elizabethan times. We had a knack of being able to see those who were Squonks and separate them from humans. It was a kind of haze that was over them. Nothing perceivable at first, you had to look for a long time to be sure.
I highlighted the village in the North of Scotland on Google Maps. It was miles from anywhere on the coast, a collection of a few houses, the ideal hiding place for Squonks. They may have moved from under the stones but they still hid from society. I called up the newspaper articles. One told the remarkable story of Wilma Hardacre who was cured from cancer and another of Albert Baggins who’d remarkably completed a marathon at the age of 87, after successfully recovering from Leukaemia. One might be unusual, but two in such a small population.
The car pulled up outside Fitherbert Hall just as I was closing the laptop. Great timing. I exited the car and walked up the steps.