Category Archives: Hopeless Tales

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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Fried Egg Theory

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You can say whatever you want about Durosimi O’Stoat, but he is definitely not a man known to frighten easily. During his lifetime the sorcerer has battled with an assortment of demons, ghouls and night-stalkers, each intent on finding ever more novel means of assisting him to shuffle off his mortal coil in as violent and unpleasant a manner as is possible. 

On the occasion of our tale, however, Durosimi was feeling real fear. His heartbeat was irregular, his legs felt weak, an icy hand gripped his heart and his bowels and bladder were dangerously close to deciding that preparation for flight would be decidedly preferable to fighting. One could be forgiven for not daring to dwell upon the terrifying nature of the creature threatening him. 

Just a few minutes earlier he had been quietly poring over some ancient grimoire when, to his great surprise, the front door had inexplicably blown open, scattering books and parchments all over the room, tipping over his desk and chair, and pinning him to the wall. Filling the space where the door used to hang properly stood an ominous figure, a pale goddess, huge and menacing, with dreadful, merciless eyes. In her right hand she carried a brazen spear that crackled and spat blue fire.

‘Oh no, it’s the Morrigan,” Durosimi whimpered as he slid to the floor, half-dazed. 

When he opened his eyes, a few seconds later, some semblance of normality had returned, although the front door still dangled precariously from one hinge. Standing before him, not wielding a flaming spear, but a rolling pin, was Philomena Bucket.

“Do you have any idea what you have done?” she raged, her usually wan features flushed with anger. “Your meddling has opened the door to all sorts of nightmares.”

Durosimi wilted beneath the force of Philomena’s fury. True, to look at her she appeared small, weak and vulnerable, but this surging wave of vituperation carried upon it the combined might of countless generations of powerful witches, a force that threatened to crush Durosimi into a quivering pulp.

Despite this, Philomena could not help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the wretched man cowering in the corner. After all, plenty of her ancestors had allowed ambition to be their downfall. 

“What did you do, exactly,” asked Philomena, in a more conciliatory tone. “Maybe you… we… can put it right.”

Durosimi shook his head.

“I don’t know what can be done,” he confessed. “The spell was meant to open a portal. There was no clue as to how it can be sealed.”

“And meanwhile,” said Philomena, bitterly, “all sorts of abominations are dropping through it.”

“Maybe your friend the Sasquatch might have an idea,” suggested Durosimi, hopefully. “He seems to be adept at opening and closing portals.”

“Not ones like this,” replied Philomena, “but I suppose it will be worth our while asking Mr Squash.”

“I’ve been studying this new phenomenon,” said Mr Squash enthusiastically, “and it’s rather interesting. I’ve noticed that most of those creatures dropping through it have very short lives, mainly because they are eating each other.”

“Ugh!” spluttered Philomena in disgust. “What about that man-thing that came out first?”

“Oh, you mean the Glimmer-Man?  He has crept off into the forest. I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him, unfortunately.”

“But do you have any idea how we seal the portal?” asked Durosimi.

“No,” said Mr Squash. “And I don’t think that it is a portal, as such.  However, I believe its presence explains a lot about why Hopeless is so strange.”

“Really?” said Durosimi, keen to salvage something worthwhile from this catastrophe.

“I call it my Fried Egg Theory,” said Mr Squash, only too happy to expound.

“Think of Hopeless as the yolk, and the egg-white surrounding it as a realm of Chaos, by and large cocooning the island from the normal laws of time and space. Occasionally people get here from any point in history, and much more rarely, some have been able to escape.”

“What about the Underland?” asked Philomena. “There’s a way out through there.”

“Only to a point,” said the Sasquatch. “As you know only too well, it’s a dead end that will take you so far and no further.’

“But you manage to come and go as you please,” protested Durosimi, not a little enviously.

“That is because I am, what you humans ignorantly refer to as, a cryptid. We travel at will through the dimensions.”

“So could you go to this Chaos place?” asked Philomena. 

“Not willingly,” said Mr Squash, with a shudder. “Anything which ventures into that realm could find itself changed beyond recognition. Our friend the Glimmer-Man is a case in point. He was probably an over-curious sorcerer once.”

Durosimi paled, and suddenly felt the need to sit down.

“As for the anomaly,” said Mr Squash, “in my experience, such things heal up after a short time. Even my portals need remaking every few months. Until then, you’ll just have to put up with those things dropping out of it – but as I said, they tend to devour each other.”

“I wonder if Durosimi  has learned his lesson from all of this?” said Philomena to her husband, Rhys Cranham later that day. They were sitting in the snuggery of the Squid and Teapot. Drury, the skeletal hound, lay snoring in the corner. 

“Do you think that the sinkhole at the bottom of the garden at Poo Corner leads to Chaos?” asked Rhys, who had been the island’s Night-Soil Man until little over a year ago. “It has been the burial place for generations of Night-Soil Men. I’d hate to think that they’d been transformed into something nasty.”

“I really hope not,” said Philomena. “But maybe it’s a tradition that should stop.” 

“There’s also a legend that Killigrew O’Stoat, the very first Night-Soil Man, had a dog,” said Rhys. “When the dog died, Killigrew was so heartbroken that he couldn’t bear to bury it, lest something dug it up and ate the poor animal. To avoid that, he cast the dog’s corpse into the sinkhole.” 

The pair both turned their gaze to Drury, who had been a presence on Hopeless for more years than anyone could guess. He was snuffling and twitching, chasing spoonwalkers across his dreams.

“Maybe something good did come out of it, after all,” smiled Philomena. 

Authors note: The story of Killigrew and his dog can be seen in the tale ‘A Dog’s Life’.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Something Wicked…

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Squid and Teapot logo by Keith Errington, looks like a pub sign, features an angry squid clinging to a teapot.


Even by the dubious standards of Hopeless, Maine, to have a mysterious fissure appear high up between the trees, splitting the grubby air like an annoying chink in the curtains, was more than a little odd. Even odder were the ribbons of sickly green mist that issued from somewhere deep within, mingling promiscuously with the island’s own sickly white mist. 

So alarmed had the islanders been by the sudden arrival of this anomaly that a rota was immediately drawn up, and concerned citizens were recruited to keep a twenty-four hour watch over it. 

To the surprise of all, Durosimi O’Stoat had shown himself to be uncharacteristically public-spirited, adding his name to the list of those volunteering to be watchers. In fact, so keen was Durosimi to help, that he insisted that he should cover those hours of darkness that no one else wanted, and referred to them as ‘The Graveyard Shift’.

As you might imagine, this arrangement made everyone very happy; everyone, that is, except Philomena Bucket. 

Experience had taught Philomena that Durosimi could not be trusted. She had no doubts that he knew more about the anomaly than he was telling, and was up to no good. The fact that just about everyone else on Hopeless, even Mr Squash the Sasquatch, seemed to be convinced of Durosimi’s best intentions, left Philomena feeling isolated and alone in her suspicions. She needed advice as to what she should do; basically, she needed Granny Bucket, but this was a forlorn hope. 

Although her grandmother had been dead for twenty years or more, the old lady’s ghost had invariably managed to show up and invade Philomena’s privacy at the most awkward of times, more often than not causing havoc, embarrassment and generally interfering. On the other hand, however, Granny had a habit of being conspicuous by her absence when her ghostly presence would have been a definite advantage, and this evening was one of those occasions. Granny was nothing, if not consistent.  

“I’m going to have to go down to the anomaly and find out what he’s really doing,” Philomena muttered to herself. 

While wandering around Hopeless in the dead of night would have been daunting to most islanders, Philomena had no such worries. She was the last, and most powerful, of a long line of witches, and wouldn’t put up with any nonsense from the assortment of ghouls, vampires, werewolves and demons who frequented the island after dark.

The anomaly looked stranger than ever when viewed in darkness; a rippling green tear in the fabric of the night. Durosimi was standing in front of it, his arms held aloft and chanting something unintelligible. 

“He’s been doing that for almost an hour,” said a soft voice, no more than six inches from Philomena’s ear. 

Even a witch as powerful as Philomena can be forgiven for jumping with fright, and feeling her bowels turn to water, when an apparently disembodied voice unexpectedly pipes up from nowhere in the middle of the night. 

“Oh, I am sorry,” apologised Miss Calder.

She was hovering by the Ravenstone, a local landmark that reputedly marked a Viking burial, and her wraith shimmered quietly in the darkness. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.

“That’s quite alright,” lied Philomena, relieved and  hurriedly composing herself. “Have you been here very long?”

“Ever since Durosimi  arrived,” replied Miss Calder.  “It occurred to me that he might need watching.”

“I’m glad I’m not the only one with a suspicious mind,” said Philomena. “And it looks as though we’re right. What do you think he’s up to?”

Miss Calder’s pale, attractive face went briefly skeletal, a sure sign that she was either excited or agitated.

“I spotted him a few days ago, lurking around here with Doc Willoughby. It was late in the afternoon, and for some reason Doc was wearing a funny costume. They seemed to be casting a spell of some sort, but at the time it didn’t seem to work. A couple of hours later this what-do-you-call-it suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and I’m sure that Durosimi knows exactly what it is.”

Meanwhile, Durosimi was congratulating himself that he had, apparently, managed to create a portal to some other land. The fact that it was situated high in the air and well out of his reach, however, posed something of a problem. He had tried various spells to encourage the thing to slip down a few feet, to somewhere a shade more accessible, but to no avail. Nothing was working. 

“You might as well go home to bed, Philomena,” said Miss Calder. “I don’t sleep, so I can keep an eye on Durosimi, and will let you know if anything happens.”

For once in her life Philomena didn’t argue. 

Durosimi had been sitting on a particularly uncomfortable tree stump for thirty long minutes and staring fixedly at the anomaly, wondering what to do next. Although there were two more hours before Reggie Upton was due to take over as watchman, the sorcerer decided to go home straight away and look again at the Etruscan spell, in the hope that it would provide an answer to his problem. From her vantage point, Miss Calder watched him leave, shaking her ghostly head in disapproval of his cavalier attitude and lack of commitment.

No sooner had Durosimi disappeared from sight than the anomaly began to act strangely. It flexed wildly, bulging and bending until it formed a perfect circle. Then, belching stifling billows of the green mist, it gradually began to expand, pushing aside the trees surrounding it as easily as if they were no more substantial than reeds. 

Miss Calder’s face was transformed into a grinning death’s-head as she watched a long, sinuous shape slip down from what was now quite obviously a portal, though she did not dare to think where it might lead. 

Her attention was, by now, fixed firmly on the ghastly, snake-like creature slithering menacingly towards her. Although, fairly certain that it could not harm her ghostly form, Miss Calder drifted instinctively back, out of its way, then watched in fascinated horror as it crawled up the Ravenstone, all the while shifting it’s shape, and eventually assuming a malevolent and cadaverous human aspect. The odious aberration turned his head to the portal and gave a high-pitched, unearthly call. Within seconds, other shapes began dropping through the green mist; nameless, fanged horrors with writhing limbs and many eyes. 

Miss Calder, agitated beyond belief and totally skeletal by now, slipped quickly away to raise the alarm. 

All the while a couplet from the Scottish play, Macbeth, taunted her…

‘By the pricking of my thumbs

Something wicked this way comes.’

To be continued…

An ominous figure in black.

Photo by Crow Shaw

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Anomaly 

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To say that Durosimi O’Stoat had not slept well would be an understatement. He had lain awake all night trying to fathom why his attempt to open a portal to the rest of the world had failed so dismally, despite all of his preparations and precautions. It made no sense! He couldn’t even blame Doc Willoughby, who had carried out his instructions to the letter. Something had gone wrong and he needed to know why; Durosimi did not like failure. 

Daylight seemed to be fighting a losing battle, as it valiantly struggled through the fog of another Hopeless morning. Durosimi had no sooner succumbed to sleep, slipping gently into a delicious sense of comfortable numbness, and flirting with his first dream, when he was dragged rudely back to full consciousness by a serious of urgent raps upon his front door.  Muttering and cursing, the sorcerer stumbled out of bed and padded his way downstairs, flinging open the door with a look that said, “This had better be good!”

Doc Willoughby was momentarily struck dumb by the apparition standing before him, resplendent in a crumpled nightshirt, hand-knitted pink bed socks, and a nightcap sitting at an angle that might have been considered jaunty, under other circumstances.

Before Durosimi could snarl an appropriately scathing matutinal greeting, Doc blurted out,

“It’s happened. We did it. We damned well did it.”

It took a second or two for the meaning of Doc’s words to sink in. Durosimi opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, then dashed back indoors to put on clothes more fitting to the occasion. 

By the time Doc Willoughby and Durosimi reached their destination, a sizeable crowd had already gathered, to wonder at the strange gap that had appeared between the trees. News travels fast on Hopeless.

“What do you think this is?” asked Philomena Bucket, looking up into Mr Squash’s deep, wise eyes. “Could it be another portal opening up?”

“I can’t say that it’s anything like one that I have ever seen,” admitted the Sasquatch. “It is almost as though someone has torn a hole in the air. And I really don’t like the thin green mist that’s leaking from it.”

“I noticed that as well,” said Rhys Cranham, who, until little more than a year ago had been the island’s Night-Soil Man. “It reminds me of whatever it is that’s swirling about at the bottom of the sinkhole at Pooh corner.”

A shiver went down Philomena’s spine. Although she was no wiser than Rhys, with regard to the contents of the sinkhole in the Night-Soil Man’s garden, this did not sound at all good. 

Lingering at the rear of the crowd, Durosimi looked upon the strange rip in the fabric of the morning with mixed feelings.

“I can’t believe that we really managed to do this,” said Doc excitedly.

“Be quiet, you fool,” hissed Durosimi, glaring at his companion. If looks could maim, Doc would been carried home in several small boxes that day. 

“Surely…” began Doc, but was roughly silenced by Durosimi, who drew him away, out of earshot of the crowd.

“No one must know that I… that we are responsible for doing this,” he rasped. “Do you understand? If that thing really is a portal, don’t expect it to take you anywhere that you might want to visit.”

Doc looked confused, and asked, “Then where does it lead to?”

Durosimi drew a deep breath.  “I dread to think,” he replied.

That evening, a council of war was held in The Squid and Teapot.

“We need to keep people well away from there,” said Mr Squash. “I can bang some stakes into the ground and fence the area off, just to be on the safe side”

”Do you really think that it’s dangerous?” asked Rhys.

Before the Sasquatch could answer, Philomena said, “Mr Squash is right. That hole in the atmosphere is a total anomaly. It’s best that we err on the side of caution.”

“In that case, maybe we should get a few volunteers to take turns keeping an eye on it,” said Reggie Upton. “Ideally we should have someone watching the thing around the clock. I could put a rota together, if you like.” 

“That sounds like a good plan,” said Rhys. “You never know, we might even get Durosimi to help out.”

“Oh, yes,” observed Philomena drily. “Perhaps he could patrol the area on a flying pig.”.

Despite Philomena’s scepticism, and much to everyone’s surprise, Durosimi did indeed agree to be part of the volunteer group charged with keeping watch over ‘The Anomaly’, as everyone was now calling it. In fact, he had even put his name forward to do all of his shifts at night, secretly reasoning to himself that this would provide an excellent opportunity to study, without disturbance, and at close quarters, the result of his recent foray into Etruscan magic. 

“He’s up to something,” said Philomena to Mr Squash, when she heard the news. “Maybe someone should be watching the watcher.”

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Regalia

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It is possible that readers of these Tales from the Squid and Teapot will be surprised to learn that Durosimi O’Stoat is in possession of something resembling a sense of humour. I agree, it’s hard to countenance, but don’t take my word for it – just  take a look at the picture attached to this tale. 

“That isn’t Durosimi O’Stoat,” some of the more astute of you may say. “That’s Samuel Liddel MacGregor Mathers, a British occultist,” and you would be absolutely correct. So, bear with me, and all will be revealed. 

You may remember that Durosimi had discovered an ancient parchment which apparently detailed, in the long dead Etruscan language, how one might open a portal to other lands. While Durosimi was confident that he could successfully translate the document, he had to bear in mind that there is always a danger when dabbling in such arcane matters, inasmuch as uttering a spell even slightly incorrectly might prove somewhat detrimental to the speaker. This might possibly entail turning him inside-out, or doing something similarly disagreeable.

Such danger would have deterred lesser men, but Durosimi has never been one to flinch from risks in the pursuance of knowledge or wealth… but he is, however, a pragmatist at heart.

“Why put yourself in danger, when you can get some sucker to do it for you?” 

This had long been his motto, and, on this occasion, the sucker in question was to be Doc Willoughby. 

It had taken half a bottle of single malt whisky and most of the day to convince the Doc that he was perfect for the job in hand. Although Willoughby professed to be a man of science and learning, Durosimi had always been aware that he was an out and out Quack, and, when it came down to it, not a particularly bright one, either. But Durosimi was not the sort to hold such failings against him. Besides, it made the Doc extremely easy to manipulate. 

“I can’t see why you’re asking me to cast the spell,” complained the Doc, not unreasonably. “After all, you’re the sorcerer.”

“I have other responsibilities,” replied Durosimi, importantly. “It is necessary that I observe the spell unfolding from a safe dist… I mean from a sensible distance. After all, we can’t be certain exactly where the portal will materialise. Besides, the regalia doesn’t fit me properly.”

“Regalia? What regalia?” Doc Willoughby looked puzzled.

“Oh, it’s nothing much,” said Durosimi, airily. “But wearing it is a crucial part of the ceremony.”

This, of course, was total rubbish, but it amused Durosimi, and gave him the great satisfaction of making Doc look ridiculous. I have no idea how the photographic representation of MacGregor Mathers,  one of the founder members of The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, came into Durosimi’s keeping, but this was the inspiration for the costume that Doc was to be wearing when he cast the spell.  It was, Durosimi reasoned, no more than the old fool deserved for being so gullible. 

“So where is this regalia?” asked Doc. “Perhaps I should try it on. After all, it might not fit me either.”

“Oh, I can promise you, it will fit,” said Durosimi. “But you shouldn’t see it before the ceremony, or the magic won’t work properly.”

Doc was far from happy about this, but held his tongue. It is never very wise to argue with Durosimi.

According to the Etruscan parchment, the most auspicious time to open a portal is at the rising of a full moon. Durosimi had calculated that this would be at precisely 4pm on the following Monday, just two days away. Although being in daylight made the possibility of being seen much more likely, this was offset by the delicious prospect of Doc standing in his ridiculous costume in full view of anyone passing by. Durosimi almost smiled with glee. 

“Have I really got to wear this?” Doc looked aghast at himself in Durosimi’s full-length mirror. The leather helmet was not too bad, he had to admit, but the moth-eaten fur stole, the faded blue cummerbund and a lady’s nightgown, pink and shapeless, were not the clothing he had envisioned himself to be wearing that day. 

“Being on this wretched island means that we have to compromise here and there,” said Durosimi. “Make do and mend, and all that. It’s the intention that’s important, Willoughby old friend.”

“And why do I have to carry a skunk-cabbage stuck on the end of a broom handle? I’ll be a laughingstock.”

“Nonsense,” replied Durosimi, employing his best poker-face. “Anyway, no one will see you, and carrying the plant is an important part of the ceremony. It represents…um… growing life, and other such things. Now come on, it’s time for us to go… have you got the words to the spell?”

Doc looked furtively about him, keen not to be spotted, as the two made their way from Durosimi’s house to the nearby clearing where the portal was to be situated. 

“Stand in front of these two trees, and when you hear the church clock strike four, carefully say those words that I have written,” said Durosimi, pushing Doc forward.

“Where will you be?”

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” replied Durosimi, then hurried off to shelter behind a large rock, some fifty yards away. 

The church clock struck four, and Doc Willoughby began intoning the spell in the way that Durosimi had instructed. It was then that Mireille D’Illay, of Les Demoiselles de Moulin Rouge, chose to wander past. She stopped and stared at the spectacle before her in disbelief, then, with a dismissive shake of her head and a Gallic shrug, she said

“Mon Dieu, he is as mad as the English,” and continued on her way.

“Nothing seems to be happening,” Doc called to Durosimi.

“Then do it again, man. That blasted French dancer must have distracted you.“

Doc repeated the spell, this time without interruption, but the result was the same.

“I don’t know what’s gone wrong,” fumed Durosimi. He hadn’t even had the pleasure of seeing Doc being turned inside out. “I need to study this further… and for goodness sake, get those ridiculous clothes off.”

It was some hours later, and Winston Oldspot , the Night-Soil Man, ventured out on his rounds, accompanied by his friend, Mr Squash. 

“Look,” he said, pointing to the night sky. “It’s the first full moon of the year.”

Mr Squash was about to reply, but suddenly stopped walking, at the same time resting his hand on Winston’s shoulder.

“Stay where you  are, lad,” he said in a gruff whisper.

No more than a dozen yards in front of them, a thin sliver of vertical  light rippled from between the trees, like torchlight shining through a gap in some very long curtains.

“What do you think is causing that?” asked Winston, not a little alarmed. 

“I have no idea,” replied the Sasquatch, “but whatever it is, I don’t think I want to get any closer.”

Even as he spoke, the gap widened a little, bleeding a sickly-green mist into the Hopeless night…

To be continued. 

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

Mrs Beaten is not in hiding

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Mrs Beaten has been quiet for a while. You should worry about what she’s up to when she’s quiet, it isn’t a good sign.

With luck and a fair wind, there will be new Mrs Beaten art along some time soon. There’s also a Mrs Beaten book that has been skulking about in the pantry for a while, eyeing the crockery skeptically and making critical remarks about the jam.

This is just a teaser really, a watch this space kind of post. Starch your collars, Mrs Beaten will be back in earnest at some point, and this time she’s got a really big spoon.

(This post is mostly Nimue’s fault although Keith took the photo.)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Where Morphemes Concatenate

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Durosimi O’Stoat pulled his overcoat tightly around him, in a forlorn effort to keep at bay the icy wind that was blowing in from the Atlantic. He hoped it would be worth his while, following Mr Squash for yet another long night of apparently aimless wandering. It puzzled Durosimi why the Sasquatch should have chosen to return to The Squid and Teapot at Christmas; after all,  there is no good reason why anyone should be celebrating the season here on this most miserable of islands, Hopeless, Maine. The sorcerer, who was inclined to judge everyone by his own set of standards, could only conclude that the Sasquatch must have had an excellent, and probably dubious, motive to want to return.

For night after night, Durosimi trudged around after Mr Squash, keeping a safe distance downwind, and ducking into shadows at the slightest hint of discovery. When, after a week, and the whole enterprise seemed to be fruitless, he finally decided to cut his losses. It was during that eleventh hour that Durosimi overheard a snatch of conversation which, while heralding no clue as to why the Sasquatch had returned, made his catalogue of discomforts almost worthwhile. 

“If the need arises,” he heard Mr Squash declare to Reggie Upton, “I can always build another portal to Tibet, or, indeed, to anywhere I choose. They’re not difficult to do.”

Durosimi held no illusions that Mr Squash would let him in on his secrets, but it was enough to know that these mysterious portals had been man-made (or Sasquatch-made in this instance) and not some natural phenomenon that could never be replicated. Durosimi was confident that, if the business of building a portal could be achieved by some overgrown neanderthal (his words), then he, the greatest sorcerer in the Northern Hemisphere (again, his words, unsurprisingly), would, with the application of his genius, be able to produce something at least as wonderful, if not better. 

With these thoughts in his head, and the metaphorical bit lodged firmly between his teeth, Durosimi was now totally convinced that somewhere in his formidable library, hidden in that vast assortment of ancient tomes, forbidden grimoires, therimoires, diabologues, spell-books and an almost complete set of farmers’ almanacs, would lie the secret words which would open a portal to anywhere in the world, or, who knows, even the universe. 

Over the following week, anyone passing Durosimi’s window might have spotted him at any hour of the day or night, bent over a manuscript of some description, or wrestling with a huge, leather bound book. His candles were burning from dusk until dawn, for having embarked upon this quest, he refused to eat or sleep until he had found the treasure that he was seeking. 

One grey, misty morning Durosimi burst through his front door and exclaimed to the world, in triumph,

“I have it!” 

Doc Willoughby, who happened to be passing by, hoped that, whatever it was that Durosimi had, it wasn’t contagious. To be on the safe side, he looked him over with a wary eye. Even Doc’s limited medical expertise could detect that Durosimi was not quite as he should be. His tired eyes glowed with a wild light, and he appeared to have lost weight. His skin was as yellow as the parchment he held in his shaking hands.

“It’s Etruscan,” Durosimi said excitedly.

“I can’t say that I’ve ever treated a case of that…”

began the Doc, but Durosimi was too excited to hear him.

“It has been copied from a tablet, but the answer is  here, I’m sure…” said Durosimi.

“Ah, so you’ve got a tablet,” said Doc. “Tablets are good. Be sure to take plenty.”

It was then that Durosimi realised that Doc Willoughby had no idea what he was talking about. 

“Willoughby, come on in, old friend, and I’ll explain everything,” he said. “You might be able to help.”

Doc was more than happy to obey. Old friend, eh? That boded well, and whisky seemed to be involved somewhere or other whenever Durosimi wanted to include Doc in his plans. Even at nine in the morning.

“So, you see,” confided Durosimi “It’s not just the likes of Squash who can build these portals, and the proof is all here, on this piece of parchment. I must admit, my grasp of Etruscan is a little rusty. but …”

“Remind me again what Etruscan is, exactly,” said the Doc, tentatively.

“Oh, it’s an ancient language,” explained Durosimi. “Pre-Indo and Paleo-European, of course, but not dissimilar to the Raetic and Lemnian languages.”

“Ah, yes, the Lemon languages. Splendid,” said the Doc knowledgeably. “Sorry, they had temporarily slipped my mind.”

“Anyway, as I was saying,” continued Durosimi, “as far as I can make out, the words on this parchment have been copied from a tablet that was inscribed about three thousand years ago. I’m sure, with a bit of diligence, it can be translated.”

“How are you going to do that?” Doc asked, accepting another tot of whisky.

“Fortunately,” said Durosimi, “Etruscan is an agglutinative language, where words contain multiple morphemes concatenated together. Do you follow my meaning?”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Doc, emptying his glass.

“As you’ll appreciate,” went on Durosimi, “what makes the whole process of translation easier is that the language is constructed in such a manner that each word stem can be isolated and identified as indicating a particular inflection or derivation… you know, passive suffix, causative suffix, etc. on verbs, and plural suffix, accusative suffix, dative suffix, etc. on nouns. Makes it fairly simple, eh?”

“Umm… indubitably,” replied a bewildered Doc, hoping that this was going to yield at least one more glass of whisky.

“So, that’s settled, then. You’ll help me?” urged Durosimi with a smile that he hoped was not too ingratiating. 

“To do what?” asked Doc, who was beginning to wish that he had stayed in bed that morning.

Durosimi sighed and poured them both another shot of whisky. 

It was going to be a long day. 

Hopeless Tales

The Hayezlits

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Possibly Mark Hayes?

At some point, the faceless being, that may or may not be Mark Hayes, stopped his meandering and lay down on the edge of a field. Was he tired after his reawakening? It’s hard to say, for who here has been reawakened in such a manner, devoured by goats, then reassembled from an assortment of empty clothing and given life by uncanny socks? Within moments of his settling down, a weird, muffled, snuffling noise was heard. Was it snoring? But how can you snore without a face, a nose, a mouth?

Presently, an odd group of creatures arrived. Less than a foot tall, they were short of leg and long of arm. Goblin like, hairy and awkward of movement. Let us call them Hayezlits. Of course, I could tell you anything, describe them as anything, make up an outrageous description, for you will never see them. No one has ever seen them, nor will they. I can tell you this with certainty. They carried scraggy brushes made of twigs and durbit fur, odd-shaped pots hollowed out from grerken cones. And they assembled in a rough circle around the no-face of the man, who may or may not be Mark Hayes. Seven of them there were. And all seven started an odd squirmy motion, a strange furtive movement that seemed undirected and random. The pots were now full of ink – but the mechanism for this event was unfathomable.

They took their brushes and dipped them in the ink and started to paint upon the blank face canvas. Where the ink touched, colour appeared: mottled pinky grey for the cheeks, darker pink for the lips, dark hues for eyebrows, and an extraordinary shade of lilac for facial hair. The smallest hayezlit wielded a tiny brush and created an eye in an extraordinary display of skill and magic. Then matched it with another. Giving the face sight to see in this way, would have been an amazing sight to see, except that nobody would ever see that sight. They moved back for a moment and seemed to check their work. One of them touched up an ear, another, the tallest, and most wizened, made a brief adjustment to the eyes.

Seemingly satisfied, they carefully removed the man’s socks and shuffled off.

Now, lying on the ground, was an entity who very much looked like Mark Hayes. In fact, we will call it Mark Hayes from now on.

(Text and uneasy image manipulation by Keith Errington)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Sanctuary

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The cold, foggy air hung like a sullen blanket, clinging stubbornly to everything that it touched. Even before he set off on his rounds, Winston Oldspot, the Night-Soil Man, could feel the icy dampness sinking through his clothing and into his bones, but for once he did not care; Mr Squash had returned to Hopeless!

Standing on his doorstep, at The House at Poo Corner, Winston smiled, and his heart gave a little leap, as he watched the huge and familiar figure emerge from between a tangle of  twisted trees. It had been no more than a couple of months since the Sasquatch had left the island of Hopeless, Maine, but Winston had missed his company terribly.

“Oh – hello Mr Squash,” he said nonchalantly, “I heard that you were back.” 

Being only sixteen, Winston felt that to have shown any semblance of excitement or emotion would have been decidedly uncool.

“It’s darned good to see you, youngster,” boomed Mr Squash. throwing his great arms around the Night-Soil Man, and giving him a joyful hug. When you are more than half a millenium old, worries about trivial stuff, such as appearing to be cool, cease to be an issue.

“Steady on old chap,” said Reggie Upton, who, so far,  had remained unseen, standing as he was, quite literally, in Mr Squash’s shadow. “I’ve still got the bruises from when you gave me a hug on Christmas Eve.”

“I’m fine, honestly,” declared Winston, quietly wincing in the darkness.

With the pleasantries over, the three friends set off into the night, their conversation only ceasing temporarily for Winston to service the occasional  privy.

Reggie related to the Sasquatch how Philomena had destroyed his mystic portal to Tibet, in her battle with the evil lama, Dawasandup. 

“Not to worry, I can always make another portal to the Himalayas, and put it somewhere other than Hopeless,” said Mr Squash. “They’re not that difficult to do. At least Dawasandup wont be able to come back and cause any more mischief.”

“No, he jolly well won’t,” chuckled Reggie. “The blighter was last seen being eaten by a demon of some sort or another.”

“Oh dear. How very sad,” lamented a deadpan Mr Squash.

Winston’s next client was the hermit who lived in a mausoleum-like cottage on Ghastly Green. Long before the trio came within sight of the building, they could hear the hermit’s pet raven, Lenore. She was perched on one of the many statues that stood in the garden, and was raising the alarm by calling the hermit’s name.

“Neville Moore, Neville Moore,” she cawed (though, on second thoughts, she might well have been quothing).

Neville came out onto his doorstep and waved.

“Nothing for you tonight, Winston,” he shouted. “Unfortunately, my old trouble seems to have returned.”

“Hello Neville. I picked some senna leaves when I was in the tropics last month,” Mr Squash called back. “I’ll bring them over in the morning.”

Neville gave a thumbs-up and shuffled back into his cottage.

“By Jove,” said Reggie, admiringly. “The tropics, eh? You seem to manage to get around quite a bit, old chap.”

Mr Squash frowned.

“Indeed,” he admitted, “But I won’t be doing anything like as much travelling in the future.”

After seeing Winston safely back to his home, Reggie and Mr Squash made their way to The Squid and Teapot. It was the wee, small hours of the morning, and they found the inn to be in darkness, and wrapped in a silence that was broken only by the raucous rattle of Drury’s snores, which emitted from the general direction of the snuggery. Even the Tomte was taking a nap.

 “Are you sure you won’t come in?” asked Reggie. “It looks as though there’s a storm brewing.”

“I’ll be fine,” replied Mr Squash. “I’ve been living outdoors since before Columbus came to the Americas. Anyway, I feel safer being here than I have for a long time.”

“Really?”

Reggie couldn’t hide his surprise.

“Why on earth would a chap like you ever feel unsafe?”

“I’m being hunted,” said the Sasquatch, after a pause. “Wherever I go, there seems to be someone wanting to trap me. They bang stones on tree trunks, and make unearthly whooping noises. The fools believe that I’ll wander along to investigate, then they can nab me. For reasons that are beyond me, they even take plaster casts of my footprints, would you believe? At least on Hopeless I don’t feel as though I’m being pursued all of the time. This island has become my sanctuary.”

“Dashed scallywags,” fumed Reggie. “Do they never bother your relatives?”

“They would if they could,” said Mr Squash, bitterly, “but my folks all live in the far northwest, deep in forests where few humans have ever ventured.The truth is, they’ve banished me, and said that I would bring them only trouble.  It’s my own fault, I suppose – I’ve always had itchy feet and been keen to explore the world. That’s why I made all of those portals, and look what good that has done for me!”

“If it’s any consolidation, old chap,” said Reggie, “we’ll all be more than happy, I’m sure, to have you lying low on Hopeless for a spell.”

“That’s comforting to know,” said the Sasquatch, “but I’ll have to slip out secretly, now and then, for some provisions. To be honest, I don’t like the diet on the island. I’m a herbivore, and there’s not a lot for me to eat here.”

“So you’ll be popping through a portal, now and then, to go shopping?” asked Reggie, suddenly excited.

“Well, not shopping, exactly…” began Mr Squash, wondering where this was going.

“Splendid!” exclaimed Reggie, not really listening. ”I’ll get a list together. There are a few things that we could do with around here.”

Mr Squash sighed. 

He hoped that this plan wasn’t going to prove to be more trouble than it was worth. 

Hopeless Tales

The uncanny socks of rebirth

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For some days, the cursed trousers of Mark Hayes lay where they had fallen. Although many came to view them, no one dared to touch the abominable things. The trousers themselves showed no sign of damage despite the Yule Goats having successfully eaten Mark from inside them.

Trouser magic is a dastardly art that few dare to practice.

After a few days, a shirt was brought to lie with the trousers. A hat was later added, and then finally a pair of socks placed at the ankles. Whether all these items played a role, or only the socks were imbued with uncanny power, I do not know.

With the coming of the socks, the trousers themselves began to take shape as though occupied once more. Slowly each item of clothing filled out, assuming the form of a man. This could reasonably be assumed to be Mark Hayes himself, although while he lacks for a face, it is hard to be certain.  This too may only be a temporary setback.

And so it is that Mark Hayes, or something that has assumed the approximate form of Mark Hayes has risen up from this place of demise and sauntered cheerily in the direction of the New Year. As omens go, we’ve certainly seen worse ones.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Night Before Christmas

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For more than a century, The Squid and Teapot has been a small oasis of cheer, brightening the gloom and aura of desolation that pervades much of the small island of Hopeless, Maine. 

Following several  years of disrepair and bad management, in nineteen-ten the inn found itself in the stewardship of the Lypiatt family. It was, long-time readers may remember, Sebastian Lypiatt who built the ever-popular flushing privy, an annexe painstakingly constructed from the salvaged stones of Oxlynch Hall, an English manor house that had been deconstructed and shipped to Connecticut (it was with these stones, of course, that the ghost of Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless White Lady, arrived on Hopeless). 

After several generations of Lypiatts, The Squid passed into the hands of their close relatives, Bartholomew and Ariadne Middlestreet, a couple who worked hard to maintain the reputation of hospitality and friendliness. When the Middlestreets retired, just over a year ago, they relinquished care of the inn to newlyweds Rhys Cranham and Philomena Bucket, and this is where we are today. 

“Giving the Tomte a home has had its advantages,” declared Philomena, more to herself than anyone else. “The inn looks better this Christmas Eve than it ever has, and he has really gone overboard with the decorations.”

It was true. The little man had worked tirelessly, mingling elbow-grease with a little bit of enchantment, to make The Squid and Teapot look especially festive. 

“And all for a corner of one of the attics, a small bowl of porridge and a drop of beer,” said Rhys. “That’s a good bargain, by anyone’s standards.”

“He keeps saying how much he loves to have a knob of butter with his porridge on Christmas Eve,” said Philomena, worriedly. “I fear that he’s going to be disappointed tonight – I doubt that there’s an ounce of butter on the island.”

“Well he must have gone without when he was with Mr Blomqvist,” said Rhys. “I can’t imagine that the old man had a secret hoard of the stuff stashed away somewhere.”

Philomena pondered this, and then said, 

“The Tomte came to Hopeless with Mr Blomqvist, and stayed out of loyalty. He hasn’t got that sort of bond with us. I just hope he isn’t going to be too upset, and decide to leave.”

Despite their young age and limited English, Caitlin and Oswald went to bed that night bursting with excitement. Philomena, remembering the holly-crowned gift bringer of her childhood, had told them all about Father Christmas, in his long green cloak, and the presents that he would bring. Unlike the Tomte, at least the children would not be disappointed, as Reggie Upton, Philomena and Rhys had spent the last few weeks making toys and clothes for them.

It was almost midnight when the doors of The Squid and Teapot finally closed and the day’s work was at last completed. Drury, the skeletal hound, snored contentedly before the roaring log fire, and Philomena, Rhys and  Reggie prepared to welcome in Christmas Day with a tankard of Old Colonel. Tenzin, the Buddhist monk who had recently moved into the inn, was not a drinker, but sat in happy puzzlement observing his friends celebrating this strange festival, which was completely new to him.

“Do you always have bells at Christmas?” he asked.

“Yes, they’ll ring the church bells at twelve o’clock,” said Rhys.

“No, I mean sleigh bells,” said Tenzin. “Can’t you hear them.”

Yes, they could, now he had mentioned it. They were certainly sleigh bells, and seemed to be right outside. Then Drury began barking, and wagging his bony old tail. Suddenly someone banged on the front door, hard enough to shake the glass in the windows.

“Who the devil…” began Reggie, wishing that his swordstick was to hand. 

Gingerly Rhys opened the door a fraction, then stepped back in surprise at the huge, dark shape standing in the courtyard.

He was even more surprised when Drury, yapping with delight, threw himself at the stranger.

“Mr Squash!” Rhys exclaimed. “What a lovely surprise. Come on in”

The Sasquatch bundled into the bar room, a bulging sack slung over his shoulder.

“A Merry Christmas,” he boomed. “I come bearing gifts. By the way, did you like the sleigh bells? I thought that they provided a nice, seasonal touch.”

Mr Squash delved into his sack and pulled out a wheel of cheese, several bottles of French Brandy, chocolate, coffee, fresh fruit, sweet biscuits, jars of honey, white flour, two christmas puddings… and butter; lots and lots of rich, golden butter. 

Tactfully, no one asked how the Sasquatch had come by all of this bounty. Wordlessly, they accepted that this was a Christmas miracle, and nobody should ask how miracles happen. 

“Thank you, Mr Squash,” said Philomena, blinking back her tears. “And a very merry Christmas to you, too. Now, if you’ll  excuse me, I’ve got some porridge to make.”