Category Archives: Hopeless Tales

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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Heretic!

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Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton, or simply Reggie Upton, as he prefers to be known, was desperate to once more see some sunshine. He had lived for more than a year on the island of Hopeless, Maine, and during that period had cheerfully endured almost all of its various privations. The only proverbial fly in his equally proverbial ointment  was the eternal fog that envelops the island, a fog that sullenly insists on veiling any hint of sunlight that dares to struggle through the clouds. Having spent much of his military career soldiering in Africa and India, locations not generally known for permanently overcast skies, a desire for an occasional glimpse of the Eye of Heaven, as the bard had so ably expressed it, is not wholly unreasonable.

As you may have discerned from earlier tales, not far beneath the old warrior’s tweedy exterior surged the spirit of derring-do that had seen him through a multitude of conflicts, each apparently vital to the continuation of the British Empire. While this might be viewed as an admirable trait, it worried his friend, Philomena Bucket, the landlady of The Squid and Teapot. She was aware that Reggie was more than likely to attempt an escape from the island, an attempt which would almost certainly prove to be fatal. Philomena decided that rather than risk him dashing off on some madcap adventure, if he wanted another look at pure, unsullied sunlight, she would arrange it for him,

This is how, with the unlikely assistance of Durosimi O’Stoat, the pair found themselves standing in Doctor John Dee’s study, sometime in the mid fifteen-eighties, when the old alchemist was safely away in Poland. Reggie was adorned in the finery of an Elizabethan gentleman, while Philomena, posing as his servant, found that her daily work-wear was unremarkable enough to raise no Tudor eyebrows.

 John Dee’s home was in Mortlake, a village some seven miles from the centre of London.

If Reggie or Philomena had entertained a vision of the idyllic ‘Merrie England’ of times past, this was soon dispelled as soon as they stepped into the street.

“They really need a Night-Soil Man around here,” said Philomena.

“No m’dear,” said Reggie, “they need a battalion of them.  I had no idea London was quite so unhygenic in Tudor times.”

“Oh, it gets a lot worse than this,” said Philomena, lifting the hem of her long skirt to avoid it trailing in the filth that littered the cobbled streets. “But at least you can see the sun.”

“By Jove, so I can,” said Reggie. “It’s a good job that we’re this far away from the city, though. From here the dashed place looks as bad as Hopeless.”

A smoky pall hung over the huddle of buildings in the distance.

“So that is Tudor London,” he added. “Fascinating. Despite all, it would be a pity not to take a look while we’re here.”

 The carrier looked askance at the fine gentleman and his pallid, pretty, servant, uncomprehending why they should want to ride on his humble cart into the heart of London. However, whatever they were up to, a groat was a groat; it was none of his business.

 If the streets of Mortlake were dirty, they were nothing compared to the squalor of the city centre. Livestock of all varieties were being herded along the streets, leaving a trail of filth behind them, while the gutters ran with the detritus issuing from the huddle of shops and homes. The stench was atrocious.

“I think I’ve seen – and smelt – more than enough,” said Reggie. “In fact I…”

He was cut short when a heavy hand grasped his shoulder and spun him unceremoniously around.

“Upton! I thought it was you. By God’s teeth, you have some nerve coming into London.”

The speaker was a thick-set, bearded man with glittering eyes.

“But I… “ began Reggie, but before he could say any more, the newcomer grabbed his arm and bundled him roughly through a doorway. Things were happening very suddenly and Philomena could barely keep up.

The door closed behind them and the bearded man’s eyes flashed in the gloom.

“Whatever possessed you to come into the city?” he rasped. “You have put us all into danger. I’ll try to get you to safety, or we’ll be feeding the flames before tomorrow dawns.”

For possibly the first time in his life, Reggie was rendered speechless. This chap seemed to know his name. It was then that he recalled his first encounter with the ghost of Lady Margaret D’Avening. At the time he had been relieving himself in the flushing privy of The Squid and Teapot.

“What are you doing here, Uncle Henry?” she had asked.

It turned out that Reggie was a dead-ringer for one of Lady Margaret’s beloved relatives, a cavalier who had perished in the English Civil War. It seemed obvious that the Upton side of the family had managed to stamp an identical face upon various, selected, sons throughout the ages .

“Blasted ancestors,” Reggie thought to himself.

Taking his silence to be obstinacy, the stranger shook him by the shoulders.

“God’s teeth, Sir Walter, you know what fate befalls a heretic, especially one who has sheltered a priest.”

Although the stranger seemed to be more than a little obsessed with the deity’s dentistry, his use of the word ‘heretic’ struck home like a thunderbolt.

Reggie’s forebears had been devout Catholics, doggedly sticking to their faith throughout the turbulent years of persecution. This chap, Sir Walter Upton, with whom Reggie was being  mistaken, was obviously into the thing up to his eyeballs. All in all, this suggested that now would be an excellent time to get back to Hopeless.

Reggie turned to look at Philomena. She would know what to do, but Philomena was nowhere to be seen.

 To be continued…

Hopeless Tales

Strictly

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(A tale by Keith Errington)

Being an island with limited resources and somewhat lacking in technology, there were few entertainment options available to the long-suffering islanders of Hopeless, Maine. Apart from drinking in the pub, watching the sea, and spying on the neighbours, the main entertainment was organised by the community. There were many events, festivals and revels on offer throughout the year, from the inane Snipeworm Watch Week, as an example, to the erudite, such as The Philosophy of Near-death Experiences, held on the first Tuesday of the month. Most of these were barely attended and often short-lived. However, there was a very popular type of diversion that had been running for years and was always well-attended by residents. These were the monthly Dance & Social evenings.

Clem Soulby had been living on the island for many years, having been shipwrecked here back in his teens. He had always been a lonely man, kept himself to himself and was, therefore, somewhat lacking in interpersonal skills. He was, however, reasonably good at business, trading in this and that, buying at a keen price and selling on at a profit. He was known as the ‘Go-to Man,’ if you wanted something, especially something unusual, then Clem could probably get it for you… for a price. Thus, he provided himself with a comfortable income, lived in a good-sized house and wanted for very little in terms of practical needs. However, he had reached that point in his life where his heart was unfulfilled. He had started to yearn for companionship, and as they say in the small ads, maybe more.

He had concluded that the only way forward was to attend a Dance and Social, something he had never contemplated before. In fact, the very thought filled him with dread. He felt he could probably handle the social side of the evenings, but he was heavily handicapped in the other element: dance. He could not dance, never learned, never even tried. He knew it would be quite a challenge. He often tripped over his own shoelaces just crossing the street. But just recently, his eye had been caught by a small card on the town notice board:

FERNANDO, Dance Teacher to the Stars.
Learn from the Terpsichorean Master.
No previous experience necessary.
Reasonable rates.

Clem decided to go visit this Fernando and establish just how reasonable his rates were. But first, he needed to look up a certain word in the dictionary.

Clem had a meeting with the maestro, and they agreed on costs and a ten-week programme of instruction.

“By the end of my tuition, you will dance like a butterfly on ice skates – Perfetto!” Fernando declared.

Fernando rented a small hall in the quiet corner of town. He was said to be Spanish by some, others reckoned Italian, and a few thought he might be Swiss. Franky, it was difficult to tell as his accent wavered wildly, and words came from his lips in a variety of different, slightly mangled ways. He was flamboyant and fierce, certainly a force to be reckoned with. He always carried a cane, which he would stamp on the floor with great gusto when emphasising something important or when chiding a pupil. Occasionally he would use it to point out a recalcitrant limb which had not moved in the correct manner, punctuating his forceful admonishments by poking the offending member.

Clem knuckled down and did his best. Fernando would chide him with helpful comments such as “Pah, you move like a badly wounded moth!” or “You are not the graceful matador, but more like the bull with intestinal trouble!” or “You walk like a three-legged, drunken armadillo!” At one point after Clem had fallen over his own feet, Fernando uncharacteristically muttered, “Blimey, this one’s got two left plates on his pins,” before recovering and saying slightly louder, “You are definitely improving señor, your falling to the floor is more graceful this week”.

Despite his trips and his falls, Clem steadily improved, and by the end of the ten weeks, he felt like he was ready. Fernando agreed, or rather, he felt that no amount of further money could recompense him for the anguish of coaching his toughest-ever pupil to a higher level.

But Clem could actually dance. Fernando’s methodical instruction had paid off. The first week, he had concentrated on Clem’s arms, starting with the left side and moving on to the right the following week. Legs were next, and eventually, they put the whole thing together, and Clem glided back and forth and around and around the dance floor.

They said their goodbyes, and Clem set off home. He was so pleased with himself. Finally, he could go to the dance, not make a spectacle of himself, and maybe, just maybe, garner some romantic interest. His loneliness was about to end.

He found himself humming the tune they had used for practice. He thought about the dancing method; left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg, and found himself dancing down the street. Filled with joy, he started singing the song:

You put your left arm in, your left arm out,
In, out, in, out, you shake it all about,
You do the hokey cokey and you turn around
And that’s what it’s all about!

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Waiting on a Sunny Day

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“I cannot believe,” declared Reggie Upton, “that I have been living on this island for over a year, and we haven’t had a single day without being blanketed in fog of some description.”

“If it’s any consolation,” replied Philomena Bucket, “I’ve been here for five years, and it’s been wall-to-wall fog for me, as well.”

“Well, it just isn’t good enough,” spluttered Reggie. “We’re almost into July, dammit, and there is still no sign of the sun.”

Philomena gave him a meaningful look, and asked, “So, what do you propose we do about it?”

“Do?” said Reggie. “There is nothing we jolly well can do, is there? I’m sure, if there was, Durosimi O’Stoat would have waved his wand, or whatever it is that he does, and sorted something out by now.”

It was unlike Reggie to be so tetchy, but Philomena was aware that he had spent his military career in some of the hottest places on the planet. Since coming to Hopeless, sixteen months earlier, he had not seen the sun, except opaquely through a veil of mist. For Reggie that must have been verging on the intolerable.

“Besides,” he went on, “I am an animal lover; most of all, I like horses. There are none, apparently, on the island. In fact, the only creatures wandering about are aberrations that belong in a freak show or a bad dream.”

The pile of bones that had been snoring quietly in the corner of the room stirred, and a canine skull eased itself out of the osseous heap to glare at the speaker.

“Present company excepted, of course,” added Reggie, hurriedly.

Philomena sighed.

“What you are really saying,” she said, “is that you’re getting fed-up with Hopeless, and pining after civilization.”

“I suppose that you’re right,” admitted Reggie. “It’s not that I dislike living on the island, but there are so many things that I miss – especially sunshine.”

“At least you don’t mind living here,” said Philomena. “That’s more than most can say, even the ones who have been here for all of their lives.”

“If I’m honest, it’s since that Bencombe fellow was swallowed up in that time-vortex shenanigans. It made me acutely aware of what’s happening to all of us; Time is the old enemy, m’dear. It gobbles us up and spits us out.”

“Hmmm… you’ve given me an idea,” said Philomena. “Time might be on our side, after all.”

*

“You want me to do what?” asked Durosimi, incredulity in his voice.

“I want you to take Reggie Upton to Tudor England,” said Philomena. “I know that you have found another path to the Underland… and that you always find yourself ending up in Doctor John Dee’s study.”

Durosimi sighed.

“There is no reason to deny it,” he said. “It is frustrating that on every visit I find myself in the same time-loop. It is always the same few days in the mid fifteen-eighties, when Dee was safely away in Poland, or some such place, with his associate, Edward Kelley.”

There had been a noticeable thawing of relations with Durosimi since he and Philomena had collaborated to rid Hopeless of the time-vortex that had claimed the life of Benjamin Bencombe. Whether Durosimi considered that this was sufficient excuse for him to be asked to take Reggie Upton to the London of Good Queen Bess, however, was another matter.

“So, will you do it?” asked Philomena.

Durosimi fell silent as he considered her request, then he said,

“I don’t think so. If any accident should befall Upton while we’re away, you would lay the blame on me.”

“Then tell me where your path to the Underland is, and I’ll do it myself,” said Philomena. There was noticeable anger in her voice.

“Such a shame you chose to destroy your own pathway there,” smirked Durosimi. “However, I am not a vindictive person. I will show you how to get there; better than that I’ll find some suitable clothing. Upton would stick out like a sore thumb in his tweeds.”

“What am I supposed to wear?” asked Philomena.

“Madam,” replied Durosimi, coldly, “unless you wish to resemble anything other than the peasant you most obviously are, your wardrobe will be more than sufficient.”

“Being a peasant is fine by me,” said Philomena defiantly.

*

 “I know I said that I wanted to see the sun,” said Reggie, “but I had no idea at what cost.” He looked down miserably at his trunk hose, the puffed out short satin breeches beloved by Elizabethan gentlemen.

“These are bad enough, but the pink tights are really too much,” he complained.

“You look splendid,” said Philomena, stifling a grin. “You are a nobleman and I am your servant – we look the part, and that is all that matters.”

And strangely, they did.

“Come on, Reggie, chin up,” she said, as they entered the cave leading to the Underland. “You’re going on holiday. Just be careful that you don’t snag your tights.”

 To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Don’t Bite Durosimi

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The story so far… While rummaging in the attics of The Squid and Teapot, Benjamin Bencome had been swallowed up in a mysterious vortex, in which time was accelerated. Unfortunately, for Benjamin, his remaining years of life were discharged in a matter of minutes and, as Philomena, Rhys and Reggie looked on, the last vestiges of his earthly remnants disappeared to dust before their very eyes.

It seemed obvious to all that, with the vortex appearing to grow, all of the island of Hopeless, Maine, could soon be devoured; that was when someone had the bright idea of enlisting the unlikely assistance of Durosimi O’Stoat. It was correctly assumed that Durosimi would doubtless be as reluctant as anyone to see his future evaporate away in a few seconds, and therefore be happy to try and rectify matters.

After consulting various grimoires, therimoires, diabologues, necronomicons, and a yellowing edition of ‘Old Moore’s Almanack’, Durosimi discovered that a lodestone placed into the centre of the vortex, and in a north-south alignment, would banish it completely. Unfortunately this would entail the person volunteering for the role of lodestone-depositor to age alarmingly before such times as they could leave the vortex. And so, it came to pass that with a generous measure of glory in his eye, and an upper lip stiffer than a rifle barrel, Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton boldly bade his friends farewell, and, lodestone in hand, prepared to enter the vortex and meet certain death.

“Are you really that keen to die?” asked Durosimi.

“Well, someone has to do it, and I didn’t hear you volunteer,” replied Reggie, indignantly.

“No, you didn’t,” said Durosimi. “And you don’t have to… unless you are looking forward to a glorious martyrdom, of course.”

“So how do you propose we do this?” Philomena Bucket’s voice was brimming with hope. The thought of Reggie walking to his doom was dreadful beyond belief.

“By getting that infernal dog of yours to do it, of course,” snapped Durosimi.

Philomena’s pale skin grew even paler.

“Drury?” said Reggie. “That’s asking a lot of him. Why the devil should he want to sacrifice himself any more than you do?”

“Do I have to spell it out?” said Durosimi, exasperation in his voice. “Drury died years ago, long before any of us currently in this room were born. He could be in and out the vortex in just a few seconds. Another hundred years or so would be nothing to him.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked Philomena.

“Of course I am,” lied Durosimi, “but whether he’s intelligent enough to see the task through is another matter.”

“Oh, he’s intelligent enough – more intelligent than a lot of humans I know,” said Philomena. “Let me talk to him.”

Drury had been easy to track down; he was slumbering happily in the snuggery, and snoring loudly, when Philomena found him.

There is a common belief among pet owners that their particular familiar has the ability to understand every word that they say. This may, or may not, be true, but in the case of Philomena – the last of a long line of powerful witches – and Drury, who had been hob-nobbing around humans for a couple of centuries, this was no idle platitude.

Philomena was able to give the osseous hound directions regarding the placing of the lodestone, and, much to the dog’s chagrin, firm instructions not to bite Durosimi.

To everyone’s obvious relief Durosimi’s information appeared to have been correct. Drury slipped into the vortex, placed the lodestone and ambled out again with no apparent ill-effects.

For what seemed like an eternity, nothing significant happened. Then the vortex slowed, and gradually diminished in size, until it resembled nothing more than a small green navel spinning in the corner of the room.

“There, it’s perfectly harmless now,” said Durosimi. “And far too small to do any damage.”

“But it hasn’t gone completely, has it?” said Reggie, concerned that this was not quite the end of the matter.

Suddenly, everyone jumped, and was rendered temporarily deaf, as a loud explosion rent the air and blew the glass out of the small attic windows.

“It has now,” said Philomena, but of course, no one could hear her except Drury, who wagged a bony tail, yawned, and went back down to the snuggery to catch up on his interrupted sleep.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Vortex

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It cannot be denied, the news came as something of a shock to everyone. Benjamin Bencome, botanist and Bachelor of Science, was dead. The presence of death is certainly no novelty on Hopeless, Maine; the Grim Reaper seems to find the island to be something of a home-from-home, considering the amount of time he spends there.

Benjamin’s death, however, was different. When he had ascended the stairs to the attics earlier in the day, he had been his usual self, albeit a little glum. A couple of hours, or so, later, when Reggie Upton decided to look in on him, not only was Benjamin quite dead, but appeared to have been deceased for several months. Even Reggie, a seasoned soldier, was shocked, and so it was with no small amount of trepidation that Philomena Bucket and her husband, Rhys Cranham, went with him back to the attics to view the scene of this most remarkable and tragic phenomenon.

The corpse of Benjamin lay crumpled in a corner of the room.

“That’s strange,” said Reggie. “Something is different… his clothes seem to be suddenly too large for him.”

Rhys stepped closer to the remains. “You said he looked as though he had been dead for months. Well, I would say years, personally. He is nothing but bones.”

The three stood in stunned silence, for even as they watched, Benjamin’s clothing began to disintegrate before their very eyes.

“For decency’s sake, we need to move him,” said Rhys, and stepped towards the corner.

“No!” shouted Reggie, with an urgency that stopped Rhys in his tracks.

“Can’t you see what is happening? You’ll be as dead as he is if you go another step. It is as though time is moving at a different rate in that corner.”

It was true. There was little evidence of Benjamin left by now, and in the spot where he had lain could be seen a swirling green mist.

“There is a sinkhole in the garden of the House at Poo Corner,” said Rhys, referring to the home of generations of Night-Soil Men. “And, at its bottom, hundreds of feet beneath the island, you can just about see a green mist hanging, and it looks not unlike like that stuff.”

“And I think I can guess why it’s here?” said Philomena.

The other two eyed her quizzically.

“That corner is where the vertical ladder to the Underland once stood. It was concealed in, what appeared to be, an old sea-chest. After a dear friend of mine, Marigold Burleigh, took it into her head to venture alone down there, and disappear forever, I sealed the passage and persuaded Bartholomew Middlestreet to remove every trace of the mock sea-chest. I think whatever that green mist does, and whatever it is, it is emanating from the Underland.”

“So what can be done?” asked Reggie.

“I don’t know,” admitted Philomena. “And I can think of only one person who might have some idea…“

“It is a time vortex,” declared Durosimi O’Stoat. “I have seen an example just once before, and believe me, they are unbelievably difficult to dispose of.”

Since returning from the Himalayas, Durosimi appeared to be a changed man, and therefore more approachable than formerly.

“Is it likely to spread?” asked Philomena.

“I imagine so,” replied Durosimi. “Which means that you will have to waste no time in containing it as best you can.”

“I will have to…?” Philomena looked dismayed.

“Of course. I think we both know that you have demonstrated magical abilities far beyond anything that I am capable of. Anyway, you asked for my advice, and that’s it. After all, this is your inn, and, quite frankly, it is not my problem.”

“Oh, but it is,” broke in Reggie, angrily. “If that thing spreads, no one is safe, not even you, O’Stoat.”

Durosimi raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“He’s right,” said Rhys, “And if that happens, it could devour the island.”

Durosimi sighed. “Very well,” he said. “I will consult my books. There must be something in one of them that will shed some light on this.”

“Well, for goodness sake hurry up,” said Reggie.

Two anxious hours passed by before Durosimi returned.

“There is a solution, but it has one or two drawbacks,” he said.

A few seconds passed, which felt like an eternity.

“Well go on,” said Reggie. “Tell us.”

“It seems that a lodestone, placed in the centre of the vortex, upon a north-south alignment, will diffuse it.” said Durosimi.

“Do we have such a thing?” asked Philomena.

Durosimi smiled thinly and produced, from one of his voluminous pockets, a rough looking rock, almost as long as a man’s hand.

“That looks like a piece of fossilised night-soil,” observed Rhys, doubtfully. “But if that is all that there is to do, then it sounds easy enough,”

“True,” replied Durosimi, “but unfortunately, the person who places the lodestone in there will undoubtedly die. Remember, time is travelling at an accelerated rate within the vortex, and it seems to be speeding up – It’s now about ten years with every second that passes, I would guess.”

There was another brief pause, then Reggie said, “I’ll do it.”

“No you will not,” said Philomena. “I won’t let you.”

“You must,” said Reggie. “Look, I have led a full and exciting life. I

have no regrets. You young people have everything in front of you.

Come on, O’Stoat, hand me the lodestone and work out which direction

is north, then we can get this business over and done with.”

“Please Reggie, there’s got to be another way.” Philomena was on the edge of tears.

Reggie shook his head sadly, then kissed her hand.

“Be sure to take good care of The Squid, m’dear,” he smiled sadly, and took the lodestone from Durosimi.

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales

The vampire ball

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(Art by Dr Abbey, text by Nimue)

Tickets to this summer’s vampire ball are being made widely available as the event – previously more a myth than a certainty – will be going ahead in Gaunt Town in a few weeks time.

“I know Gaunt Town doesn’t have the best reputation, but it’s a great location with a wonderful atmosphere,” ball organiser Symphony Sange told The Vendetta.

Gaunt Town has a reputation for killing or driving mad anyone who ventures there after dark. Your understanding of the atmosphere may depend greatly on how mad or dead you were before even buying a ticket.

This year, the ball welcomes in any and all Hopeless citizens who wish to attend. The undead, the undead-wannabes and the death curious are all very welcome, we have been told. It’s an inclusive event henceforth and will no longer be excluding participation based on vitality.

However, not everyone is excited about this opportunity to dig out your grandmother’s grave attire and look your glamorous worst.

Reverend Davies said: It’s a trap, it’s clearly a trap. They’re going to feed on the living, they’re just luring you in with the excitement of a big summer party, but it really isn’t safe.”

When asked if he would be going, Reverend Davies confirmed that he had bought a ticket.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

An Englishman in the Dark

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 Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton had always prided himself on being fazed by nothing. Even finding that he had been deposited upon the island of Hopeless, Maine, when his intention had been to board the RMS Titanic, was something that he had taken in his stride. So ready was he to embrace his new life that he had insisted on being known simply as Reggie Upton, and had thrown himself completely into what passed as Hopeless society. One or two of his friends noticed, however, that, in recent weeks, his stoic approach seemed to have been somewhat bruised.

You may remember that he had discovered that the well-known song, ‘Goodbye Dolly Gray’, popular during the Boer War, had been parodied on the island by a former colleague and fellow comrade-in-arms, Colonel ‘Mad Jack’ Ruscombe-Green. It had shocked Reggie to learn that the colonel’s brief venture into the world of songsmithing had, apparently, occurred more than a century earlier. This was all very perplexing. As far as Reggie was concerned, Ruscombe-Green, who had been considerably younger than he was, and at the time a lieutenant, was last seen, no more than a dozen years earlier, causing mayhem in South Africa. To add to his confusion, this revelation had come not long after the young, and palely beautiful, Philomena Bucket had informed him that she had been born in the same year as his grandmother.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” advised Rhys Cranham. “There is little rhyme or reason to anything that happens on Hopeless.”

“But I can’t help but worry,” confided Reggie, “take that new chap on the island, what’s his name? Bencombe…”

“Benny?” said Rhys. “He’s alright.”

“Don’t let him hear you calling him Benny,” broke in Philomena. “It’s Benjamin or nothing, as far as he’s concerned,”

“Well, as I was about to say,” said Reggie, slightly annoyed at the interruption, “he reckons that a few weeks before he found himself here, Britain had crowned a new queen. Another Elizabeth, apparently.”

“Is that bad?” asked Rhys.

“My point is,” said Reggie, “how far in the future does this happen? When I left England, the royal male line looked fairly solid. There was no sign of any woman called Elizabeth, or anything else for that matter, who might be likely to ascend to the throne.”

“Good luck to her, I say,” declared Philomena. “You lot might not be so warlike with a woman in charge.”

“Don’t be too sure,” said Reggie. “Queen Victoria built an empire. The Empire upon which the sun never sets.”

“That’s because you can’t trust an Englishman in the dark,” muttered Philomena.

 Reggie was not the only person fretting about the island’s eccentric attitude towards time, and just about everything else, It had taken Benjamin Bencombe several weeks to come to terms with the strange fauna and flora, including that skeletal dog that seemed to get everywhere. He hated the eternal fog, and the total lack of any sort of modern amenity. Then there were all of the ghosts, even in the pub. No one batted an eyelid when that Jesuit priest drifted through the wall of the bar, or when Philomena’s grandmother manifested in the snuggery. And as for the headless woman haunting the toilet, how the devil did she get there? Then to cap it all, that massive yeti fellow turned up, speaking perfect English and treated by all and sundry as though his presence on the island was the most natural thing in the world.

 “I don’t know if I will be able to survive this place for very much longer,” he confided miserably to Philomena.

“Of course you will,” she reassured him, “everyone says that when they first come to the island.”

‘And the majority of them don’t last a fortnight,’ she thought to herself.

‘But I am a man of science, a botanist,” he insisted. “Without my books I am lost.”

“There are plenty of books up in the attics,” said Philomena. “There must be something up there that you’ll find useful.”

“I will look,” Benjamin sighed, ‘but I don’t hold out much hope.”

 It was some hours later when Philomena realised that Benjamin had not returned from the attics.

“Maybe he’s dropped off to sleep,” she said to Reggie. “I’ll send Rhys up to check on him.”

“No need, I’ll go up,” offered Reggie, who never minded a browse around the attics, himself.

Five minutes later he was back in the kitchen, his face deathly pale.

“Is everything alright?” asked Philomena. “Where is Benjamin?”

“He’s… he’s dead…” Reggie stammered.

Philomena was surprised at Reggie’s reaction; after all, he must have seen a lot of death during his time in the army.

“… And he looks as though he has been dead for several months,” he added, grimly.

 To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Behold the Jewel in the Skunk Cabbage

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 “Far be it from me to gossip, but he definitely isn’t the same these days,” said Doc Willoughby.

Reverend Davies sniffed. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he muttered.

Doc had imparted the news that a complete change of character had come over Durosimi O’Stoat, following his recent stay in a Tibetan monastery.

“You will believe it, I promise you,” replied Doc. “He is wandering around like a man in a trance, gabbling something incomprehensible, and beaming at everyone.”

“Beaming, you say? That is odd. Maybe the experience of being dragged through that Squash fellow’s portal twice has finally sent him over the edge,” mused the Reverend. “I always said that these occult things that he seems to be obsessed with would be his downfall one day.”

Doc Willoughby was not the only person who had registered a change in Durosimi’s behaviour; he had become the talk of The Squid and Teapot.

 “It sounds as though he’s gone quite insane,” said Philomena Bucket.

“Not at all,” replied Reggie Upton. “I would guess that a couple of weeks in a Buddhist monastery up in the Himalayas has revealed more to him than just yak-butter tea and chilblains.”

“Such as?” asked Philomena, who found the prospect of Durosimi’s conversion to Buddhism hard to swallow.

“He has doubtless seen what those monks can achieve through harsh discipline and untold hours of meditation,” said Reggie. “I have never been to Tibet, but I know what those yogi chaps in India can do.”

Reggie paused, and stared into his drink.

“And I also know what I achieved myself, with the help of my dear friend, Annie,” he added.

Benjamin Bencombe opened his mouth to ask what that might be, but a glare from Philomena changed his mind. She knew that Reggie, and the love of his life, Annie Besant, had lost contact since he left India for Africa, and the Boer War. She also knew that Annie, a Theosophist, had taught him how to make a thought-form, a tulpa, in her likeness. More than thirty years had passed since then, and the tulpa – who would always be a young version of Annie – still haunted him.

“So what is that gibberish I’ve heard him spouting?” grinned Septimus Washwell. “Sounds like Oh Mammy something something…”

“That would be Sanskrit, not gibberish,” corrected Reggie. He had not liked the way in which Septimus was making light of this, and there was disapproval in his voice. “And it is a well-known mantra, Om Mani Padme Hum.”

Philomena raised an eyebrow.  “And I bet that you’re now going to tell us what that means.”

“Of course,” agreed Reggie. “It translates as something like Behold the Jewel in the Lotus.”

“Speaking as a botanist,” piped up Benjamin Bencombe, at last allowed to speak, “I find it most unlikely that this Durosimi fellow is going to have much luck beholding lotuses on Hopeless, bejewelled or no.”

“There are no lotus flowers to speak of,” laughed Philomena, “but we do have plenty of skunk cabbage.”

“Ah, Symlocarpus foetidus, if I’m not mistaken,” said Benjamin, then added in a low voice, “and I rarely am.”

 The speculation regarding Durosimi and his apparent transformation was not completely unfounded, but a changed character he definitely was not – at least, not on the inside. He had seen enough during his sojourn in Tibet to convince him that his own form of sorcery was crude compared with the natural magic of the monks, the result of very many years of discipline and study. Although keen to replicate their feats, Durosimi had no intention of investing any more time into the venture than was strictly necessary. He knew his own strengths, and was convinced that he could master, in just a few weeks, powers that some lamas claimed to have devoted several lifetimes to achieve. Besides, Durosimi was not at all sure that he had several lifetimes at his disposal.

 Mr Squash, the Sasquatch, was all too aware of the most recent topic of conversation on the island, and was not happy. He had known Durosimi since the sorcerer was in diapers, and he had never trusted the man. He could only imagine what might happen if Durosimi became proficient in Buddhist magic, which Mr Squash had witnessed with his own eyes, and some of it had terrified even him. He felt responsible, and believed that it was up to him to put things right. He would have to take Durosimi through a portal again, somewhere far away, where he could do no harm… and make sure that the sorcerer never came back.

Hopeless Tales

A visitor

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(Story by Steven C Davis, shack by Nimue Brown)

The rap sounded through the hut. Not quite driftwood-constructed, but a rap like that hinted at an arm, a physique, that could break the door down without too much effort.

They rapped again.

Salt spray drenched the cabin, rendering the host blind to any other smell. Apart from the potential strength, he had no images, no feelings, about the visitor, other than the vaguest impression that a third strike might be heavier, might even cleave the door in two before he was ready.

‘Coming,’ he called out, ‘don’t mind me, old bones aren’t what they used to be.’

He took a clumping step, setting the rocking chair in motion.

Another clumping step, silently lifting an item from the old, moss-covered table.

‘Almost there, lad,’ he called out, though he doubted the visitor was a young lad.

He shuffled towards the door, trying not to grin. He could hear, now he was closer, the visitor’s breathing.

Angry.

Short.

Petulant.

He reached for the handle of the door, trying not to grin.

‘Open up –’

Benedictus Cucumberpatch opened up the door to the visitor, gently easing his finger tighter on the crossbow trigger.

The bolt pinged and there was a muffled, wet, thump.

Benedictus chortled. ‘Visitors, eh. Who’d ‘av ‘em.’

Written as a free-writing exercise as part of a short story workshop, run by Laura Jane Round on 14.05.2024.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Goodbye, Dolly

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Reggie Upton was out flanneuring (or flanneling, as Philomena Bucket referred to it). Or, at least, he would have been, had he not decided to pay a call on the Middlestreets, for in order to flaneur properly there should be no definite destination in mind. Since leaving The Squid and Teapot, Bartholomew and Ariadne had moved into the old Blomqvist house, a residence that came complete with its own guardian, a Tomte, who attended to all of the mundane, daily jobs that any self-respecting tenant would eschew – or at least, that was the idea. It seems that the Tomte had taken exception to the fact that neither Bartholomew, nor his wife, had a drop of Swedish blood in their veins, and had decided to go into retirement, in protest. That was why, when reaching the front door, Reggie found Bartholomew busily painting both it, and himself, in the process. He didn’t seemed too bothered, however, as he splashed the paint about liberally, singing to himself as he did so.

 “Goodbye Hopeless I must leave you,

For it’s time for me to go. I won’t miss your dismal sea-views,  And the cold Atlantic blow.

No more trudging over headland In the fog and driving rain.

So farewell, Hopeless I must leave you,

Goodbye Hopeless, Maine.”

 “Why, that tune takes me back,” said Reggie, waving his sword stick like a conductor’s baton.  “I haven’t heard it sung for years, though the words have changed.”  

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” said Bartholomew. “That song was composed here on Hopeless by one of the few people to escape from the island. My grandfather taught it to me and he learned it from the man who wrote it – a fellow called Colonel Ruscombe-Green.”  

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie. “Not Mad Jack Ruscombe-Green? I knew the chap in Africa, during the Boer War. He was a lowly lieutenant in those days… he made colonel, eh? How the devil did he get here?”

“Well, it might not be the same man – although it’s not a common name, so you might be right. But I can promise you that he definitely wrote the song,” insisted Bartholomew.  

“Ruscombe-Green was a splendid chap, but always a bit of a rogue,” smiled Reggie. “I wouldn’t put it past him to pass that tune off as his own. The words must be his, though. There aren’t too many songs knocking around about Hopeless, Maine.”  

“Then what are the words?” asked Ariadne, walking through the doorway and narrowly avoiding getting paint on her apron.  “Come on, Brigadier, give us a song.”  

Reggie beamed. He had a fine baritone voice, and he knew it. The old soldier never missed a chance to give his tonsils an airing.  “The true title is ‘Goodbye Dolly Gray,” he said, “and there is a short verse that precedes the chorus that Mad Jack so casually borrowed… ” And then he closed his eyes and began to sing.

 “I have come to say goodbye, Dolly Gray.

It’s no use to ask me why, Dolly Gray.

There’s a murmur in the air, you can hear it everywhere,

It’s time to do and dare, Dolly Gray – so

Goodbye Dolly I must leave you,

Though it breaks my heart to go.

Something tells me I am needed At the front to fight the foe.

See, the soldier boys are marching

And I can no longer stay.

Hark, I hear the bugle calling,

Goodbye Dolly Gray.”

The account of Colonel Ruscombe-Green leaving the island is recounted in the tale entitled ‘Goodbye Hopeless‘. Should you wish to hear the full, and original,  version of ‘Goodbye Dolly Gray’, below is a link to a splendid rendition by Mr Edward Woodward.