All posts by Nimue Brown

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Magical Combat

2 Comments

Philomena Bucket listened intently as Reggie Upton revealed that he had witnessed someone breaking through Mr Squash’s mystic portal. The interloper sounded worryingly like Tenzin’s description of Dawasandup, the sorcerous lama.

“That’s not good,” she said, after a pause. “According to Tenzin, Dawasandup has sworn to track both him and Durosimi down and drag them back to Tibet, to be sacrificed to some tiger demon.”

Reggie was aghast. “We jolly well can’t let that happen to Tenzin,”  he raged. “And although I have absolutely no affection for Durosimi whatsoever, I’m dashed if I’ll allow some sorcerer chap to barge into Hopeless without a ‘by your leave’ and start terrorising the islanders. Why, the bounder needs a sound thrashing, and no mistake.”

“You’re quite right,” agreed Philomena, unsuccessfully concealing the ghost of a smile. “I’m afraid that if Dawasandup is the badass that Tenzin says he is, it will take a bit more than the threat of a sound thrashing to see him off.”

Despite  her  reluctance to use her magical powers, Reggie had seen enough of them to grasp Philomena’s meaning.

“You mean to play him at his own game?”  he asked, already knowing the answer. Philomena nodded. “It’s the only way to help Tenzin,” she said, “and as it’s Durosimi’s battle, he needs to pitch in too.”

“Leave it with me, I’ll talk to him,” said Reggie. 

“No,” said Philomena, firmly. “You can make sure that everyone at The Squid is safe. I’ll go and see Durosimi… oh, and if you see Granny Bucket hanging about haunting the place, send her after me.”

To Philomena’s surprise, Durosmi listened to what she had to say without a word of objection. He even nodded in agreement once or twice.

“If Dawasandup was able to break through Squash’s portal without mishap,” he said, “do you really think that the two of us might be enough to see him off?”

“We should throw everything we can at him, and finish things once and for all,” said Philomena. “He isn’t going to give up until he has you and Tenzin at his mercy.”

Durosimi looked at her with new respect. She was suggesting that they should totally annihilate Dawasandup, which sounded like a splendid plan.

“But we really need to let him find us first,” she added, ominously. 

The pair did not have to wait too long before they caught sight of Dawasandup. His tall, narrow shape seemed to drift across the ground, like the mist that whispered through the trees. He came to a halt no more that twenty feet away from them, and slowly beckoned to Durosimi,  It took a huge effort of will for Durosimi to ignore that unspoken command. Philomena could clearly see the beads of sweat forming on the sorcerer’s brow.

“Stand firm, stand firm,” she muttered.

“It’s just about all that I can do at the moment,” replied Durosimi. “Can’t you distract him, or something?”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a shaft of crackling blue light arched through the air and slammed into the lama’s beckoning hand. This was unexpected and Dawasandup scowled at Philomena, flexing his fingers and rubbing his wrist.

“Thank you,” said Durosimi, “however, I believe that you’ve really upset him now.”

Before Philomena could formulate a suitably scathing reply, a glowing orange ball materialised in the air before them, hung there for a second – which felt like an hour – and then exploded with a faint popping sound, knocking them both off their feet.  Without standing up, Durosimi skillfully sent a rope of light snaking across the ground, which wrapped itself around Dawasandup’s legs. With a flick of his wrist Durosimi spun him onto his back.

“Now!” he shouted to Philomena, and an instant later a flaming sword hovered inches above Dawasandup’s helpless form.

“Go on!” yelled Durosimi, but Philomena shook her head.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” she said. “Not like this.”

Durosimi gave her a withering look. “Well I damned well can,” he hissed and sprinted across the gap to where the lama lay. 

As Philomena’s fiery sword faded into the air, Durosimi lunged, wielding a heavy hunting knife.  Suddenly he stopped. Emerging through the mist behind Dawasandup was  a massive tiger, its great bulk blocking out the light. That did not matter really, as its eyes blazed with a cold, intense fire that cast shadows upon the ground. This was Tagsan, the tiger demon, more huge and terrifying than either Durosimi or Philomena had ever imagined.  

The creature roared, and the noise shook the windows of every house on the island.  Clasping his hands over his ears, Durosimi dropped to his knees. Extending  a lazy paw, the tiger reached out and dragged him across the ground, as a cat would a mouse.  Deafened and dizzy, Philomena attempted to toss another lightning bolt towards the demon, but Tagsan stopped it in mid-air, and with a growl turned the bolt around easily, sending it back to Philomena. It hit her hard on the shoulder, spinning her around like a top. Philomena gave a gasp of pain, and dropped to the ground, where she lay perfectly still.

To be continued…

Hopeless

The Swimmers

Leave a comment

No one swims at Gethin’s Beach. Not anymore. True, it is a sheltered spot, and the currents here seem gentler than is generally the case around Hopeless. There used to be a small settlement here, but they are long gone. Or at least, they are no longer present as people.

At high tide, you cannot see them at all. But, as the waters recede, they reappear. With each tide they become a little less like the people they once were – these days if you did not know what you were seeing, you might mistake them for rocks.

Once a year, Reverend Davies brings people out here to shout the names of the dead. We do not really know if they are dead – they don’t move any more, and people who spend that much time in the sea can hardly be expected to be alive. And yet, we do not know if they still hear us. All we can do is come to them, year on year, and call out their names so that they know we haven’t forgotten them.

It’s a good time to shout the names of the recent dead, too, and those other souls lost to the sea. Do not get close to the waves. We do not know what befell the people of Gethin’s Beach, and while the beach itself seems as (un)safe as any other, it may be that something in the water transformed them and trapped them here.

(Photo by Keith Errington, text by Nimue.)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Wind that Shakes the Ash Trees

Leave a comment

“That’s not going to happen,” raged Doc Willoughby. “You ignore me when I visit, treat me like dirt and expect me to run around the island undoing the messes that you’ve caused with your mistakes. Well I’ve had enough of you and your ways, O’Stoat. You are nothing but a fraud and a charlatan of the worst kind, and I refuse to be your lackey any more.”

Ever since he had received the note from Durosimi, Doc had rehearsed this speech a dozen times in the comfort of his living room. He had been determined to stand up to Durosimi once and for all. He was sick of being treated like a doormat. Now, standing nervously in the sorcerer’s study, this did not feel to be the best course of action.

“Well, now you mention it, old friend, I do tend to drop into The Squid and Teapot from time to time,” stammered the Doc, hating himself for his total lack of backbone. 

“Splendid!” beamed Durosimi, “I knew that I could rely on you to get young Tenzin to come back to me.”

“I’ll do what I can…” said the Doc, dejectedly.

“I have every faith in your powers of persuasion,” boomed Durosimi, full of false bonhomie. “Now, where did I put that bottle of single malt..?”

“He’s busy meditating,” said Philomena Bucket, when the Doc enquired, later that day, if Tenzin might be available for a little tête-à-tête. The usually gentle Irish lilt had left Philomena’s voice, and it was cold and sharp. In those three words she managed to convey the message that there would be nothing further to add to the conversation, thank you very much.

Doc knew that he had been defeated at the first attempt. Despite his dislike of Philomena, however, he could not help but reflect that she would make a wonderful  receptionist, and keep those blasted idlers from bothering him for appointments all of the time.

Doc was close to panic; he had no idea what he would do now. He briefly considered kidnapping the young monk, but wisely decided that youth and agility would be on Tenzin’s side. Besides that, there was always the possibility that the monastery had instruction in some sort of  martial art in its curriculum, and that the monks routinely went around with an assortment of lethal throwing implements stuffed in their robes. With a heavy heart, Doc decided to go home and sleep on it. Maybe Tenzin would go back to Durosimi of his own accord. Maybe Durosimi would be eaten by the Kraken. Maybe the world would end tonight… 

In the event, none of the above mentioned scenarios occurred, but the problem of getting Tenzin back to Chez Durosimi suddenly became much less important.

The reason that the Yeti (who, for convenience, we know as Billy, or possibly Willy) brought both Durosimi and Tenzin from Tibet to Hopeless, via Mr Squash’s mystic portal, was for them to escape the wrath of the anchorite and sorcerer, Dawasandup. As lamas go, Dawasandup was not as devoted to the notion of peace and love as he might have been, and was extremely keen on sacrificing Durosimi, or failing that, Tenzin,  to a particularly unpleasant tiger demon named Tagsan. Not unreasonably, both believed that a distance of some seven thousand miles would be amply sufficient to keep Dawasandup safely out of the way. After all, he could not come through Mr Squash’s mystic portal… could he?

Reggie Upton adjusted his Homburg to a jaunty angle and set off upon one of his evening rambles around the island, swinging his walking cane as he went. His plan was to meet Winston Oldspot, the Night-Soil Man, near Mr Squash’s mystic portal, a natural archway formed by two ash trees which had collapsed into each other’s branches. 

The evening was, as ever, foggy and the wind was little more than a zephyr. All was peaceful until, apparently from nowhere, a sudden whirlwind shook the ash trees, which thrashed wildly, sending their remaining leaves and odd bits of branch spinning to the ground. Reggie had seen some bizarre weather in his time, but never anything like this. Within the portal a gale raged, while just a few feet away the evening was tranquility itself. Sensing that something unusual was about to happen, he decided that it would be wise to slip into the shadows and keep quiet.

To begin with, Reggie thought he was looking at a ghost. The figure emerging from between the trees was completely unruffled by the tempest that raged all around. Its slender form appeared to be draped in a long white shift, and seemed to drift rather than walk. Then Reggie noticed the long, thick braids of dark hair that hung almost to the ground, and  alarm bells rang in his head. This must be that Dawasandup chap whom Tenzin had described, and the bounder had doubtless come to fetch the young monk back. Well, Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton, late of the King’s own Royal Regiment would have something to say about that – but not on his own. That would be madness. Philomena would know what to do…

Hopeless inhabitants

Renunciation Jones

Leave a comment

When people who have never knowingly seen a goblin think of goblins, they think of Renunciation Jones.

Renunciation is not a goblin, this much we know about because island goblins are funny little energy beings who like to possess inanimate objects in order to mess about. In this regard they are much like demons. Whether there is any real difference between demons and goblins is at present uncertain. Renunciation certainly isn’t a demon.

If you ask Renunciation about any of this – as politely and circumspectly as you can – they will point out that living to a hundred and twenty seven years of age will do this sort of thing to anyone and that it is a small price to pay for immortality.

If you ask Condolences Jones – one of the three Jones grandmothers who might be the eldest living grandmother on the island – she disputes this. “I remember how Renunciation looked seventy years ago, and it was exactly the same as they are now. T’aint age. It’s on account of working with them night potatoes. Does things to your skin. Anyway Renunciation ain’t a day over eighty six, being a few years younger than me.”

The trouble with the elders of the Jones family is that none of them really seem to know how old they are, or how old anyone else is. This too can perhaps be attributed to long term night potato exposure.

It is possible to live to a considerable age on this island, although whether that counts as a blessing or some form of karmic punishment, is another question entirely.

(Art by Tracie Tink Voice, text by Nimue)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Teething Troubles

Leave a comment

“I know that it’s none of my business,” declared Father Ignatius Stamage, the ghostly Jesuit who haunts The Squid and Teapot. “ But Caitlin’s surname should ideally be Bucket-Middlestreet. Middlestreet-Bucket sounds too much like a municipal privy.”

Lady Margaret D’Avening lifted her disembodied head from under her arm  and nodded in agreement.

“It makes sense,” she murmured, “but I fear that in common with all of the female line of that particular family, the girl will be known simply as Caitlin Bucket.”

“And will be unbaptised as well,” said Stamage with a shudder.

The subject of their discussion was blissfully unaware of the concerns raised by The Squid’s resident phantoms, and was currently enjoying a game of catch with Drury, the skeletal hound. From an onlookers point of view this was not a particularly successful pastime; on the rare occasions that Caitlin’s aim and Drury’s co-ordination synchronised, the ball would rattle around the dog’s ribcage and drop to the floor. Fortunately this seemed not to matter to either participant, given the fits of giggling and excited barks.

Prior to Caitlin’s arrival, mornings in The Squid and Teapot had traditionally marked a generally peaceful oasis of calm in the busy, and often chaotic, life of the inn. Not that anyone was complaining; Caitlin had won the hearts of all who met her, including the island’s most recent resident, the Buddhist monk, Tenzin, who was quietly sitting cross-legged in a corner of the bar.

“What’s he up to?” enquired Septimus Washwell. Trading on the fact that he had been responsible for bringing Tenzin to The Squid, Septimus felt it to be only right and proper that he should spend every free moment ensuring that his new-found friend was being suitably catered for, in exchange for no more than the occasional tankard of ‘Old Colonel’.

“He’s meditating,” replied Reggie Upton. “I’ve seen holy men in India doing it. Apparently the aim is to become one with the universe.”

“I’m surprised he can hear himself think, with all of the noise that Caitlin and Drury are making,” said Septimus.

“That’s the point,” said Reggie. “He isn’t thinking “

Regular readers will recall that Septimus and his wife, Mirielle (leader of the dance troupe  ‘Les Demoiselles de Hopeless Maine’) had twin daughters, Germaine and Pauline, who had been born on the previous Christmas day. Named after two heroines of the French revolution, the girls were the apple of their father’s eye. At the moment, unfortunately, they were both teething, and life in the Washwell – D’Illlay household was currently far from placid. Being able to close his mind to all outside noise sounded idyllic to Septimus. He would have to ask Tenzin to show him how to meditate. How the fiery Mirielle would react to her husband attaining a state of bliss, while she looked after two fractious children, however, was another matter. 

Just a mile or so away from The Squid and Teapot, Durosimi O’Stoat was also thinking of Tenzin. It occurred to him that he had been far too hasty in throwing the young man out of his home. Durosimi had done this in a fit of pique, having learned that, without enlisting the help of the Sasquatch, Mr Squash, or one of the Himalayan Yetis, the monk was incapable of getting back to Tibet. It was only now that the realisation dawned upon the sorcerer that the lad had spent the last ten or twelve years being taught by some of the finest practitioners of the occult arts that the world had ever known. Some of what they had told him must have rubbed off, Durosimi reasoned. He decided that he would have to find a way to lure Tenzin back, and out of the clutches of ‘That Bucket Woman’.  Maybe he could persuade Doc Willoughby to help. After all, the Doc had been known to frequent The Squid from time to time. Yes, Durosimi was all too aware that he had given the Doc short shrift lately, on those occasions when the old quack had knocked on his door, but that was all in the past, and it was amazing what could be achieved when there was the promise of some well-aged single malt whisky in the offing. 

Flora and fauna

Do not give them forks

Leave a comment

It is best not to mess with SpoonWalkers. Nathaniel Bowbridge (self styled gentleman scientist) had a theory that SpoonWalkers could and would use forks if these were the only utensils available to them.

Accordingly he trapped several SpoonWalkers and isolated them in a cage with only forks available. They did indeed hobble about unhappily on forks but before Nathaniel could write up his findings his housekeeper arrived one morning to find the lock of the cage expertly picked by a fork, the SpoonWalkers gone, all the spoons missing from the kitchen and Nathaniel Bowbridge dead, repeatedly stabbed.

He was, in the words of Detective Inspector Edgeworth, “completely forked!”

(Text by Bob Fry, image by Keith Errington)

Flora and fauna, Uncategorized

Gazing back at the weird things

Leave a comment

Back when the first few graphic novels came out, a number of reviewers made the same observation: The island is full of strange entities, but the islanders seem entirely oblivious to them. It creates a somewhat creepy effect. That part of the storytelling was not my decision.

It could be assumed that islanders used to protect themselves by trying not to know what was going on around them. Perhaps they didn’t care, and felt no interest in the eyes in the dark. Fear, or complacency, apathy or despair – there are many reasons not to bother with what’s around you.

The life of the island has changed as we’ve gone along. The Hopeless, Maine Scientific Society first turned up as a two page spread in one of the books – it was my idea, as I wanted to dig in more with islander life. I went on to use the Scientific Society repeatedly in the aftermath of the kickstarter where I had to kill one hundred people.

Since then, the Scientific Society has taken on a life of its own, including those splitters who are now in the Horticultural Society instead. Islanders have started paying a lot more attention to the flora and fauna around them.

There is a kind of horror in weird obliviousness, and people who do not care enough to engage with the world they live in. Frankly, I think there’s enough of that kind of horror out in the ‘real’ world. Better then, to have the kinds of horrors you can find by gazing back at the weird things, gazing into the void, gazing into the bushes and so forth.

(Image and text by Nimue)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice

Leave a comment

“Ah, so you’re awake at last.” Durosimi O’Stoat fondly imagined that the ghastly rictus currently adorning his face would be regarded by his visitor as being a warm and avuncular smile.

Tenzin, the young monk who had been recently deposited upon the island of Hopeless, Maine gazed up in terror.   “Who are you? he whimpered, or at least he would have done, had he realised that he was not in Tibet. What he actually said was,  “ ཁྱེད་སུ་ཡིན”

Despite having recently spent several weeks in a monastery, high in the Himalayan Mountains, Durosimi had not managed to pick up a single word of the language. “Come on lad, less of that,” he said, the awful smile fading. “You’re in America now, so speak English.”

“America?” said Tenzin, his fear subsiding as he recognised the sorcerer. “How did I get there?”

“That’s what I was about to ask you,” said Durosimi. “What can you remember?”

 Tenzin screwed up his face, trying to recall exactly what had happened. “Very little,” he admitted.  “There was something to do with Dawasandup…” then added, “but I can’t remember what.”

This was disappointing, but at least, hearing the name of Dawasandup (the powerful anchorite who was reputed to be able to  fly, have dominion over demons and kill from a distance) was reassuring. Durosimi would have felt somewhat less assured had Tenzin remembered that Dawasandup had plotted to sacrifice him to the tiger-demon, Tagsan.

“Not to worry, it’s early days yet. I am sure that your memory will return soon,” said Durosimi.

Durosimi desperately wanted to return to Tibet and – blissfully unaware of Dawasandup’s murderous plans – learn all that he could from the anchorite. Believing that Tenzin had found a way to travel unaided through Mr Squash’s mysterious portal, he was prepared to wait until the young monk’s memory had returned. In the meantime, it seemed sensible to keep Tenzin safely away from the influence of other people on the island, especially Philomena Bucket, who might be inclined to give his guest a less than favourable assessment of Durosimi’s. character.

“The island is not a particularly safe place for an unwary stranger like yourself,” Durosimi told Tenzin. “I think it best that you remain here until you have recovered completely. In fact, you could help me, if you wanted. You could become my apprentice.”

“Thank you,” said Tenzin, gratefully, placing his hands in  prayer position in front of his chest, and bowing his head slightly. “I would like that.”

“Splendid!” exclaimed Durosimi.

*

“He’s up to something,” said Doc Willoughby. 

It was rare for the Doc to confide in anyone else on the island, but Reggie Upton seemed less likely to gossip than most.

“In what way?” asked Reggie.

They were sitting in the snuggery of The Squid and Teapot, sharing a few glasses of the Gannicox Distillery’s best spirits.

“Durosimi is being elusive… even more so than usual,” said the Doc. “I have called upon him three times in the past week and he has made sure that I didn’t get through the front door. He’s hiding something, I’m sure.”

“Everyone thinks that he’s a changed character since going to Tibet,” said Reggie. “Less abrasive,”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Doc. “He’ll only let you see as much of what is going on as he wants you to see.”

“I always thought that you two were friends,” said Reggie, surprised as Doc’s candour.

“No, not friends,” admitted the Doc. “I keep him on-side, and he finds me useful occasionally. Durosimi doesn’t have friends.”  

“Well, whatever it is that he is keeping hidden,” said Reggie, “I’m sure that all will be revealed – for good or ill – before very long.”

Two weeks had passed since Tenzin’s arrival on the island. During that time he had made sure that Durosimi’s home was spick and span from top to bottom. He was beginning to wonder when his apprenticeship was going to start. He was not so much the sorcerer’s apprentice as the sorcerer’s domestic help. Every day Durosimi would ask him if his memory had returned, and every day he had to shake his head and say “no, sorry.”

Then one morning everything came flooding back. His escape from Dawasandup; the flight into the mountains; his meeting with one of the Spirits of the Glaciers, and the way in which he was brought to Hopeless. This was exciting. He could not wait to tell Durosimi. 

As he told his tale, Tenzin failed to notice the sorcerer’s face growing darker and darker. 

When he had finished he was conscious of a long and ominous silence.

Then Durosimi spoke. “So you got here, not by your own efforts, but the same as the rest of us. Dragged through by some blasted Yeti.”

Tenzin nodded, not sure where this conversation was going.

“And I have wasted precious weeks waiting for some grand revelation that was never going to arrive.”

“But I couldn’t remember…” stammered Tenzin.

“That’s no good to me, and come to that, neither are you,” growled Durosimi. “You need to go before I do something that you will regret.”  

“Go? But where,” said Tenzin, helplessly.

“Go where every misfit on this god-forsaken place goes,” said Durosimi. “To The Squid and Teapot – now clear off.”

Tenzin had no idea where, or indeed what, The Squid and Teapot might be. He wandered through the fog for hours until he bumped into a bemused Septimus Washwell. Sensing a moment of glory, Septimus was happy to escort the exotic stranger  to the inn, where he led him through the impressive oak doors and into the oasis of light and cheer that was the bar of The Squid and Teapot.

To Septimus’ dismay the room fell to silence. Everyone stared suspiciously at the young man with the shaven head and sandalled feet. His burgundy robes were splattered with mud.

“Look who I found wandering about,” said Septimus. 

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie Upton. “He’s a monk of some description. You had better leave this to me.”

He strode up to the newcomer and did what any Englishman would do in like circumstances.

“DO YOU SPEAK ANY ENGLISH?” he shouted. His words came out slowly and deliberately. 

To everyone’s surprise the monk quietly replied,

“Yes, perfectly, thank you. I am Tenzin,” and he gave a small bow.

Reggie smiled uncomfortably, a little embarrassed by the way he had addressed Tenzin, but things now began to make sense.

If this chap wasn’t the reason that Doc Willoughby had been excluded from Durosimi’s company, then he would eat his hat.

Flora and fauna

The Turnip Man

Leave a comment

“What are you making?” I ask my child.

“It’s The Turnip Man,” she says, holding up her needlework for my inspection.

I say nothing. I have seen The Turnip Man too many times in my dreams of late, his rooty fingers reaching for me.

“He lives underground,” she tells me. Her voice is strangely neutral, as though this information is of great indifference to her.

“Have you seen him?” I ask, more afraid of the answer than I care to admit.

“I see him all the time,” she says, as though this is perfectly normal. “Don’t you see him?”

“Only in dreams.”

“He wants you to see him, but you have to let him in through your eyes,” she explains.

I do not want to let him in.

“He is cross with you,” my child continues.

“What must I do?” I ask in a frightened whisper.

My child considers this question carefully. Almost as though she is listening for the answer. I have never heard The Turnip Man speak. When he opens his mouth in my nightmares, I hear only the sound of my own screaming.

“He wants you to feed him,” she says. Then she smiles up at me. Her eyes are black holes, her skin the leathery texture of dried turnip skin. Her mouth opens slowly, revealing the rows of tiny, sharp teeth.

I wake up screaming, to find my child standing over the bed, holding a piece of cloth depicting The Turnip Man.

I remember that I do not have a child.

(Text by Nimue Brown, Turnip Man image and concept by Allison Kotzig.)

Art of the island

Making new friends

Leave a comment

The shed is a wonderful place to make new friends. Here a wizened root, there a broken fork, a rake, some bit of metal and wood that makes no sense on its own, but calls out to become something new. There is always string in a shed, and sometimes wire – magical sources of joints and attachments, uniting disparate things into new shapes. And so you sit down, and ask of the shed what in it wants to be new, and exciting, and you work with what you get. Your new friend takes form under your hands, moving into the world as you find eyes and toes, limbs and a body.

When you start, you know nothing about the new friend. They may well turn out to be an old friend who has been obliged to hover about, insubstantial and lost. You make the form, invite the spark and wait to see who shows up.

(Text by Nimue, art by Tracie Tink Voice, who we’re delighted to have as a new member of the Hopeless, Maine team!)