Frampton Jones was one of the first characters I added to the Hopeless, Maine cast list. He’s the island’s journalist. Back before there was even a webcomic, The Hopeless Vendetta existed as the island’s newspaper, getting Hopeless in front of people. When the comics started appearing as a webcomic, The Vendetta went out in parallel, adding extra dimensions to the tale.
Frampton soon started having his own tales and adventures alongside reporting what was going on. He was the person who first identified the existence of spoonwalkers. It’s hard to imagine now that there was time when islanders had no idea where all their spoons had gone.
He’s a high profile islander, with neatly starched collars that make Mrs Beaten weak at the knees. Frampton considers himself to be a serious journalist, dedicated to the truth. Other people have called him delusional, a rumour-monger, and have suggested that he often has no idea what’s really going on. Given how weird and complicated Hopeless is, and how rarely anyone can agree on what it was that emerged from the clouds, or the sea, or the ground, his is hardly an easy task.
To produce a newspaper, Frampton is obliged to recycle paper on a regular basis. He’s strident about people not using his newspaper for lavatorial purposes. He also has a big blackboard outside his home that islanders can use as a message board or to give feedback. By this means, what happens on the internet can also be fitted in to island life. I have spent a lot of time trying to make all of this make some kind of sense.
Semblance of Truth tells the tale of Frampton’s descent into madness. (Raise your hand if you’ve read too much H.P. Lovecraft.) Frampton owns a camera, and by clever means is able to develop film – this is how The Vendetta gets its pictures. This is one of those times when I have to ask that you please suspend your disbelief for the steampunk elements in the plot.
Frampton finds that what the camera sees is not what he sees, and this rapidly becomes complicated. I do usually try and explain or justify how things work on the island – for my own sanity at the very least. Sometimes we have to just accept that weird items wash in on these peculiar shores, and that said items may be possessed by entities too terrible to describe. The great thing about entities too terrible to describe is the way they let a beleaguered author off the hook in matters of feeling obliged to try and describe them or explain beyond their innate terribleness, how they actually get anything done.
So, it’s a terrible, possessed camera – clearly too terrible to describe, too eldritch to explain etc etc.
In which Keith Errington has things to say about the next Hopeless, Maine book to come out.
Our Welcoming Committee
A big thank you to all our kickstarter backers, whether you are a previous backer of a Hopeless, Maine project or a new vic… I mean… new bloo… err… newbie! Welcome to the island.
Even if you are a long-time fan of Hopeless, Maine you might not be entirely familiar with all the characters featured in the books, so we thought you might appreciate this wonderful illustration of the cast of Book One: Personal Demons created for an exhibition in Osaka, Japan.
Pay particular attention to the fellow in the bowler hat, third from the right, that’s Frampton Jones, proprietor, editor, journalist and photographer and solely responsible for the Hopeless, Vendetta, and he is the reason we know so much (so little?) about the island.
Now, for the first time, his story is told in Semblance of Truth, a novella that is currently only available through this Kickstarter.
“His quest for the truth exposes him to strangeness at every turn. Now someone is leaving him messages written with the remains of fish. The island’s spoon thief may be using his home as their hideout. His camera is probably possessed by something unspeakable. Trying to make sense of the things he encounters is an ongoing flirtation with madness.”
Semblance of Truth is set at about the same time as the first Hopeless, Maine graphic novel (Personal Demons) and fills in some of the background for that story while also expanding on the peculiarities of life on a gothic island.
At the moment you can only obtain Semblance of Truth by pledging at the Everything Hopeless! level, which is one of the more pricy pledge levels, but when you consider you also get the New England Gothic/Oddatsea novel, pdfs and hardback versions of Books One, Two, and Three it’s really quite a bargain. (Remember, you can update your pledge at any time until the project ends – here’s how to update your pledge on the app.)
Finally, we can only get your lovely Hopeless, Maine goodies into your hands if we fund, so please remember to share the project – tell all your friends, family, work colleagues, any influencers you know, people in the street, your arresting officer and any demons you may be personally acquainted with.
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.”
Early on in the life of this book, the working title was Sins of the Fathers – as that’s very much what’s driving the story. Specifically, the fathers of our main characters.
Salamandra O’Stoat is the daughter of a rather unpleasant occultist called Durosimi who – with more ambition than wisdom – has managed to become a vampire. With the whole vampire/consumption plot under way, Salamandra has the awkward issue of dealing with a problem that has probably been caused by her father.
Owen Davies is the son of Reverenced Davies and we’d be getting into the realm of plot spoilers if I told you too much about his plot line through this book. Fair to say that none of it is easy for Owen as his father does something truly terrible.
If you’re a regular on the blog, you’ll mostly know the fathers from their regular appearances in The Squid and Teapot. here we find their more everyday selves. Reverend Davies tends to be austere and ineffectual, Durosimi is always plotting something but seldom gets what he wants. They’d both be a lot more harmful if they were competent, but thankfully most of the time they are not that effective. In Sinners, they both manage to cause a lot of harm.
Sinners represents the first of my writing on the Hopeless, Maine story. When I came to the project, Tom had already created a few pages in which Owen returned to the island and found a whole situation with consumption, and vampires. This draws on New England folklore that blamed consumption on vampires. I included Tom’s original story fragments in these graphic novels, and managed to weave them into a larger tale.
I’d written all kinds of things prior to Hopeless, Maine, but never a comics script. I had explored radio plays, so I drew primarily on this. Comics call for a really different approach to prose – you can’t have much narration, for a start. If you’re trying to describe scenes and action for an artist, you have to do that in a way that will sit on the page. At the outset, I didn’t have much sense of how anything was going to sit on the page, or how to pace things, or what anything should look like.
By the time these scripts were being translated into book form, I had more idea of how to make the text work. What came out in the Sloth editions was greatly pared down from the first draft. As a younger writer, I tended towards longer and more wandering sentences. Characters were circumspect, their intentions obscure, their speech misleading. I was all about the ambiguity. Frankly there’s only so much of that you can get away with in a comics page. I kept what I could of the flavour, but sometimes I had to cut the script to the bone and focus on getting the story across.
Comics are not my natural habitat. I’m too interested in the inner lives of characters, in thought and feelings, and as a young writer, I wasn’t big on action. As I’ve got older, the amount of action in my stories has increased considerably. Shedding literary pretentions like the dead skins they were, has helped a lot. Having more life experience has helped a lot too. There was such a long time between the first draft and the final script that I changed a lot as a writer along the way.
Initially, I wrote Hopeless (starting with Sinners) as a single script, because it looked like it was going out into the world as a webcomic. Also I had no idea how much script represented a page, or how big a book ought to be. I really had no idea what I was doing. That lead to a later process (when I did know what I was doing) of breaking the story into book length chunks, and then figuring out chapters, and specific pages. It took a lot of work, time, learning and thinking. I went from having no clue as to how a graphic novel works structurally, to having a pretty good idea.
I occasionally have thoughts about doing a small comic on my own – so far I’ve not got beyond three or four beat comic strips, but it might happen.
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.
After some recent discussions in the pub it has become obvious that not everyone knows what to do if they find a dead g’nee. Back in the day of course we caught the giant ones and processed their oil, but the really big ones don’t come to the island any more, for some reason.
G’nee are easy to identify. If you find something with tentacles that has been crushed by a rock, this will be a g’nee. They have a nearly-invisible hot hair balloon as part of their anatomy, and when their candles run out, they fall out of the sky and are often killed by the stones they were carrying. Why they feel the urge to carry the stones is anyone’s guess – maybe as stands for the candles. How they get the candles remains a mystery. How they light the candles is also unknown. But they are at least easy to identify when dead.
Having scraped what remains of the g’nee off the stone, you have to press the oil out. This is best done through either squeezing, or the application of weight or pressure. Do not try to boil the oil out, this does not work. The oil is dark, thick and smelly. It is exceptionally good for oiling machinery. It is singularly dreadful for cooking with, and as James Weaselegrease has recently ascertained, likely to induce vomiting. Frankly, if James can’t eat it, no one can.
We hear rumour that some people swear by it as a skin oil. Applying it to the skin is likely to make your average islander smell a good deal worse than usual, and as the oil deteriorates, the smell increases. Whether there are any skin benefits to be achieved remains to be seen – we look forward to hearing about you experiments with this.
(Image and text by Nimue, with input from James and Keith)
Or so Duckhouse Eddie would have thought, were he given to thoughts.
You see, Duckhouse Eddie … but I get ahead of myself.
Allow me to introduce myself. I am Delia Spatchcock.
Yes, you heard me right.
Delia.
It’s an old family name; both my father and my grand-uncle (who was also my grand-aunt for a while) went by the name Delia.
But anyway.
Duckhouse Eddie was a lodger at – well, that doesn’t actually matter for this story.
He was strongly built, with a wide chest and a narrow waist; legs almost too narrow to support his bulk, but fortunately his head was quite light because it was mostly empty. It was said that when it rained – which, given it was mostly cloudy all the time, wasn’t actually that often – that he would feel it first.
But that wasn’t why he was called Duckhouse.
He was called Duckhouse because –
Well. I’m not sure we really need to go into that.
Anyway.
To rd. Yes. Well.
Oh, is that the time? I must be going. Maybe next time. You see, there are lots of interesting people in this cul-de-foggy-sack-built-buildings area. Thing. Whatever we call this place we make a home. I shall introduce you to some more of them later.
“Do they really expect me to eat this muck?” Doc Willoughby regarded his bowl of dark cereal with a look of disdain.
“It’s called tsampa, the staple diet of the monastery, and it is all that there is,” snapped Durosimi O’Stoat. “If you bothered to taste it, you would find that it’s really quite good.”
“I would be happier if I knew exactly what I was eating,” complained the Doc. “I can’t say I trust these fellows…”
“They are monks, for goodness sake!” exclaimed Durosimi, exasperated. “They’ve saved your life. Show some gratitude for once.”
Doc eyed his companion warily. This sudden respect for others was a side of the sorcerer that he had never seen before.
“Well, what’s in it?” asked the Doc.
“As far as I understand,” replied Durosimi, regaining his composure, “it is made of roasted flour and some seeds…”
“And what else?” muttered the Doc, suspiciously.
“Something called bod ja – Tibetan tea. It’s all perfectly good and, I have been assured, extremely nutritious also.”
Durosimi decided not to go into the details of how bod ja is made. Doc did not need to know that a large lump of greasy yak butter gets added to some heavily salted tar-black tea, which had previously been strained through a horse-hair colander. Neither did he need to be apprised of the information that this concoction is then churned until it reaches the consistency of thick oil, and added to the flour and seeds in order to make tsampa. Durosimi felt that knowing this, the Doc may have been disinclined to eat. Why such facts might have bothered someone who was more than happy to gorge on starry-grabby pie, however, is something of a mystery to me.
If you have just wandered into this tale after several weeks, or more, away, you may be wondering what Durosimi O’Stoat and Doc Willoughby are doing, enjoying the hospitality of a Tibetan Buddhist monastery, high up in the Himalayan Mountains and many thousands of miles from Hopeless, Maine. To cut a long story short, Doc Willoughby – for reasons yet unknown – had been found, not so much at Death’s door, but wiping his boots on Death’s welcome mat. Philomena Bucket and Mr Squash, the Sasquatch, agreed that the Doc’s only hope of being saved lay in the healing hands of the lamas of the legendary Dge-lugs-pa, or the Yellow Hat sect, (fortunately, these days they are known more for their distinctive burgundy robes than their yellow hats). Durosimi, who had visited the monastery some time before, offered to go and keep an eye on the Doc, and so Mr Squash transported the pair of them to the Himalayas, via one of his mysterious portals. Now you are up to date.
Philomena Bucket winced as Mr Squash lowered his huge, eight-hundred pound frame onto the old wooden settle bench that had stood for years in the corner of the bar of The Squid and Teapot.
“Is that worried look, etched upon your dear face, placed there for my welfare, or for the settle’s?” he asked mischievously.
“Both,” Philomena admitted. “I wouldn’t want to see either of you damaged.”
“That’s not likely,” said the Sasquatch, “This old seat is as solid as The Squid itself; it will take more than my delicate weight to do it harm.”
Philomena smiled. She hoped that he was right.
“Talking of damaged goods,” said Mr Squash, “it’s high time that I brought Doc Willoughby back from Tibet. If the monks have not cured him by now, they never will.”
“You don’t know, he might want to stay there,” said Philomena, optimistically.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” replied the Sasquatch. “Besides, Durosimi is with him. Having to entertain those two for any length of time wouldn’t be fair on the monks. It would be enough to make them lose their religion completely.”
“And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” laughed Philomena.
Mr Squash waited until daybreak on the following morning before leaving for Tibet. As ever, wisps of mist curled around the portal, which was just a simple natural gateway formed between two trees. If you or I had stepped through we would have found ourselves to be nowhere other than a stride away from where we had started, but for Mr Squash, and anyone whom he carried, it was a wormhole – albeit a large one – to the Himalayas, the land of his cousins, known to humans as the Yeti.
“Bon voyage, old friend,” said Reggie Upton, who had come to see him off. “Give my regards to your relatives.”
Mr Squash waved and disappeared into the portal. A few seconds later he returned, a concerned look in his wise and ancient eyes.
“Something wrong, old chap?” asked Reggie.
“There has been a rock-fall on the other side,” said the Sasquatch. “It’s totally blocked, and far too much for me to shift. There is no way that I can get through.”
A Semblance of Truth is a Hopeless Maine novella set in the same time frame as the first graphic novel. It started life here on the blog, and developed into a tale of the island from the perspective of journalist Frampton Jones.
It would be fair to say that Frampton is not a reliable narrator. He tries very hard to be fair and honest, but he experiences a descent into madness that has him questioning everything he knows. What he shares can therefore only ever be a semblance of truth.
It’s interesting looking back at the early island science in this book, for it was written before islanders had really got to grips with the presence of spoonwalkers. Imagine not having any spoons but also not knowing why you don’t have any spoons. Fortunately we all live in more enlightened times now.
