Being an anti-establishment figure is probably a lot easier when you have an establishment to rail against. Here on Hopeless, we have long prided ourselves in our absolute refusal to have a town council, put anyone in charge or accept anyone’s authority. Obviously if you want to accept someone’s authority you are totally at liberty to do so. Reverend Davies and Durosimi O’Stoat have reliably offered themselves as people willing to tell other people what to do.
It is true that life on Hopeless is grim, and our lack or organisation probably contributes to that. And so it is that the strife between rugged individualism and community-mindedness will likely continue forever, or at least until we are all eaten by monstrous beings.
When Martin first landed here, he was quickly found in the pub talking about the need to unite against our oppressors. Fine, and rousing speeches were made, and we all enjoyed the novelty of that. Organising against our actual oppressors remains difficult – the hard and uncaring land on which we dwell, the cruel weather, the relentless sea, and the ravenous eldritch horrors.
What Martin has taught us is that we don’t really want to organise at all. Fighting the horrors is futile. What we want to do is go down the pub now and then to sing rousing songs about overcoming oppression, uniting as workers and demanding better conditions. It’s all rather jolly, so long as no one imagines actually doing anything.
Arthur Foot III, one half of the famous music hall act The Cogkneys (available for concerts, weddings, bar mitzvahs, the opening of fetes, and possibly even the opening of an envelope), was knelt down next to an old wooden tea crate in the attic of the meagre, but sufficient dwelling they resided in. “Tilly”, he called, “I’ve got something to show you.”
Tilly Maydme, the other half of the famous music hall act The Cogkneys (available for etc.), shouted up from somewhere below. “Arthur, I am NOT falling for that one again.”
“No, Tilly,” Arthur sighed, “Come up and have a look at these old books.”
“All right, but I’m warning you, Arthur.” She ascended into the roof space to join her partner in crime – the crime in question being music hall entertainment.
“Do you remember old Uncle Gan?’ Asked Arthur.
“The one who wore a big hooded cloak, carried a long mystical staff with a glowing orb on its top and who kept going on about his bus pass?” Replied Tilly.
“Yes, although I don’t think he said bus pass. Anyway, he left behind a whole ton of stuff, most of which I got rid of, but this box of books looked valuable. Look at this one.” He handed Tilly a dusty tome bound in leather.
“Cor, Arthur, that’s heavy. Is it a good story?”
“I don’t think these are stories, Tilly. Look, this small one is some sort of notebook; I think it might have poems in it.”
“Ooh, we can make poems into songs – we could do with some new material.”
“Oh, Tilly, you shouldn’t believe the critics; the old material is still good; we’ve been performing it for years.”
“Arthur, these are dead peculiar sorts of poems. ‘Ere, listen to this one…” And Tilly started reading from the notebook, reciting a strange set of words that seemed to overlap and form a complex rhyme. Her voice was starting to sound very strange. She seemed to be chanting the words now, and her body stiffened. She was entering a trance-like state.
“Er, Tilly. I don’t think that’s a poem. I think, maybe you should stop now. Tilly? TILLY!!” Arthur shook his companion, but as he did so, everything changed, the room faded away and floorboards gave way to grass, the roof became sky, and the darkness of the attic was replaced with daylight.
Without wasting a second, Arthur grabbed the notebook from Tilly’s hands and stuffed it in a pocket for safekeeping. “We’d better not read from that notebook again.”
“Oooh-err, I feel all funny,” said Tilly.
“Save it for the act!” Responded Arthur without thinking.
“No, I feel right peculiar.” She looked around and took note of their surroundings. “’Ere, where are we? What happened?”
“It appears your accidental oration of a powerful incantation invoked a transference conjuncture, relocating our corporal essences to another locus in the space-time continuum.” Arthur elucidated.
“Wot?”
“We’re somewhere else”.
“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so! Sometimes Arthur you can be so inscrotable.”
“Hmm, let’s look around. Maybe we can find some clues as to where we are, or possibly even when we are.” Arthur surveyed the immediate area.
“’Ere, what’s that, Arthur?” Tilly pointed. Arthur followed her finger and saw a strange creature lurking under a bush. There was a quick flash of silver as the light caught something wrapped in the creature’s legs. “Are they spoons?” Asked Tilly.
“And look over there” This time it was Arthur who was pointing. “Those birds over there have translucent bellies and long sharp beaks. You know what this means Tilly?”
“They’re not chickens?” she replied.
“No, it means that we are on a mythical island, full of dangerous creatures and dangerous plants and shrubs, peopled by dangerous characters – smugglers, drunkards and neer-do-wells.”
“Well, it don’t look like the Isle of Wight to me. Honestly, Arthur, you’ve no idea where we are, Arthur, have you? No idea. This is hopeless.”
“Yes, Tilly, yes, it is.”
“What a bloomin’ mess. And us with no idea where we are.”
“No, don’t you see, we are on the island of Hopeless, Maine. I’ve read stories about this. In fact, there was a particularly good one called “The Oddatsea.” I can highly recommend that one. Anyway, we best get to somewhere safer, maybe there’s a town over there – see the smoke?”
So, the music hall pair made their way down a well-worn dirt track towards the distant buildings.
–◊–
After a few minutes walking along the track, it started to narrow. The forest, which had gradually been getting denser, closed in on both sides. Suddenly, there was a shout and a number of oddly dressed men and women armed with knives and makeshift clubs jumped out onto the road. Within seconds, they were surrounded.
“Arthur, we’re surrounded!” exclaimed Tilly.
They were grabbed, and strange-smelling cloths were placed roughly over their mouths. Then it all went black. When they awoke, they were in some sort of warehouse. All their personal effects were gone. They were both tied to chairs facing a small, rough stage on which a man dressed in wispy clothes was standing. He looked down and addressed them.
“We are the Worshippers of The Fog, and you have been chosen!” He shouted at them.
“Oh, in’t that nice Arthur? We must’ve won a competition or somefink.” Tilly looked at Arthur excitedly.
“You have been chosen… to be sacrificed!” announced the fog cultist imperiously.
“Oh dear,” said Arthur.
“What, both of them? We’ve only ever tried to sacrifice one victim before,” came a questioning voice from the throng.
“Silence! Drastic times call for drastic measures. Now that The Fog is gone, we must make a special effort to summon it from beyond. Clearly, The Fog demands a powerful offering! An exceptional sacrifice of extraordinary portent! Unfortunately, these two are all we’ve got, so they will have to do,” Replied the cult leader.
“Ere, whadya mean we will do? I’ll have you know we are The Cogkneys. Music Hall artistes supreme, the toast of London, well, Walthamstow anyway, (available for etc.).” Tilly proclaimed.
“Tilly, we had toast in Walthamstow; it’s not the same thing.” Said Arthur. “And I don’t think this lot really care about music hall; they seem terribly uncultured to me.”
“Uncultured? How dare you! Responded the cult leader angrily. “We appreciate the finer things in life. We are all intelligent, art-loving, refined fanatical cultists!” The milling crowd murmured and nodded in agreement.
“Oh really?” Asked Arthur. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely, and we are big fans of the music hall, you know.” Assured the head cultist.
“Right, well, in that case, how about we perform for you, and if you like us, you let us go, proving once and for all you are cultured intellectual high-brow zealots, and if you don’t like what we do, then you can sacrifice us.” Arthur offered.
“Arthur!” Tilly worriedly exclaimed.
“It’s alright, I have a plan.” Whispered Arthur.
“It better be better than all your other plans. Do you remember that time we went to Margate…”
“Shh, Tilly.”
The lead cultist seemed to consider for a moment. “You want to perform for us? And if you entertain us to our satisfaction, we let you go? I don’t know; we still need sacrifices, you know.”
“Look,” countered Arthur, “Are you enlightened, discerning, erudite, intellectual, devotees…”
“What?” interrupted the cultist with a look of incomprehension.
“…Or just stupid yokels fixated on water vapour?” continued Arthur.
“We are not yokels, we represent the finest Hopeless has to offer!” Exclaimed the lead cultist. “Pillars of our society! And we know what’s best for the good of the Island. We accept your challenge. Roger, I mean Fogman Sergeant, untie these two and get them onto the stage.”
“How are we going to perform without our instruments and music? “Asked Tilly of Arthur.
“We will have to do it acapella.” Replied Arthur.
“Bloomin’ ‘eck Arthur, I’m never, not taking my clothes off for nobody,” Tilly said firmly.
“No, Tilly, acapella means… Look, never mind. We will just have to sing unaccompanied.”
“Oh, well, I suppose we could manage.”
“Now, do you still have the notebook?” Arthur asked.
“Nah, them’s took it off me when we were rudely waylaid.” Tilly paused, then giggled.
“What?”
“Waylaid – sounds rude, don’t it? Heh, heh.”
“Tilly, concentrate, for goodness’ sake. Which one took it?”
“I dunno, I was out cold. Look, is that it over there on the table with our other stuff?” Tilly pointed to the back of the room.
“Yes, you’re right. Hmm, this does make it a little more difficult.” Arthur pondered for a moment.
“Wot yer thinkin’ Arthur?”
“Well, Tilly, it was the notebook that transported us here. Maybe there is some verse within it that can take us back home.”
“Oh, that’s just ridiculous, Arthur.” Scoffed Tilly.
“I know, but it’s all the author’s got.” Arthur replied.
“Perform for us, Cockneys!” Demanded the lead cultist.
“It’s COG-kneys, actually.” Said Tilly petulantly.
“NOW”, emphasised the fogman.
Arthur and Tilly went into their well-rehearsed routine and as usual started off with their instrumental theme tune, which they had to perform by going “la, la, la,” and then they introduced themselves with some well-worn, comedic banter.
After a few songs and their usual ribald patter in between, Arthur sensed it wasn’t going particularly well. The audience was sitting down politely listening, but they weren’t laughing much or applauding.
“Tilly, it’s now or never. We are going to have to put my plan into action. I need you to distract them whilst I sneak back and get the notebook. I need you to go all out.”
“Whaddya mean? I told you I ain’t doing burly-esk”
“No Tilly, I need two magnificent big…”
“Arthur!”
“Songs, Tilly, songs. I need you to beguile them, to entrance them, to captivate them with your performance. Two showstoppers!”
“Ah! Well, I’ll does me best. Here goes…”
As Tilly burst into song and belted out a proper soulful ballad, Arthur sneaked off the stage. He had to admit, when Tilly went for it, she was an incredible performer. The cultists appeared enraptured with her voice and her graceful movements on the stage. Arthur knew he had to make good on this excellent distraction. Sidling around the darkened edges of the warehouse, he made it to the table at the back. Pocketing their personal items, he grabbed the notebook and carefully made his way back to the stage.
The audience was so taken with Tilly that they hadn’t noticed his absence, and they burst into spontaneous and sustained applause as she finished the song.
“Now,” announced Arthur, “We’d like to perform a short poem.” He produced the notebook and passed it to Tilly, whispering, “Read – quickly!”
“Which one?” Tilly asked as the cultists shifted nervously in their seats.
“Any one!” Answered Arthur desperately.
Tilly opened the book and started reading. As she did so, the cultists exchanged glances; what was going on?
“Hey, isn’t that the notebook we took off them earlier?” One shouted.
So far, nothing was happening on the stage, ”Quick, try another” urged Arthur.
Tilly flipped to a different page and started reading. The words came out as a chant. Almost at once, a glow appeared in the centre of the warehouse. All the cultists turned to look as a large yellow sofa materialised. The glow stopped.
“But not that one!” Arthur bellowed above the cultists’ shouts. The fog fanatics had been momentarily distracted by the sofa’s appearance, but apart from one or two who were now plumping its cushions and sitting on it, the rest were approaching the stage, menacingly brandishing their clubs and knives.
Tilly flipped another page and once more began reading. Meanwhile the cultists were edging towards them, mounting the steps on each side of the stage.
Then Tilly’s voice became a chant, the words she uttered were mysterious and strange; they passed over one another in a way that unsettled the mind. The cultists stopped – they seemed scared, perhaps because, for the first time in their lives, they had actually encountered something genuinely otherworldly.
“Is it The Fog returning?” asked one with an air of wonder in her voice.
“No, you idiots, they are trying to get away – stop them!” Commanded the lead cultist.
But it was too late. Whatever incantation Tilly had found was working. Their surroundings were getting fainter like a mist had sprung up between them. As the noise of the cultists’ shouts faded away, our valiant music hall duo departed that fateful place.
To the cultists, it was as if a swirling cloud had taken them.
“It’s The Fog!” A man proclaimed.
“The Fog has taken them. It’s a miracle!” said another.
“No” protested the lead cultist, but he was drowned out by a dozen voices shouting, “The Fog! The Fog has claimed them; praise be to THE FOG!”
–◊–
“Cor blimey, thank Victoria that’s over!” Said Tilly, dusting herself off.
“Yes, that was a close one and no mistake. Bit of a scrape eh?” Remarked Arthur.
“Yeah, a proper escape!” Replied Tilly. “But where are we now? Are we home?”
“Hmm, let’s have a look around.”
“Oh, look, it’s all right, we’re a little way from home, but at least we are in England. It’s the Blackpool Tower, Arthur.” Tilly pointed to a large metal construction.
“Erm, Tilly…”
“Yes, Arthur?”
“Unfortunately, that’s the wrong erection.”
“Arthur – you are always being so rude.” Then she smiled at him, ”But I’ll forgive you after what we’ve been through. But just the once, mind.”
“No, Tilly. This is the tower designed and built by Monsieur Eiffel. It’s the the Eiffel Tower. We are in Paris, France.”
Those you who know the tales told at The Squid and Teapot. will be aware of the legend of the little drummer boy. He’s often appeared as a harbinger of death, or perhaps trying to warn islanders away from dangers hidden in the fog. If you hear his drumming, then you should either follow him to safety, or haste away to safety. None of us know which choice is more likely to prove fatal as reports are awkwardly mixed.
If you hear drums at night, we can now report that you might not be hearing the little drummer boy at all. It might possibly be Steven, who is of perfectly average height and could not, even in a bad light, be mistaken for a child. He does however have a drum. According to Steven, he is using the drum to ‘stop them coming out of the trees.’ He has refused to elaborate on this statement.
The best advice this reporter can offer you is to stay away from the woods at night – which you were almost certainly doing anyway. There is a plentiful supply of eldritch horrors in the trees. Whether any of them are inclined to emerge, or are attracted or repelled by drumming has yet to be established.
Keeping the lights on at night is important for islander safety. Generating the energy to keep the lights on remains problematic. This latest invention purports to use the souls of the damned to provide illumination.
Dr Lyssa assures us that there are a lot of damned souls floating about on the island, taking up far too much space in the ether. “Diverting their energy into light might do more than illuminate the town. It might even serve to reduce the miasma,” she told The Vendetta.
When asked how exactly the device worked to trap the souls of the damned and extract energy from them, Dr Lyssa said, “Very nicely, thank you.”
Several of our island’s psychics, who did not wish to be named (but you know who they are, it’s the usual suspects) have confirmed that they can see ghosts attached to the street lamps. There is consensus to that point, but not beyond it, which is probably why none of them wants to admit who exactly said what. I am reliably informed that
The damned are suffering dreadfully to create light and this is just.
That damned are using the lights to steal energy from everyone else and it is a conspiracy and a trap.
It isn’t the damned at all, but the ghosts of things that glowed when they were alive. You can see the glow, you just can’t see the ghost making it.
Doc Willoughby wants to reassure people that street lights cannot hurt you unless they fall on you, or a massive splinter of ice drops off and stabs you to death, or you walk into one in the fog, or something thin and awful is hiding behind one.
Daucus didn’t think he was cut out to be the Green Man. For one thing, he didn’t know what to do with all the charred and blackened bodies they’d burned for him.
Well. Burned – sort of. None of them were edible, he thought most were dead, but the pervading dampness of Hopeless, Maine made it difficult for anything to truly burn.
He was touched, he’d supposed, and blessed them – well, mumbled some words over those who’d burned the others, in fractured carota, a language no one else seemed to understand, but he seemed to know without having to try.
It wasn’t just the sacrifices, but what was he supposed to do with the offering? They were far larger – and gradually turning greener and soggier than him, and he didn’t have the strength or size to bury them.
He doubted the spoonwalkers would want anything to do with them, and the dust cats were more of a threat to him, psychotic little sneeze-inducing creatures that they were.
As for some of the other inhabitants – well. He was sure the pile was gradually diminishing, and not simply turning to liquid.
How am I actually supposed to bless the crops? And I don’t want to jump over any fire, that sounds like a good way – he shuddered. Daucus turned on his single leg. He’d had multiple trailing toes once, and if he stayed too long in one place – particularly the slowly decomposing pile of semi-burnt, mostly-soggy offering – they tended to regrow at a rapid attitude, always attempting to bury down in the death-deep soggy soil.
He jumped away slowly, his green leaves bobbling and trailing all over the place.
Story by Nimue in response to a photo by Sarah Snell-Pym
I found this, growing on the shore just a few days ago. It looked harmless enough, as small things often do. We’ve had more sun in recent days than is normal for the island, and I feel certain that the sun is to blame for what has happened. It isn’t natural to have so much direct light, there were bound to be consequences.
The thing on the beach is bigger now than my image suggests, it grows folding darkness into strange inner contours. The more it grows, the bigger the darkness within it becomes. Each day it is larger than before and the darkness lies deeper within it. I feel compelled to stare into those black recesses, although what I am looking for, I do not know.
They say that if you gaze into the void for long enough, it may stare back. We’ve all tried it at some time or another, courting terror and madness because we have to know, just this once, if the void will see us. I cannot explain this need to be seen by the unspeakable, to have that which is most awful gaze back, but I feel the lure of it. I’m sure you do too.
Compelled to witness the growth of this horror, I will go back. I will bear the uncanny feeling of sun upon my wrinkled skin, and no matter how my tentacles ache with horror, I will make myself gaze once more into those dark places. All my eyes are turned towards the void.
Winter mist mari by Skulls and Sheets, story by Nimue
I went down to the sea tonight. I don’t like those public rituals for screaming the names of the dead. Grief is a private thing for me. I like to be alone with the waves and whisper what I have to say.
I often see surf horses in the early morning, there’s a herd of them who usually appear in this cove. I think they feed on something in the water, or maybe it’s the foaminess of the cresting waves that they’re drawn to.
Today the mist lay heavily on the sea, rolling in banks like a second ocean riding upon the first. The kind of morning when it seems there might be many different worlds all layered one atop the other and that you might easily slip between them.
Then the slanting winter light cut through it all, buttery and strange, the yellow against the white. I saw her form then. She is to the mist what surf horses are to the waves, I think. Larger and more imposing than even the storm horses I have seen in previous years, but also more delicate, more ephemeral than the sea beasts I normally encounter.
I whispered the story of my grief to her, and she stayed, hovering in the bay as though inclined to listen to my words. I felt comfort, for the first time in many years. I felt understood. Sometimes there is beauty in the terror, and kindness in the most uncanny things. I have learned not to make assumptions.
With her blessing I go back to sleep in my grave a little longer. No doubt I will wake again, tormented by memory and loss. But I will wake knowing that I am not wholly alone in this world after all.
Hermits start out life as very small things, and they keep growing. If you find modestly sized hermits on the beach, they tend to be easy to catch, and while they will try to hang on to rocks, they have very few defences. The tentacles you most often find in island cuisine usually come from small to medium sized hermits. They are bland and chewy sort of thing to eat, no matter how you cook them, and as such represent one of the safest and most reliable kinds of food the island has to offer.
Although there are all sorts of things that hang out on beaches keeping an eye out for anything that might be trying to find hermits to eat. Collecting hermits as a food source is not a risk free activity.
As the same suggests, hermits tend to be solitary, but that depends a lot on size. The bigger they are, the further apart they like to be, so you can often find lots of very small ones fairly close together. A massive one will want a whole beach to itself.
The massive ones are rare, and are more likely to live underwater than at the tideline. You might see them in the shallows sometimes, waving their tentacles about as they search for food. And of course the bigger a hermit gets, the bigger its food items need to be. The tiny hermits you might collect in your bucket are probably eating things so small you can barely see them. The kind of hermit that wants a whole beach to itself is big enough to be able to consider humans a viable meal.
She will visit you in the longest and darkest nights. There is no certain day for her coming, so you must always be ready after Halloween. The Bone Daughter will come to your house. If you have left a gift for her, she may be satisfied with that. She likes wooden spoons, polished sea glass and the complete skeletons of mice. Other offerings may also be acceptable.
If there is no gift for her at the door, she may come into your house, into your bedroom and into your dreams. You will wake with the sound of her laughter in your ears and no idea what she has made you do. The Bone Daughter’s humour is unpredictable at best.
If you are lucky, she will have only made you sing the bum in the bumhole song in some very public place.
If you are slightly lucky then when you wake plummeting from the church spire, you’ll land in a tree.
If you are unlucky, someone else will find you and conclude that The Bone Daughter played a terrible game with you.
It has occasionally been attempted, so we are told, to send messages to that half-fabled Outside World; over the years (centuries), odd folk (some odder than others) have tied messages to the legs of birds (the birds usually peck them off and then eat them), concocted methods of communicating by smoke-signal (invariably swallowed up in the all-pervading mists and vapours of Hopeless). We could go on, but the underlying message is surely clear: messages rarely if ever make it out of Hopeless.
Recently, one reason for this repeated failure of communication has become a little clearer. It was only the other week when, during one of her occasional walks along the sea-shore, Miss White, of whom it has often been said, claimed on her return to have observed Professor Weatherpenny throwing a bottle into the waves. When questioned as to the reason for such peculiar behaviour, even by her standards (which are generally low indeed), the Professor explained that the bottle contained a message. Her insistence that this message was a scientific and fully researched treatise on the island and not merely a plea for rescue cut little ice.
Whichever was actually the truth was rendered largely irrelevant, however, for a day or two later a most peculiar piece of flotsam returned the bottle to its erstwhile owner. The thing washed ashore turned out to be a peculiar form of sea-creature with some rather odd (even by Hopeless standards) features. It was not dead – far from it, though it clearly preferred to be in the water than out of it. On what we presume was its back, it sported a very limp and listless – one might even call it doleful, a term very much in keeping with its facial features, as it happened. Still, no creature can particularly help how it looks – just ask Mr Igneous from The Puddle Inn – but the multitude who came to view the creature did rather decide that it could, if it so wished, modify its behaviour.
And this, finally*, brings us back to the matter of the Professor’s bottle-message: for it was promptly coughed up by the creature, almost right at Weatherpenny’s feet. As others in the crowd began to feel that it might perhaps be approaching lunchtime and brought out picnic-things, and certainly when Silas Grimgach, part-time brewer and barkeeper, began offering his own rather dangerous wares for sale, the animal went practically berserk. Every bottle, no matter the size, hue or even contents, appeared to be a subject of insatiable curiosity to it, and it immediately rampaged towards every new specimen, trampling men, women and children (as well as dogs, cats, other sea-denizens…) in its path. A good many residents of the islands found themselves with no option but to risk life-and-limb to rescue their glassware, for such things are hard to come by in Hopeless and people tend to treasure even the humble beer-bottle as heirlooms (as an Aside, Professor Weatherpenny was subsequently seriously chastised for her wanton disposal of such a valuable item).
Thus was the Bottle-Nosey Dole-Fin named and described (by the Professor, yet again), and added to the ever-lengthening list of Strange Things Around Hopeless (her Treatise on this, if nothing else, can be verified and even studied by anyone sufficiently bored). Driven from the strand and from every other picnic-area by incensed owners of bottles, wine-glasses and even spectacles across the island, we conjecture that there must be some level of breeding population in the oceans around Hopeless, and if their ability to discern glass artefacts is even half as keen amid the waves as it appears to be on land, then we can confidently predict that the bottle has yet to be made which might withstand their energetic attentions.
*the blame for such a lengthy discourse is laid firmly (by Miss White) at the feet of Professor Weatherpenny, since she is accused of being Academic and therefore inclined to verbosity. But since on some level we suspect that Miss White and the Professor are one and the same, the apple, as they say, has not really fallen very far from the tree.
