A few years ago we had a spate of deaths by cheese – most infamously EP Eriksson and Amanda Gardham. At the time it was hard to tell whether the cheese was just intrinsically dangerous or consciously malevolent. However, JJ Bannister has recently reported to the Scientific Society a sighting of semi-sentient cheese and has provided us with a picture of said.
We don’t have a location for the cheese at present, but we do know that it is armed, and it looks angry. However hungry you are, do not approach this cheese. Do not attempt to eat this cheese as it may be perfectly capable of attacking you. Do not ascribe sightings of this cheese to mushroom consumption or to having licked a dustcat. We can’t absolutely promise that it isn’t a hallucination, but for the time being it seems best to err on the side of caution.
Have you been afflicted by cheese recently? Do you know where this cheese is at present? Have you got ideas for a cheese trap? Tell us.
You wouldn’t know it from his surname, but Mat McCall is part of the Jones family – on his father’s side. This is a little bit complicated, his father having been born a Jones but with an unusual longing to stand out from that massive island clan he took his wife’s name upon marriage.
Legend has it that the Jones clan originally came to Hopeless when their pirate ship wrecked here many years ago. They were Welsh pirates, which is why they all had Jones as a surname, or so the story goes. For various reasons, there are some islanders who have their doubts about the details of this tale, but that’s a thing to ponder on another day.
Mat McCall is one of the few islanders to have maintained the Jones tradition of piracy. It’s a challenging career to follow given how short a distance boats leaving the island are able to travel. Add to that the probability that any boat not occupied by fisher folk is probably sinking by the time anyone sees it, and piracy becomes a tricky consideration.
However, as Mat likes to point out, there’s more to piracy than just stealing stuff from other boats. There’s the rum, the setting fire to your beard, aggressive use of the piano accordion, the aesthetic, the rum, the preposterous stories and the digging on beaches in search of treasure. Mostly the rum, though.
Jones family pirate art by Tom Brown, with an uncanny depiction of Mat McCall (bottom right) drawn before he’d met any of the Hopeless crew in person.
We recently invited people who had shipwrecked on the island (at Stroud Steampunk weekend) if they’d seen anything strange that they’d like to share. It’s part of an ongoing project from the Hopeless, Maine Scientific Society to try and identify more of the island’s flora and fauna. The more we know about what might kill us, the better our chances of survival.
If you chance upon David Feasey and believe him to be dead, please do not bury him. While our unburialist, Gregory O’Regan has thus far managed to dig David up on every occasion of mistaken interment, it would be much less stressful for all concerned if we could avoid that henceforth.
This includes situations in which Doc Willoughby has declared David to be deceased, because he’s already got that wrong on three separate occasions. It was fortunate that Gregory was on hand to unbury David each time.
Generally speaking, it does not seem to be a good idea to bury people simply because Doc Willoughby has declared them dead. The most recent occasion when David was mistakenly buried he had been pushing his latest device down the street and was entirely in motion at the time. Doc Willoughby shouting, “You’re dead, damn you man will you not stay buried,” is believed to be the prompt that caused several well meaning but uninformed citizens to carry David off to the nearest cemetery.
We can’t currently explain David’s condition, as at times he does become very still and assume an eerily corpse-like pose. The diagnosis of ‘definitely dead’ clearly isn’t right and with our only medical expert so dreadfully wrong, it’s hard to know what to think. Possession seems like a distinct possibility, as does some kind of ailment currently unknown to science. Given how many things remain unknown to science here, this seems like a realistic explanation, although one that offers us very little by way of utility.
(David Feasey participated in a recent Hopeless, Maine event at Stroud Steampunk weekend and very kindly offered to be an islander.)
It turns out that Roz White may have been making things up. This is going to come as a relief to some of you – it certainly did for me. All those things she said about ghasts might not be true. I’m still not entirely clear if ghasts are the same as gaunts or, for that matter, what a lady ghast is.
However, if they aren’t a new kind of monster and we aren’t all at dire risk of dying horribly in new and even less familiar ways, that’s about as close to good news as we’re likely to get this week.
Also it turns out that I was entirely wrong about her being a blacksmith, for reasons that should be perfectly understandable, I think. It’s a mistake anyone could make. Especially if, like me, they’ve mostly been getting by on hairy coffee for the last week and haven’t actually slept since the previous full moon. Has anyone else done that? Or is that just a me-thing? Anyway, there’s a point at which the hairy coffee doesn’t merely keep you awake, it adds in whole extra periods of time that no one else experiences and this is where (so I am told) all my issues with ghasts and blacksmithing have come from.
When Ellen first emerged from the sea we were horrified, of course. Nothing like her has ever before been seen on the island. She clearly isn’t a jellyfish woman, not with those substantial tentacles. And while we’ve had suspicions about what some of the island’s ladies actually have going on under their skirts, none of them have shown us their tentacles in this way before.
For a while, the swish of Ellen’s gliding tentacles as she drifted down the street was enough to cause fear, panic and a great deal of running away and hiding. Islanders are not especially proud, particularly in matters of staying alive. Better to be a coward now and alive to be mocked tomorrow, we like to say.
It turns out that Ellen makes an excellent cup of tea, and is full of entertaining observations. No one realised this until she ensconced herself in a corner seat at The Crow and managed to strike up a few conversations before anyone knew who she was. It no doubt helps that we’re all so used to seeing tentacles at The Crow anyway. Anyone getting a flash from under Ellen’s skirts would no doubt assume that the appendage in question had (depending on size) either escaped from her bowl, or from the kitchen.
While there are members of the Chevin family who still feel we should give her the pitchfork and torches treatment, the wider consensus is that she’s delightful and should stay. As far as we know she hasn’t eaten anyone – at least not anyone most of us care about which is an important detail. And to be fair, if there isn’t at least one Chevin who wants to assault you with a pitchfork the odds are you’ve been dead for some time.
(Photograph taken at Gloucester Steampunk weekend 2023 by the fabulous Darkbox Images)
James first appeared in Personal Demons (first half of The Gathering) as the boy afflicted by the demon. He wanted to be able to go as himself to World Book Day, and Tom was obliging on this score. By the time the book came out he was a bit old for that sort of thing, but it was a nice idea.
In his teens, James became a founding member of The Hopeless, Maine Scientific Society. Here he’s setting fire to a tablecloth – he’s a bit of a pyromaniac. You may have seen him in online festivals speaking on behalf of Hopeless scientists.
Now as a member of The Ominous Folk, it’s possible that James has found his final tentacular form. It’s also entirely likely that he hasn’t. His powerful voice is a great contribution to the band, and his humour always adds to live performances. There’s every reason to think he’s going to expand Hopeless in new directions at some point in the foreseeable future, and when he does, there will be suitable noises. This may or may not involve screaming.
His stage surname of Weaselgrease is also derived from the project, having been abandoned by one of the characters in the tale.
There aren’t many people Mrs Beaten actively approves of, but Lawrence Wilson is most assuredly one of them. Such collars! The immaculate state of his cuffs sets him apart from all others.
Frampton Jones of course also has infamously good collars, but the printing press is unkind to cuffs and sometimes there are faint and inky stains on his wrists.
Pristine whiteness is not an easy thing to achieve, especially not in the damp, mould breeding environment of Hopeless, Maine. Yes, you can make very effective lye soaps from a mix of ashes and animal fats, but the whole process is so filthy that some people question whether it’s worth getting into that state in the hopes of getting cleaner later.
Residents who used to live elsewhere may remember how it was possible to sun bleach your white cottons and linens. While islanders do occasionally get to see the sun, it is seldom around for long enough or with enough intensity to do anything for a person’s shirts.
Of course there is speculation. Might Lawrence have entered into some infernal pact, trading his soul for his laundry? It’s amazing what people will consider when they are bored enough. Might he be possessed of some uncanny power? Can he summon the sun at will? Or drive dirt from his vestments using the power of his mind? Is it some kind of witchcraft? Although this point is often refuted because witches on the island do not have a reputation for excessive cleanliness and have always tended to wear dark colours that hide the stains
The truth has everything to do with using night potatoes for starching collars. Most sensible people would take out the eyes, as those just look troubling and unsuitable. However, if you only use the eyes, and you don’t mind the smell, and you can cope with the howling and never quite shaking off the feeling that the night potatoes are watching your every move, then this does indeed result in a very presentable shirt.
The annual church picnic is usually an odd affair. We all know there are going to be sermons and that Reverend Davies will preach about the virtues of sobriety, temperance and moderation. Picnic goers are divided into several camps. There are the people who wholeheartedly agree with him, and who will willingly eat dry biscuits as they do so. Then there are the midgrounders, typified by Mrs Beaten – people who have brought along indulgences like scones, and jam-like substances but who nonetheless are willing to listen quietly, then sing enthusiastically. Furthermore, they sing enthusiastically at the points when Reverend Davies wishes them to sing and make their best attempts at the tunes he had in mind.
Then there’s everyone else. The ones who will try and spike the soothing tea with mushrooms. The ones who are mostly there in the hopes that Reverend Davies accidentally summons Satan out of the ocean. Again. Church picnics have a knack for attracting drama and chaos, so if you have the stomach for the sermons they can be rather entertaining as a spectator sport.
Tish Toglet has been the antagonist in chief for the counter-picnic for some years now. Rumour has it she is the one who managed to get Mrs Beaten so drunk last year that she did an entirely unseemly dance and flashed her bloomers before passing out. As for how she woke up covered in jam is of course anyone’s guess. The ultimate goal for those who go along only to disrupt the picnic, is to get Reverend Davies to do something funny. If he’s capable of laughter, no one has ever heard him do it, but he is certainly equal to causing great amusement.
The year a fish somehow got into his trousers was rather memorable on that score. Then there was the year we all had letters on our picnic blankets and spelled out something rude that only he could see when he stood up to do his sermon. This year a few of us are planning to take along phallic objects and sit with them in our laps and see if that throws him at all.
So if you’re coming to the picnic, think carefully about who to sit with. Do you want to be next to Herb Chevin and his offensively arid biscuits? Do you want to be close enough to Mrs Beaten to enjoy the full power of her singing? Or are you going to come and sit with Tish’s little party? Maybe stick some horns on your hat if you do.
There was something extra magical about the circular grove upon Urthappel Hill. Many things in Hopeless Maine were magical, so most magical things did not tend to stand out in the way that they would on the mainland. But this circle of trees was quietly striking to those who knew the ways. A perfect circle of trees, exactly on top of the hill, with no other trees for quite some distance.
No stranger to magic and wyrdling ways, Lyssa loved this place. Almost every other day she would find some excuse to be out here, purposely diverting from the quickest route to take in the hill. Some days she would sit at the bottom of one of the bigger trees reading a book. Other days she would lie in the middle of the grove looking up at the circular gap in the leaves to the sky beyond. A few times she would take some food in a basket and eat a relaxed lunch in the grove. It always seemed so peaceful to her. Welcoming. She once brought a friend to the hill, but they wouldn’t step near the top, and ran away from her when Lyssa said they were being silly.
Then one evening, Lyssa found herself out later than she expected. The sun was almost down and it cast a mournful glow across the landscape. Walking a well-known path, Lyssa realised it would run close to the hill, so she left the path and set out across the field to reach it.
Have you ever noticed how everything looks different at night? Even the familiar can look strange and unknown. Places that are one way by day, are entirely another when the sun goes down. The hill seemed less welcoming now. A blackness wrapped itself around the grove of trees, a blackness that failed to dissipate as Lyssa drew nearer. Everything was the same only different. Despite the foreboding that now enveloped the place, Lyssa was not afraid. She was not lacking in magic, and this felt more like a warning than a threat – something to scare away the casual interloper. Her curiosity was burning inside her now and she sat down within sight of the grove, but not inside it. Something held her back – a sense that she was here tonight to witness rather than participate.
She was there for a while when she saw the first small lights in the distance, bobbing and weaving. They appeared to be clustered in small groups and were not particularly bright. As they came closer to the grove, she saw them for what they were, night potatoes on the move. She had heard stories and knew that they moved around, but this was the first time she had witnessed such a parade of the creatures. She kept still and silent – she was good at this, something she had had to perfect in the past. In any event they did not seem to notice her.
There was quite a number of the creatures, and they all moved together until they reached the first tree, whereupon they split up – each going to a separate trunk. Lyssa was intrigued – what could they be doing? As if to answer, each night potato started climbing their respective tree. It was clearly a challenging undertaking for them, tendrils barely equal to the task of ascending. Indeed a few fell almost straight away. After which they seemed to shake themselves and then started to climb again. Lyssa was fascinated. Why were they climbing the trees? What could they be doing? She sat for hours whilst the night potatoes continued their seemingly impossible mission. Many had reached the upper branches of the trees and were making their way along boughs that overhung the centre of the grove. Some were still struggling with their climb up the main trunk, and a few were on the ground, seemingly despondent that they had fallen off again.
A small ribbon of red light appeared on the horizon and Lyssa realised she had been there all night and that dawn was about to break. She looked up at the grove – about half of the night potatoes were at the end of branches with more still climbing the trees. Suddenly they all stopped. They all turned as one towards the distant horizon, seemingly sensing the dawn. They all turned back, and again, as one, jumped. Lyssa fell back from her sitting position – she was not expecting this. Why did they jump? What were they trying to achieve?
Many of the potatoes did not survive the fall and moved no longer. Some were carried away by their comrades who had not fallen so far, or were lucky.
And so it came to be that Lyssa became somewhat obsessed with the night potatoes mysterious ritual. It seemed to happen roughly every two weeks, coinciding with half or full moons. She stopped visiting the grove in the daytime – that no longer held any excitement for her. Now, she just came to see the night potatoes climb.
Many times, she saw them climb and many times she saw them fall. She wondered whether she should help in some way, or intervene. She thought about carving steps into the trunks, but that seemed unnatural and she knew the tree spirits would be unhappy with her, besides, that was not her way. She had a strong sense that this was something the night potatoes would have to do for themselves. By now she had realised that they didn’t seem to care that she was there, or didn’t even sense she was there, as she was able to enter the grove and observe them close up.
On one occasion a large proportion of the potatoes managed to complete the climb. At the end of the branches they held out their tendrils – the branches were just close enough that they could hold each other and create a circle – albeit with a few gaps. Just before dawn, they all jumped together – holding tendrils as they fell. Seeing this, Lyssa gasped. What was it all about? She had been standing by one of the bigger trees and knelt down to get a better look at the nearest potatoes. Most were not moving, whilst some were already limping away. A couple of the more mobile ones seemed to suddenly notice her and scuttled away to the nearest patch of darkness. A small one seemed to panic on seeing her and dug itself into the ground.
It was only a few weeks later that Lyssa experienced her transmutation. She had been standing in the grove watching the latest group of night potatoes attempt the circle. They seemed to be doing better than before. At this point there were no stragglers – all were making the climb. Lyssa found herself ridiculously excited – what if they all jumped together? What would happen? She found herself turning around to check on all the participants in the night’s ritual. Higher and higher they climbed. Then out onto the limbs of the trees – moving towards the centre of the grove along narrower and narrower branches. Lyssa was spinning faster now, trying to see when the circle would be closed. Tendrils were reaching out – seeking their potato pals. Laughing, and almost dancing, Lyssa looked up. Before she had a chance to move the circle was complete and the night potatoes had jumped.
There were a few moments when Lyssa was not sure what had happened, but then she felt tendrils in her hair, her ears, her mouth and her nostrils. Strangely, she was not afraid, not weirded out by this, but accepted it. There was a ring of night potatoes around her head, and she could see more night potatoes entering the grove. She felt compelled to pick up a solid branch lying on the ground – it became her staff. A few of the bigger potatoes climbed the staff and settled upon the top. She sensed a calling, a message, a title. The night potatoes around her head withdrew and made their way to the ground. She stood in the centre of the grove, hundreds of Night Potatoes all around. This was her coronation. She had become The Queen of the Night Potatoes.
