Steven C Davis recently found this goblin in the kitchen. It appears to have eaten all the cheese, at the very least.
Most of the time we don’t see goblins, because they’re just energy. However, they can pull together assemblages like this at will, taking form from whatever is around them, to enable them to do whatever they want to do. Which in this instance appears to have been feasting on cheese. Quite where the cheese went is anyone’s guess.
Goblins definitely eat things, but need to take a physical form to do so. The good news is that if you can’t see them, they can’t eat you. The bad news is that this can change rather rapidly.
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)
Dustcats are much debated by The Scientific Society of Hopeless, Maine.
Observations of James Weaslegrease: According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way a dustcat should be able to fly. The dustcat, of course, flies anyway, because who cares about tiny details like the laws of physics.
Keith Errington: As a fellow member of the Scientific Society, I am astounded by your inaccuracy Mr. Weaselgrease, clearly dustcats do not fly, they are simply not capable of flying, to suggest as much is tantamount to lunacy. No. Clearly dustcats float. And it’s their floating that defies all known laws of physics. (Even the ones that “Professor” Evenheist made up).
Mark Hayes: dust ‘floats’ in the air due suspension in air currents , until it settles on a surface, in the same way that heavier particles ‘float’ in water, suspended in the medium a dust cat does not fly, it ‘floats’.
James Weaslegrease: Your theory, whilst interesting, has some room for improvement. Floating is what occurs when a creature has buoyancy within the appropriate body, be that liquid or gaseous. It, critically, involves no input from the creature itself to sustain, and does not allow for directed movement, forcing the creature to move as the flow of its surroundings dictates. With this in mind, I have performed several tests with a dustcat’s favoured human, as well as some especially tasty piles of dust, and have concluded that dustacats are entirely capable of “floating” towards whatever their target is with far too much regularity to be a coincidence. Therefore, since their aerial mobility is controlled, it constitutes flight, as opposed to floating.
At this point it needs noting that the debate in question had occurred informally at The Squid and Teapot and that further insights may be less than perfectly scientific in nature…
Herb Chevin: Your mum’s a dustcat.
James Weaselegrease: You wish my mum was a dustcat.
Bob Evenheist: I have proved beyond any shadow of a doubt that my theories about physics…
Herb Chevin: I’ve got a theory that if I punch you really hard, you’ll shut up. Want to test it?
At this point Herb Chevin undertook to punch Bob Evenheist. Bob flew through the air in a graceful arc and then just lay horizontally in the air above the fireplace, looking awkward until she was towed out at closing time. Various conclusions have been drawn from this, but frankly none of them were useful.
(Image by Nimue. Text by named individuals, other bits also by Nimue.)
A small cove, lit only by moonlight. Often a good place for line fishing, but tonight the seas shudder with awful sound, and the fisherfolk huddle amongst the rocks, hoping that the danger will pass before morning.
At first, the raucous trumpeting, echoing between the rocks. A shuddering, making the sea itself tremble, the waves choppy and erratic. A dire rasping, as though rusty metal objects were drawn across each other’s surfaces, setting every nerve ending into spasms of discomfort.
A violent honking, angrier than geese. Screaming geese would be a welcome distraction just now for they at least are a familiar kind of threat.
The sea throws cold wetness over the huddling folk amongst the rocks. Their wiping fingers find it is not water, but something sticky and insidious that clings to their skin.
All night long the sea itself seems to hack and hiss, until the anxious light of a new day creeps in to bring strange insights.
In the centre of the cove lies a large form, grey in the faint light. It thrashes from time to time, and hideous sounds emerge from between its gaping lips. Not just sounds, but flurries of spittle and revolting, slimy nuggets that are taken by the tide. It is a sea monster, and it is dying.
This is a rare sight; leviathans such as this one spend their lives beneath the waves, and only come into the shallows in the final days. Here, they cough up their offspring from the depths of their massive bodies. Each greasy lump is in truth an egg, that will float away to begin a new life. Only in death do they reproduce, and the awful night sounds are life and death entwined as the old sea monster passes and new ones are born through the same unpleasant process.
There is nothing to do but leave the monster to the crows. In time, the bones may be worth salvaging.
(With thanks to Steven C Davis for the prompt. What he actually suggested was that I should record the noises I’ve been making whilst ill, but I thought it would be less disturbing all round if I just tried to describe what the last ten days have been like. I appear not to have drowned, but have unleashed a massive swarm of unholy snot-offspring into the world.)
Sometimes it is hard to be sure what comes from true memory, and what I have dreamed in some fevered night when the wind was full of howling and my flesh seemed possessed by unnatural beings.
I remember whales, the shape of them in the water above me and the uncanny sense of their having knees. Do whales have knees? I remember someone telling me in truth I had seen only blubber. But they were telling me about seal blubber at the time, and how that relates to the bodies of selkies in and out of human form and perhaps that did not happen after all.
Still, I cannot shake off this question, this unease. Do mermaids have knees? For if whales have knees, then surely mermaids must? Is that not logical? And if whales have blubber resembling knees then could mermaids be the same?
I only ever see their upper parts, their heads and shoulders as they bob in the bays, calling for me to come into the water. I am certain I have seen them, with their wild eyes and terrible teeth. I have seen them turn and dive, the flash of tails as they resubmerge. But of knees, I know nothing.
“Come and look,” they say to me. “Slip beneath the waves and learn our secrets. Know our hidden parts, discover the truth for yourself.”
I know that mermaids are not to be trusted. We bury the people who trust mermaids, or at least we bury what little of them the sea gives back to us. Perhaps those dead souls might speak out, and share the truth of their own findings beneath the waves. Undoubtedly there were teeth, and tails. Will they remember the knees? Are they – like me- haunted even in death by that which lies beneath the surface?
(Text by Nimue with thanks to Rachel on Twitter for the prompt.)
Demons love warmer weather and are always more active at this time of year. Here is some advice for dealing with any demons you encounter.
Try not to. This almost never goes well.
Do not believe what the demons tell you. Especially don’t believe them if they tell you it won’t hurt at all, or that you will have fun.
It will hurt. It will not be fun.
Do not feed the demons. This is harder when they pretend to be cats.
Do not give demons your blood, even if they ask nicely. Do not give cats your blood either. Not all cats are demons but it is better not to take any risks on this score.
If you find a sunbathing cat, consider that it could be a demon and proceed cautiously.
If you chance upon a sunbathing demon/cat, and think of something funny you could do, don’t do it. It will hurt, it will not be fun.
Demons never possess you for just a little while. Let them in and you’ll have a hard time getting them out again. Sitting on you is not exactly possession but can lead to possession.
It is as well to be polite and considerate to cats in case they are really demons.
Do not give the demons pets or attempt to fuzz them under the chin. Do not ask the demons if they are adorable floof beans and the bestest little cattypus ever. This also doesn’t tend to go well.
The skunk cabbage, as mentioned in this tale, is quite an innocuous-looking thing. In fairness, if prepared correctly it isn’t much of a problem at all.
To prepare it, boil the cabbage whole for an hour. Throw away the water. Do not use the water. Really, don’t, not even if you think it smells acceptable. Wash the cabbage in entirely different water, and then cut it up if you like. Cook it for a further three hours, at least. The results don’t taste of anything much, and tend to be sludgy.
Undercooking a skunk cabbage has consequences.
Inevitably, once children become aware of this, a certain percentage of them will set out to eat raw skunk cabbage, with the intention of causing olfactory distress to those around them. The results can be hideous. Sometimes of course the little dears eat far too much raw cabbage, or turn out to be more sensitive to it than anticipated.
The most usual outcome, aside from utter humiliation, is the necessity of burning anything the child happened to be wearing at the time. Quite possibly anything anyone near the child happened to be wearing at the time as well. Skunk cabbage smells do not wash out, or fade in a timely way.
The perigret is also known as the sea sausage, or the stinky sea sausage. These creatures are not native to Hopeless, Maine, but are regularly sighted from boats around the coast. Either they spend all of their time at sea, or they come ashore somewhere nearby.
Most of us only encounter the stinky sea sausage after heavy storms, when you may find a few of them wheezing out their final breaths upon the beach, or being eaten by crows. Crows are notoriously not put off by the smell and are therefore the only entities willing to eat sea sausages.
However, the perigret has dense fur that is very waterproof indeed. Their distinctive red skins are often taken as hats, and worn by fisher folk. If you are out in a boat, the smell of the perigret dissipates, or is lost amidst the smell of the catch. The consensus is that no one in their right mind would wear perigret fur indoors, aside from Judge Joe.
Helpfully, a deceased sea sausage is easy enough to peel. A neat slice from chin to tail is all you need, and the outer layer can simply be removed from the rest of the creature. This is an exceptionally stinky job, but the crows will thank you for it. It is usual to just deploy the whole skin rather than going to the effort of removing the face and feet, and many people feel the shiny noses add a pleasing, jaunty quality to a hat.
Lead research botanist and chemist of the Hopeless Horticultural Society
Notes on The ‘Phallus Flacidious’ or Hopeless Stinkhorn
The common Stinkhorn is well known beyond these shores as a fungi best described with care in the compony of ladies. Indeed, a gentleman taking a young lady with an interest in botany out into the woods does well to avoid any patching of Stinkhorns he may recall. If, however the gentleman botanist is unfortunate enough to come across a common stinkhorn while escorting a young lady on a woodland excursion it is recommended in several journals on the subject of stinkhorns he attack the fungi with his cudgel.*
One notes, no gentleman of the Hopeless Horticultural Society should ever enter perambulate the woods without a robust cudgel of some description or at the very least a sturdy walking cane.
Quite apart from anything else they are useful for incentivising research orphans, the idle wastrels, by means of swift percussion. There are also of course ‘things’ in the woods of Hopeless of more danger to both the botanist and any young lady he may be escorting than fungi of an immoral nature and whilst it is the duty of research orphans to throw themselves between danger and the botanist, they prove cowardly in such endeavours as oft as not. Scampering away at the first sign on danger.
There is however, a note of warning, while there are many verities of the common stinkhorn on the island, standing proudly in defiance of decency. The Botanist should beware of cudgelling the increasingly common ‘Phallus Flacidious’ or Hopeless Stinkhorn. A variety of stinkhorn considered unique to the island which in defiance of its more erect relatives tends to grow a little then collapse under its own weight and slump to the ground. While this is of course less of a threat to the innocence minds of young ladies, I have come to believe the Hopeless stinkhorn lets out spores that affect the mind of gentlemen as this is the only reasonable explanation of why the sight of it incites strange feelings of inadequacy in this botanist.
While the dangers of escorting young impressionable ladies on naturalist excursions should be obvious, one also notes that the use of the word ‘naturalist’ in this context can easily be misconstrued. As Mrs Beaton took great pains to explain to us while wielding a wooden spoon. One advises the botanist does not use the word in her vicinity, and also that he makes it very clear when inviting young ladies to take a stroll through the verdant splendour of the wild arboretums of Hopeless he is doing so in order to invest in her his knowledge of nature’s wonders and not in order to gain knowledge of the wonders of the young lady in the garb of nature…
Additional note: Unfortunately, while this botanist has on occasion requested the company of several young ladies of the island on his woodland excursions, they seem reluctant to venture out with him. Even when it is made plain that the research organ will be accompanying them into the woods.
Nevertheless one does ones best to cudgel any common stinkhorns one comes across for sake of public decency.
*This is all true, Victorian gentlemen did indeed take cudgels to stinkhorns all the time according to the Woodland Trust and I am not about to argue with botanists. They know exactly which fungi are poisonous.
(Text and logo by Mark Hayes, realistic illustration of stinkhorn toadstools by Nimue)
Poor man’s kidneys can be eaten any time after they emerge. However, the best time to harvest them is when they’ve grown a good network of blue veins and the stalks have gone properly lurid. If they actually glow in the dark then they are going over, but you can still eat them even when a bit mushy.
Take your poor man’s kidneys and cut them into rough chunks. This will allow you to spot and remove any worms – you really don’t want to eat the worms even if they have stopped moving. Once properly prepared, poor man’s kidneys can be fried, boiled or added to dishes. They don’t taste much like proper kidneys but do have a slightly meaty flavour.
Edit: Just to clarify, it’s been pointed out to me that people might think I’m talking about a poor man’s kidneys rather than the toadstool. Much the same preparations apply to non-mushrooms, but if it’s a real kidney you have to wash it thoroughly so that it doesn’t taste too much like a decomposing shark. Don’t eat the worms.
