Category Archives: Hopeless Tales

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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Yak Butter Tea For Two

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“Do they really expect me to eat this muck?” Doc Willoughby regarded his bowl of dark cereal with a look of disdain.

“It’s called tsampa, the staple diet of the monastery, and it is all that there is,” snapped Durosimi O’Stoat. “If you bothered to taste it, you would find that it’s really quite good.”

“I would be happier if I knew exactly what I was eating,” complained the Doc. “I can’t say I trust these fellows…”

“They are monks, for goodness sake!” exclaimed Durosimi, exasperated. “They’ve saved your life. Show some gratitude for once.”

Doc eyed his companion warily. This sudden respect for others was a side of the sorcerer that he had never seen before.

“Well, what’s in it?” asked the Doc.

“As far as I understand,” replied Durosimi, regaining his composure, “it is made of roasted flour and some seeds…”

“And what else?” muttered the Doc, suspiciously.

“Something called bod ja – Tibetan tea. It’s all perfectly good and, I have been assured, extremely nutritious also.”

Durosimi decided not to go into the details of how bod ja is made. Doc did not need to know that a large lump of greasy yak butter gets added to some heavily salted tar-black tea, which had previously been strained through a horse-hair colander. Neither did he need to be apprised of the information that this concoction is then churned until it reaches the consistency of thick oil, and added to the flour and seeds in order to make tsampa. Durosimi felt that knowing this, the Doc may have been disinclined to eat.  Why such facts might have bothered someone who was more than happy to gorge on starry-grabby pie, however, is something of a mystery to me.

 If you have just wandered into this tale after several weeks, or more, away, you may be wondering what Durosimi O’Stoat and Doc Willoughby are doing, enjoying the hospitality of a Tibetan Buddhist monastery, high up in the Himalayan Mountains and many thousands of miles from Hopeless, Maine. To cut a long story short, Doc Willoughby – for reasons yet unknown – had been found, not so much at Death’s door, but wiping his boots on Death’s welcome mat. Philomena Bucket and Mr Squash, the Sasquatch, agreed that the Doc’s only hope of being saved lay in the healing hands of the lamas of the legendary Dge-lugs-pa, or the Yellow Hat sect, (fortunately, these days they are known more for their distinctive burgundy robes than their yellow hats). Durosimi, who had visited the monastery some time before, offered to go and keep an eye on the Doc, and so Mr Squash transported the pair of them to the Himalayas, via one of his mysterious portals. Now you are up to date.

 Philomena Bucket winced as Mr Squash lowered his huge, eight-hundred pound frame onto the old wooden settle bench that had stood for years in the corner of the bar of The Squid and Teapot.

“Is that worried look, etched upon your dear face, placed there for my welfare, or for the settle’s?” he asked mischievously.

“Both,” Philomena admitted. “I wouldn’t want to see either of you damaged.”

“That’s not likely,” said the Sasquatch, “This old seat is as solid as The Squid itself; it will take more than my delicate weight to do it harm.”

Philomena smiled. She hoped that he was right.

“Talking of damaged goods,” said Mr Squash, “it’s high time that I brought Doc Willoughby back from Tibet. If the monks have not cured him by now, they never will.”

“You don’t know, he might want to stay there,” said Philomena, optimistically.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” replied the Sasquatch. “Besides, Durosimi is with him. Having to entertain those two for any length of time wouldn’t be fair on the monks. It would be enough to make them lose their religion completely.”

“And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” laughed Philomena.

 Mr Squash waited until daybreak on the following morning before leaving for Tibet. As ever, wisps of mist curled around the portal, which was just a simple natural gateway formed between two trees. If you or I had stepped through we would have found ourselves to be nowhere other than a stride away from where we had started, but for Mr Squash, and anyone whom he carried, it was a wormhole – albeit a large one – to the Himalayas, the land of his cousins, known to humans as the Yeti.

“Bon voyage, old friend,” said Reggie Upton, who had come to see him off. “Give my regards to your relatives.”

Mr Squash waved and disappeared into the portal. A few seconds later he returned, a concerned look in his wise and ancient eyes.

“Something wrong, old chap?” asked Reggie.

“There has been a rock-fall on the other side,” said the Sasquatch. “It’s totally blocked, and far too much for me to shift. There is no way that I can get through.” 

 To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

Terrible exposure

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In recent weeks, we’ve had odd glimmers of sun on the island – rare summery conditions that have had strange effects on the locals. A person might safely venture forth without wearing a scarf. Some have even gone so far as to roll up their shirt sleeves, or turn up the cuffs on their trousers.

This has proved difficult for Mrs Beaten. The sight of exposed forearms inspires uneasy feelings in her. Especially the vision of blue-ish veins in skin pale from scarcity of sunlight. Gaze for too long and you can make out the presence of a pulse. It is too much, too intimate beholding such things unexpectedly. And as for the trousers…

Mrs Beaten tries not to think about what anyone else might have beneath their trousers, or under their skirts. If the notion is unavoidable, she likes to picture candlesticks and lamp stands. It is a horrifying thing to be able to see a person’s socks. No one should bare their undergarments in this way. A little exposed skin about the calf is too shocking, truly wanton. The young men seem at ease with these appalling displays of flesh.

Mrs Beaten worries about where this will lead, and what unspeakable acts may follow. This orgy of trouser rolling, this hedonistic horror of visible shins runs the risk of inviting other, even more dreadful acts of deviation. She fears the exposure of knees, tries hard not to think about knees, finds herself haunted by the idea of them.

What would she do if she happened to be walking in the street and a man came towards her with his knees on display? How could she possibly cope? Could she control herself in such circumstances? She hopes that the overwhelming nature of the encounter would provoke her into saying some stern and appropriate words of condemnation. She fears that she might stand there transfixed, unable to look away from the sordid display.

If the man asked her to touch his knees, what would she do?

She thinks a lot about the danger of such a proposition. The exact way in which it might be phrased. She pictures a scenario in which she is unexpectedly close to the man who has exposed his leg joints so shamelessly for her viewing.

“Look at my knees, Mrs Beaten. You know you want to look at them,” he says in her mind.

She tells herself that she absolutely does not want to be trapped in a narrow alleyway with a man who demands she looks at his knees. And yet somehow she can still hear his voice in her head. “I’ve got big knees,” he says.

(Art and text by Nimue)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Once Upon A Tuesday Evening Dreary…

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Mr Squash squatted on the ground outside Neville Moore’s mausoleum-like home, idly stroking the bible-black, though distinctly dishevelled, feathers on the head of Neville’s pet raven, Lenore.

“People have lost fingers for attempting less,” observed Neville, admiringly.

“And over-ambitious birds have lost their heads for trying,” said Mr Squash. “Luckily, Lenore and I have an understanding.” 

The raven gave the Sasquatch a sideways glance and shuffled uncomfortably on her perch.  

“Reggie Upton told me that you’ve been away, trying to find a cure for whatever it is that’s troubling Doc Willoughby,” said Neville, changing the subject.

“Yes. I had to take him to a Buddhist temple high in the Himalayas,” replied Mr Squash. “He’s barely alive, and the monks there are his only chance.”

While it is almost impossible to leave the island of Hopeless, Maine, Mr Squash is able to come and go as he pleases, via a series of secret portals. Convenient as these doorways are, they are potentially lethal for mere humans. As I have mentioned before, in a society more conscious of Health and Safety procedures, each portal would doubtless have carried a notice, proclaiming in large, angry letters:

‘DANGER – NO ADMITTANCE. HUMAN ACCESS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. SASQUATCHES ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.’

“What concerns me,” admitted Mr Squash, “is if the trip kills Doc Willoughby, then so be it. He would have been a dead man anyway if he’d not gone. Durosimi, on the other hand, didn’t really have to accompany him. I would have stayed.”

“Durosimi?” said a surprised Neville.  Mr Squash nodded.

“He volunteered  to keep an eye on the Doc. The trouble is, he looked in as bad a state as Willoughby when I left them. The monks are going to have their work cut out with those two.”

“Good luck with that,” said Neville.  Lenore, who had become restless, and still brooding over recent references to lost heads, flapped noisily up onto a window ledge that had been generously streaked with guano.  

“When are you fetching them back?” asked Neville.

“I’ll give it a week or so. I’ve relatives living up that way.”  

“Ah, the Yeti,” said Neville, who had read about such creatures in several of the many books that Philomena regularly sent along to him, foraged from the attics of The Squid and Teapot.

“Don’t let them hear you calling them that,” said Mr Squash. “It’s not particularly complimentary in Tibetan. It’s almost as bad as referring to me as Bigfoot.” With that, Mr Squash rose to his feet (and yes, they are inclined to be on the largish size) dwarfing the hermit of Ghastly Green. “I need to get back to The Squid and collect Drury,” he said. “We’re keeping young Winston Oldspot, The Night-Soil Man, company tonight. It seems that he thinks we’ve all abandoned him.”

“Yes, apparently so,” said Neville. “He did look a bit miffed when I saw him the other night.”

“Philomena’s sending him over some Starry-Grabby pie,” said Mr Squash. “That should cheer the lad up.”

“If there’s any going spare,” said Neville, hopefully, “Lenore and I would be very grateful…”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said the Sasquatch, quietly wondering to himself how anyone could possibly manage to eat the stuff.

Meanwhile, half a world away, in the high Himalayas, Doc Willoughby and Durosimi O’Stoat were lost in comfortable oblivion, unaware of the burgundy-robed lamas who rotated the prayer-wheels on their behalf.

Hopeless Tales

All of your aunties

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(Art by Dr Abbey, text by Nimue)

When you wake up, your aunty is all around you. When you went to sleep you thought that you had only one aunty, but now there seem to be a lot of her.

You may be feverish. You feel very cold – but it is normal to feel cold so this clarifies nothing.

You’ve heard that there are tiny magical creatures who some people call aunties. You do not think your aunty is a small magical creature but also you have no idea what would happen if an aunty gets inside an aunty.

“This is all perfectly normal” she tells you, and all of her mouths move at slightly different times.

This makes you wonder how many heads you have, and how many mouths, and whether you have woken up with the same number of eyes you had when going to sleep.

“It’s just a nightmare,” one of her mouths says.

You have the feeling she is lying to you.

“When you wake up it will all have been a dream.”

You do not want to go back to sleep, because you have no idea what will have been a dream. This vision? Your life? Everything you have known? If you go to sleep you might wake up into something even worse than this.

“You are just a bone remembering when you had flesh,” she says. “Go back to sleep.”

If this is the only life left to you then you do not want to give it up.

“You are just driftwood and dry seaweed imagining that you are a person, and having a nightmare,” she says, oh so sweetly.

You are drifting now, sliding gently towards oblivion with no confidence that there is anything in you capable of ever waking up again.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

What’s Up, Doc?

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 Reggie Upton picked up the fallen candle-lantern, which by some miracle had stayed alight, and looked down at the prone form of Doc Willoughby, sprawled in the mud. The last thing that the Doc had said to him was, “I think I’m dying,” and, to all intents and purposes, had proceeded to do exactly that.

“Surely not,” thought Reggie.

To the accompaniment of a series of grunts, wheezes and winces, he managed to drop to his knees and, dredging up some dimly recalled instructions barked out by Surgeon-Major Shepherd, of the Royal Herbert Military Hospital in Woolwich, he rested three fingers just below the fallen physician’s jawbone to check for a pulse. The tiny flutter of life that he felt was not encouraging, but at least it proved that the Doc was still in full receipt of his mortal coil, though only just.

“How the devil am I going to get him any help?” Reggie muttered to himself. It was long past midnight, and the mean streets of Hopeless, Maine were dark and deserted. Only one lonely light glimmered some distance away from, what might be laughingly referred to as, the island’s main thoroughfare.

Reggie groaned inwardly.

 To say that Durosimi O’Stoat was somewhat annoyed by the rapping on his front door would be an egregious understatement. While I have no idea what he might have been up to at such a late hour, it is safe to assume that it was unlikely to include any plans designed to benefit his fellow islanders. Finding Reggie Upton standing upon his doorstep did nothing to improve his mood.

“What?” he barked, with a ferocity that made the veteran of the Siege of Ladysmith quake in his boots.

“It’s Willoughby,” said Reggie, who went on to give a brief account of his meeting with the Doc, and all that followed.

“Blast the man,” growled Durosimi, dragging on an overcoat. “We’d better get him inside before something eats him, I suppose.”

 Luckily, Doc Willoughby had been considered decidedly indigestible by any predator who may have been passing, and remained, as far as could be ascertained, totally intact.

 “Why is it,” puffed Durosimi, “that the only corpulent man on the island decides to play dead in the middle of the night?”

He and Reggie had taken an arm and a leg each, and were carrying the Doc up the hill to Durosimi’s house.

“He’s certainly no lightweight,” conceded Reggie, ‘but we’re nearly there old chap. Chin up, and all that.”

It was fortunate that the darkness concealed Durosimi’s scowl. No one had before said – or even dared to contemplate saying – ‘Chin up’ to the sorcerer, much less referring to him as an ‘Old Chap.’

 Doc lay on a vast leather sofa that took up most of one wall of Durosimi’s parlour.

“It’s beyond me,” admitted Durosimi, scratching his head. “The answer might be in some grimoire or other, but to be honest, healing is really not my forte.”

“No, I can imagine,” thought Reggie, but wisely decided not to say it aloud.

“I could go and fetch Philomena,” he suggested. “She’ll still be up. It was James Weaselgrease’s birthday bash in The Squid and Teapot last night, so you can guarantee that there’ll be plenty of mess to be cleared up.”

“Very well,” said Durosimi, resignedly, seeing all hope of completing his night’s work rapidly disappearing.

 In less than half-an-hour Philomena was in the parlour and looking down at Doc with concern. She had never liked the man very much, but she had never wished him harm… Well, not real harm, anyway.

“It is as though his spirit has left him,” she declared, after a cursory examination of the Doc’s aura.

“Are you sure?” queried Durosimi. “The only spirit I associate with that man is my whisky, which he seems rather too fond of.”

“He’s not drunk… for once,” said Philomena. “Something is very amiss, though. I fear that it’s beyond my ability to cure him.”

Durosimi looked thoughtful.

“We could ask Mr Squash to take him to the monastery where I stayed,” he said. “If anyone can work miracles, those monks can.”

Philomena looked at him approvingly. Since his couple of weeks recuperating in Tibet he seemed to be a changed man. He was still as dangerous as a viper, but somehow more human than he allowed people to believe.

“Mr Squash looked in at young Weaselgrease’s party earlier on,” she said.

‘Looked in’ just about summed it up. There would have been little enough room for Mr Squash’s bulk in the bar last night.

“I’ll go and see if I can find him,” said Reggie. “I know all of his usual haunts.”

 Mr Squash scratched his enormous head and regarded Durosimi with puzzlement.

“What makes you think that the monks would be able to cure him?” he asked.

“They know things that I can only dream of,” said Durosimi. “If they can’t do it, no one can.”

Philomena looked at him in astonishment; for once in his life Durosimi was actually showing some humility.

“He’s very weak; the journey there could kill him,” warned the Sasquatch. “Remember how it affected you?”

“Oh, I remember well enough,” said Durosimi, wincing at the memory. “The thing is, if he doesn’t go to the monastery, to my mind he’s as good as dead anyway.”

Philomena nodded her head, then felt shocked that she was actually agreeing with Durosimi. The day was still only a few hours old, and it was becoming weirder by the minute already.

“Very well,” said Mr Squash, “but someone should stay with him; I refuse to leave him there alone. You know what he can be like. He could try the patience of a saint, and while those monks might be religious, believe me, they’re not saints.”

“I don’t mind travelling back,” said Durosimi. “Going through your portal last time nearly killed me, but it was worth it. I would relish the opportunity to visit Tibet again.”

“Even with Doc Willoughby?” asked Philomena.

Durosimi shrugged.

“Every silver lining has a cloud,” he said.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

One Lonely, Moonless Night On Hopeless…

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 I am fairly confident that Winston Oldspot (Hopeless, Maine’s latest Night-Soil Man) is not at all familiar with the adjective ‘miffed’. There is  really no reason why he should be, having been raised in an orphanage where miffiness was definitely not tolerated. So, when he perched on a kitchen chair and dragged his boots on in sullen silence, he had no notion that the reason for the dark swampy gloop which had consumed his usually sunny disposition could be expressed very succinctly; he was miffed.

Winston did not dislike children; after all, he had been one himself not so long ago. However, the infant who had so recently arrived at The Squid and Teapot – what was her name? Catbrain? – seemed to have caused nothing less than a bout of insanity. In fairness he could understand Philomena and Rhys being quite fond of their adopted daughter, but Reggie? Really? And that’s even before you mention Drury! What had gotten into them? It was all beyond Winston’s understanding.

A little probing might reveal that the general climate of unconditional love for Caitlin (who most definitely has never been known as Catbrain) was not the real cause of Winston’s current feeling of discontent. It was purely the fact that her self-appointed fan-club of Grandpa Reggie and Uncle Drury seemed to have suddenly forgotten that Winston had ever existed. Ever since Rhys Cranham made the decision to retire from his post, and ceremoniously pass on the lidded-bucket and long-handled shovel to his apprentice, the two had made a point of accompanying Winston on his nightly rounds. Tonight, for the first time ever, neither of them had turned up. Even Mr Squash seemed to have forsaken him, although Winston could not imagine the great hairy bulk of the sasquatch simpering over some toddler.

Winston looked out into the misty, moonless night and hoisted the lidded-bucket on to his shoulders. A Night-Soil Man has to do what a Night-Soil Man has to do, and the cess-pools, midden-closets and privies of Hopeless would not empty themselves.

 The self-styled hermit, Neville Moore, has always made a practice of lighting several lanterns around his property whenever he knows that the Night-Soil Man is due to arrive. This is a wise decision, given that the somewhat odd and ancient building in Ghastly Green, which more resembles a mausoleum than a house, has more than its fair share of obstacles to negotiate. Not least of these is Neville’s decrepit pet raven, Lenore, who always appears seemingly out of nowhere to warn the hermit of the presence of intruders; this she does by calling his name. Many a visitor has been shaken to the core by this sudden black apparition, terrifyingly bursting from the night’s Plutonian shore and loudly cawing, “Neville Moore”.

 “Good evening Winston,” called Neville from his doorway, several yards safely upwind of the Night-Soil Man.

Winston, drenched in the light of the lanterns, waved feebly at the hermit.

“Hello Mr Moore,” he said, gloomily.

“Are you alright, my friend?” asked Neville, concernedly. “You sound a trifle miffed.”

Winston didn’t like ro admit that he had no idea what that meant, so he changed the subject.

“What are you up to at this time of night, Mr Moore? It must be nearly midnight.”

“Oh, not much,” said Neville. “I’ve been pondering over a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore that Philomena found in the attics of The Squid. Reggie dropped it off this afternoon. Only that, and nothing more.”

Winston nodded, and wandered off to the end of the garden, where Neville’s ornate privy awaited his attention.

 “So Reggie can drag himself away from that brat long enough to run errands for Philomena, but isn’t able to come out with me,” thought Winston, bitterly.

Of course, had the Night-Soil Man been thinking straight, it might have occurred to him that Reggie and Drury, devoted as they were to little Caitlin, would  be unlikely to be cooing and fussing over the girl in the middle of the night.

Drury was not cooing, fussing or indeed moving much at all. Instead he was sound asleep at the foot of Caitlin’s bed, having tired both of them out by playing with her all day.

Reggie was happy to let his friend sleep. He pulled on a stout pair of boots before setting off alone from The Squid and Teapot, having allowed himself plenty of time to get to The House at Poo Corner before Winston would be ready to start his shift. You may recall that the old soldier had lost his sense of smell many years previously while serving in the British army. Almost uniquely, on Hopeless, this gave him the ability to tolerate the company of the Night-Soil Man without gagging or passing out.

 It was rare to meet anyone walking on the island after dark, so Reggie was surprised when a figure, carrying a small candle lantern, emerged from the shadows.

“Upton? Is that you?”

Reggie recognised the voice of Doc Willoughby. He did not trust the Doc, but the man was no physical threat, Nevertheless it was as well to be on his guard. He felt the reassuring weight of his trusty sword-stick in his hand, and said,

“Ah, Willoughby. Good evening.”

The Doc drew nearer, and the look on his face, illuminated by the amber light of the candle-lantern, told Reggie that all was not well.

“Upton… Reginald… I need your help,” he said, with a tremor in his voice.

“Whatever is the matter, old chap?”

“I think I’m dying,” said the Doc, and promptly fell face-first onto the muddy ground.

 To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Caitlin

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For the first time in living memory, the walls of The Squid and Teapot echoed with a child’s laughter. It had been no more than a fortnight since the small, pallid toddler had arrived on the island of Hopeless, Maine, but Philomena Bucket could no longer imagine life without her.

It had not been easy during those first few days. The girl’s limited vocabulary had been unintelligible; whatever language she had been raised in, it certainly was not English. There were, however, tiny glimmers of similarity here and there, and the meanings of a few words became dimly recognizable.

Small children, however, are quick to learn, and two weeks is a long time when you are only two years old. Her new name, new parents and the strangeness of Hopeless swiftly seemed commonplace to little Caitlin. The ghosts who haunted the privy became her friends, and the weird bony creature who slept in the snuggery was just another friendly dog – a funny looking one, admittedly, but a dog nonetheless. ‘Cu’, she called him, much to Drury’s puzzlement, but he doted upon her, as did all who came into the inn. Caitlin was the absolute darling of The Squid and Teapot.

 Reggie Upton had never envisioned himself as being fashioned from the sort of material from which grandfathers are made, but Caitlin had other ideas. Within hours of her being conscious of her surroundings, she leaned out from Philomena’s arms towards Reggie and  exclaimed “Gruac” as she tugged at his hair with joyful enthusiasm.

“Did you hear that?” he said, delightedly. “She called me grandpa.”

“Then you had better teach her to say it properly,” said Philomena, unconvinced, but happy that there was a bond so early on between them.

“Grand-pa” enunciated Reggie, very deliberately.

“Grumper,” repeated Caitlin.

          *************************************************************************************

 This voyage had not been the easiest. Maybe it was because they were nearing the edge of the world that violent tempests had blighted their daily progress. Or was it that Leif had forsaken the gods? He was supposed to be a Christian these days, but he was thousands of miles away from his home shores, and the Old Ones seemed more relevant here than some gentle messiah of the desert lands. Ægir, and his consort Rán ruled this realm, and if Leif and his crew wanted safe passage, they would demand a sacrifice.

The Norsemen had taken a dozen slaves when they last made landfall. These had proved to be a poor lot, a ragged knot of half-starved peasants, but all that the raid had to offer. Now they were a burden, taking up cargo space and consuming precious victuals. Their oblation would be no great loss, but would make a fine gift to  Ægir and the ever-capricious Rán.

 In virtual silence the slaves went to their deaths almost willingly. It was only broken by the young woman clutching her child. She fought back, screaming with rage when they tried to throw her into the icy, unforgiving ocean. Leif felt a sudden pang of humanity, and he prised the tiny youngster from her mother’s arms.

“She will be safe with me,” he said, but the hatred and anger blazing in the woman’s eyes as she toppled overboard would haunt him for the rest of his days.

 It might be thought that the sea-gods would have been sated by the deaths of so many innocents, but it seemed not. Nothing improved for days. Perhaps it was the knowledge that one diminutive captive still survived that tormented them.  Leif knew what he had to do, but his promise to the child’s mother made it impossible for him to simply cast the girl into the ocean. Instead he drugged her, and set her adrift in a small rowing boat for the gods to play with as they saw fit.

 ****************************************************************************************************

 As I have mentioned on several previous occasions, the island of Hopeless, Maine enjoys a complicated relationship with time and space. It draws in those whom it chooses to grace its shores from wherever and whenever it pleases. Reggie Upton, now a man in his sixties, was once a Victorian soldier, while  Philomena Bucket, barely thirty years old, was born around the same time as Reggie’s grandmother. Philomena would probably be surprised, and not a little  amused, to learn that her adopted daughter, Caitlin, came into this world a thousand years ago. As for Leif Erikson, he was never destined to visit Hopeless. Instead, it is believed that  he was the first European to set foot on continental America when his longship, tossed by storms, eventually made landfall on the shores of Newfoundland. That, however, is another tale, and will be forever celebrated in the Icelandic Vinland Sagas.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Gift From The Sea

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 “I cannot, for the life of me, understand why she was alone in that boat.”

Reggie Upton stood at the open door of The Squid and Teapot and stared pensively out into the unremitting fog of, what was meant to be, a summer’s afternoon.

“I think I can,” said Philomena, “and it’s too horrible to contemplate.”

She looked down fondly at the exhausted infant sleeping in her arms. It had been no more than two hours since the girl had been found beneath an upturned boat on the beach, but already Philomena’s maternal instincts were marshalling their forces, and preparing to wreak a terrible fate on anyone or anything unwise enough to think of harming the child.

“When I left Ireland,” she said, “it was as a stowaway upon a small merchant ship. Not surprisingly, they found me in no time, but the captain was a kindly man. He agreed that I could stay wherever it was that I’d been hiding on board, until they made landfall. He made sure that I was given food, and protected me from the crew, who would have happily thrown me overboard. For a while things were fine – then, about three weeks into the voyage, there was a series of disasters, the worst of which was the captain having a heart attack and dying. Of course, with my protector gone I stood no chance. The mate blamed me for all of their misfortunes – he called me an Albino Witch.”

For the first time, during the telling of her tale, Philomena smiled.

“That was ironic. Neither of us knew exactly how accurate that description was. Anyway, to cut a long story short, before the crew had a chance to get rid of me, they all died and I didn’t.”

“But what has that to do with the child?” asked Reggie.

“Albinos are viewed by many as being bringers of bad luck,” explained Philomena. “And there are few people more superstitious than sailors. Draw your own conclusions.”

“That is dreadful,” said Reggie, his face flushing with anger.

“The main thing is that she is safe now; no one is going to harm a single albino hair of her head,” said Philomena.

“If it’s any consolation,” said Reggie, “neither you nor the child could possibly be called truly albino.”

Philomena raised a pale eyebrow.

“In my opinion,” Reggie went on, “you are both subject to a condition known as leucism.”

“Is that bad?” asked Philomena, worriedly.

Reggie smiled. “Not to my knowledge,” he said. “It simply means that you have a partial loss of pigmentation, resulting in your very pale skin and hair colour. It is perhaps more common in the animal world.”

Upon seeing Philomena’s frown, he placed an avuncular hand upon her shoulder. “My dear young lady,” he said, “I have seen white lions in Africa and a white tiger in India, and I can assure you that they are stunningly beautiful creatures.”

The slightest suspicion of a soft pink glow crept into Philomena’s cheeks. “Thank you, Reggie,” she said.

Despite Philomena’s objections, Rhys had insisted on fetching Doc Willoughby.

“There’s nothing wrong with this child that a few hours sleep and some parental discipline won’t sort out,” Willoughby declared. “Who does it belong to?”

“SHE,” said Philomena pointedly, “belongs to us.”

“Oh! Yes indeed,” said the Doc. “I can see the family resemblance now.” He stood up, and looked about the room expectantly.

“Thank you Doc,” said Rhys, handing him a bottle of the Gannicox Distillery’s finest. “Hopefully this will…”

“Yes, yes…” said Willoughby, who grabbed the bottle and blustered out.

Philomena shot her husband a look that needed no words; nevertheless she saw fit to supply some. “Well, that was a monumental waste of time, not to mention the bottle of booze,” she said. “I told you, I didn’t want that quack anywhere near our daughter.”

“But she’s not really…”

“Oh, but she is now, Rhys. She most definitely is now, and nothing is going to change that.”

He flopped into the chair next to Reggie, who had been keeping an uncharacteristically tactful silence throughout the proceedings.

“Then there is one thing we have to stop doing straightaway,” Rhys said.

Philomena gave him a questioning look.

“What’s that?”

“We have to stop calling her ‘the child’ and give the poor girl a name.”

“She probably already has a name,” said Reggie, not unreasonably.

“I agree with Rhys,” said Philomena. “The less she remembers of her past the better, and a new name for her new life will help.”

According to the poet T.S. Eliot, it is necessary for a cat to have three distinct names. Fortunately, there is no such stipulation regarding the naming of humans (although, I must admit to being the not particularly proud possessor of three names myself).

Throughout that afternoon and into the evening Philomena and Rhys spent many hours trying to find the perfect name for the child who had been delivered to them by the sea.

“Might I suggest one?” ventured Reggie, having demolished several tankards of Old Colonel.

“Of course,” said Philomena. “You are part of our family.”

Reggie beamed. “Well… the name I’m thinking of actually means ‘Gift from the Sea.”

“Oh, that sounds perfect,” said Rhys. “What is it?”

“Doris” said Reggie.

Rhys and Philomena looked at each other, hardly knowing how to respond.

“Doris?” was all Philomena could say through clenched teeth.

“It was my grandmother’s name,” said Reggie, by way of explanation.

“Well it’s not going to be my daughter’s name,” thought Philomena to herself.

“We’ll think about that one,” said Rhys,

 It was Granny Bucket who came to the rescue. Philomena guessed that as soon as rumour of their new arrival reached Granny’s ghostly ears, nothing in this world or the next could prevent her ancestor from homing in on The Squid and Teapot.

“You haven’t given the child a name yet?” said Granny, aghast.

“We just can’t agree on one.”

“You could name her after me,” said Granny.

“Don’t be silly,” said Rhys. “We can’t call her Granny.”

“I do possess a name, you know,” replied the ancestral ghost, coldly.

“It never occurred to me that you might have a name,” said Philomena. “You’ve always been just Granny to me.”

“Just Granny?”

“Oh, you know what I mean. Come on then… out with it.”

“It’s Caitlin,” said Granny. “And it means ‘Pure’. “

Reggie suddenly had a fit of coughing as he choked on his beer.

“I like Caitlin,” said Philomena, thumping Reggie on the back.

Rhys agreed.

Granny looked on approvingly as the proud parents and Reggie toasted the health of little Caitlin.

“Well, at least let me take a look at my great-granddaughter,” said Granny.

“She’s in bed – please don’t wake her,” said Philomena.

 “Thank you for naming her,” said Philomena later. “Caitlin is a lovely name.”

“Better than Philomena.” said Granny. “You’ve got your father to thank for that. I’ve never liked it.”

“Neither have I,” admitted Philomena, “but I’m stuck with it…”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t the name I wanted you to have,” said Granny, ruefully.

She paused, probably for maximum effect, then said,

“I wanted them to call you Doris.”

Author’s Note: The full account of Philomena’s voyage from Ireland can be found in the tale “Philomena Bucket.”

Hopeless Tales

Pin the Tail

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(By Keith Errington)

Most magic users on the island of Hopeless, Maine, generally practice privately, quietly. This is either because of the public disapproval of magic*, which ranges from malicious tutting to firebrands and pitchforks, or because they have evil intent and wish to be away from prying eyes. Many just want to keep their magical knowledge to themselves and do not want to share it. Good witches don’t want to enable clumsy, unprofessional amateurs who might accidentally cause harm, and evil demons fear a powerful rival might emerge if they share too much.


*Incidentally, public disapproval of magic only extends to public discussion; privately, most islanders will happily turn to magic at the first opportunity if they think it will better their position.


But there will always be one, or two, or perhaps a few whose pursuit of fame will outweigh all these considerations. There are always individuals who will shout from the rooftops their achievements given the opportunity. There are always those who crave the stage, who are addicted to performance and the adulation of their fans.


Malcolm the Mighty actually didn’t have many fans, but he strived for fame nonetheless. And I am almost ashamed to say this, as it is such a storytelling cliché, but… there was a girl… Sheena. She was, perhaps, not the brightest of girls; she hung out with someone called Malcolm the Mighty for a start, but she was pretty and fairly harmless. Malcolm was besotted with her (although neither of them would have understood what the word meant).


Unfortunately for Malcolm, there was a rival, Percy the Powerful. Percy was a slick, silver-tongued boy who, although far from powerful, had caught Sheena’s attention with his good looks, his flowery prose and his large wand.


When I said that Percy was not powerful, that was probably an understatement; the truth was that neither of these wizard wannabes had much magical talent at all. Percy had found a book of magic tricks and the associated props amongst his father’s old belongings; these were parlour amusements no more. But Sheena was impressed with the way he produced flowers from a hat, ‘magically’ unknotted two ropes, and turned water into confetti.


Malcolm, however, was at least the real deal. He was distantly related in some way to a famous witch and was born with a small amount of innate magic, which he had yet to master or even awaken.


Then, one day, things changed. He was in the right place at the right time. An elderly witch fell into a river and was knocked unconscious just as Malcolm was passing, and he dove in and rescued her. In return, she gave him one wish. She told him to think about it carefully and not to think of anything stupid. So he asked for magic beans and… no… wait… that’s not this story, is it? No. Wishes are so lazy. No, what actually happened is that the witch recognised the latent magic in Malcolm and gave him a slight boost, the ability to perform one spell, and only one spell, as many times as he liked. And it would only work if he caused no harm to anyone with it. She asked Malcolm what spell he would like.


Malcolm thought about this for a few seconds: “I have always wanted a flying horse! If I could fly on my horse and pick up Sheena, she was sure to be impressed!”


The Witch gave a snort. “You’ve barely enough talent in you to create a flying ant, young boy. And they can already fly!” She considered him, he seemed like a good lad, and he had just saved her life. “You are lucky I am a powerful witch. I cannot give you a flying horse spell; you do not have the power, but the ability to make another animal fly; I can give you.” And she did, along with a contract to sign, which included a long list of provisos, wherefores, legal clauses and a whole section absolving her of any responsibility for pretty much everything. Malcolm happily signed it. Now he would show that charlatan Percy!


For weeks, Malcolm practised the spell. He started with mice and found that after a little practice, he could make them rise a few inches in the air. Sadly, they did not sprout wings; they just rose up for a few seconds, then fell, and at that point, he would catch them.


After a while, he moved on to bigger creatures. He once levitated a spoonwalker, which was so shocked that it dropped all its spoons on the floor. Malcolm laughed at this, and the spoonwalker fell to the floor. It was unharmed, but it silently gathered up its spoons and left as quickly as it could, clearly grumpy and annoyed.


All the while, Malcolm searched for a horse, but there were none to be found. Not to be deterred, Malcolm searched for other animals that might, at a pinch, serve as a worthy steed for a mighty magician such as himself. Oh, and carry Sheena, too, of course.


Finally, he was ready. He decided the best time to cast the spell would be at dawn, nice and early, to save any public interference. And he had picked a quiet spot round the back of a slate-roofed cottage. There was no smoke issuing forth from the chimneys, so he had assumed that no one was home. As the object of the exercise was to impress Sheena and humiliate Percy, he invited them to see the spectacular feat. He felt strong, he felt magical, he felt… mighty. However, what he actually was, was overconfident.


When Percy and Sheena turned up, they could not believe their eyes. Malcolm had underestimated the comic effect of his set-up. Both Percy and Sheena burst out laughing, for there was Malcolm, sitting on a donkey.


Malcolm went red. Did they not understand how important this was? This was his moment. He waited until they had finished laughing. This took quite a while, as when one stopped, the other’s laughter would set them off again.


“I am about to fly!” Announced Malcolm.


This triggered yet another round of raucous laughter. And Malcolm had to wait again for their attention.


“This is no trickery, no sleight of hand. This is MAGIC!” he announced. More laughter. There is only one thing for it, thought Malcolm, and he said the magic words that he had been given, waved his oakfir wand in his right hand, and gripped the donkey’s mane tightly in the other.


At that point, there was a whoosh, a thud, a thunk and an “Ow” – the latter being Malcom expressing discomfort at having been unseated from the donkey and falling a few feet to the ground. Nobody was quite sure what had happened; magic is not logical, and it has an unsettling effect on the brain and the senses.


“What a waste of time” Sneered Percy. “No flying donkey here!”


“No, wait,” said Sheena wondrously. Where is the donkey? Malcolm has made a donkey disappear! An entire donkey. Oh my!” She looked at Malcolm adoringly as he dusted himself off.


“Well, maybe he used some mirrors or smoke or something. That’s how it’s done, you know” (Percy had clearly never heard of the Magic Circle vow never to divulge how a trick was done.) “I’m going home.” Stated Percy. “Are you coming with me, my princess of the dawn?”


“No.” Said Sheena petulantly, just short of stamping her feet. “I’m staying with Malcolm the Mighty.”


She helped Malcolm up. Suddenly, there was a noise from the cottage, and they both heard a voice shout, “Who’s there?” They both ran away, arm in arm, laughing.


The lady of the cottage came out into her garden in her nightdress and looked up for the source of the strange and unsettling noise she had heard coming from the slates on the roof. There she saw, in the uncanny half-light of an early summer morning, in amongst the chimney pots, a donkey. A donkey. On the roof… her roof. What evil omen could this be? What dark demon had marked her out for this curse? And how the hell had the donkey gotten up there anyway? She shivered, shook herself, and rushed back inside her cottage, bolted the door, went straight back to her bed and pulled the sheets up tightly around her head.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

On the Beach

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“Ah! Good old Hopeless fog. By Jove, you cannot imagine just how much I’ve missed it.”

Reggie Upton inhaled the damp morning air with the brisk appreciation of someone contemplating exercise in an expensive Swiss health resort.

“We were gone for less than a day,” Philomena Bucket commented drily. “And it was your idea to go looking for sunshine, after all.”

“I won’t be doing that again in a hurry,” said Reggie.

Their brief sojourn in Tudor London, courtesy of Durosimi O’Stoat’s passage through the Underland, had seen Reggie being bundled into a priest-hole to avoid being burned as a heretic. All in all, the trip had been less than successful; it had, however, apparently cured him of any desire to be anywhere other than on the island of Hopeless, Maine, which he now considered to be his home.

“I must say, the London of the sixteenth century was a bit of a disappointment,” added Reggie. “All that filth and squalor! Not to mention having to make sure that one was batting for the right religion. So much for Merrie England!”

Drury, the skeletal dog, wandered in and sniffed the air, hoping that they had brought some of those interesting smells back with them. Disappointed, he shook himself noisily and settled into his favourite corner spot with a clatter.

“Don’t get too comfortable old chap,” said Reggie, “I was hoping that you might accompany me in a spot of beachcombing today.”

Always ready for an adventure, Drury leapt back up, wagging his bony tail happily.

“It will be good to be able to wander around unmolested, free to belong to any religion, or none, and blaspheme without fear or favour.”

Philomena rolled her eyes.

“He’s not going to let this go,” she thought to herself.

“Well, just make sure that Father Stamage doesn’t hear you,” she said. “If you start blaspheming in front of him, he won’t be too happy.”

“I’ll keep away from whichever bit of The Squid he’s currently haunting,” promised Reggie. “After all, I wouldn’t want to upset our resident holy ghost.”

As if to test the sincerity of Reggie’s newly-found fondness for all things fog related, the visibility along the beach that morning was down to just a few yards. The heavy mist rolling in from the sea blanketed everything, muting colours and sounds. Even the waves, relentlessly pounding the rocks, seemed quieter than usual. Reggie could not help but think that the atmosphere was decidedly eerie, even by Hopeless standards, which began to bother him a little. Drury, on the other hand, was completely unfazed, and trotted in front with his tail held high, a bone-white beacon for his companion to follow.

 Under the circumstances, it was hardly surprising that Drury failed to see the upturned boat. He clattered awkwardly over its hull, to descend on the other side into an unseemly pile of bones and festooned in seaweed.

“Dashed bad luck, old chap,” said Reggie, quietly thankful that Drury had been the one leading the way.

The osseous hound clambered to his feet and shook himself vigorously, broadcasting bits of seaweed everywhere. He then proceeded to sniff the boat.

“Have you found something, my friend,” asked Reggie, as the dog began to dig furiously in the sand.

“They have been gone an awfully long time,” said Philomena to her husband, Rhys. “The mood Reggie was in this morning could get him into trouble in some places.”

“Aren’t they beachcombing? I can’t imagine them running into difficulties doing that,” replied Rhys, “especially as Drury is with him. I don’t mind taking a stroll along the beach, though, if it would make you feel happier.”

“Let’s go together,” said Philomena, grabbing his arm. “It will be just like when we were courting.”

 *

“I am jolly glad to see you two,” said Reggie as Philomena and Rhys emerged through the mist. “Drury seems convinced that there is someone or something trapped under this boat, but I am dashed if I can turn it over on my own.”

Rhys grinned. His previous role as Night-Soil Man had bestowed muscles upon him that were the envy of every young man on the island. It was the work of seconds for him to turn the boat over, and expose whatever it had been concealing.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie.

 The child lying on the sand was no more than two or three years old. She was still alive, but breathing shallowly.

Philomena could not take her eyes away from the girl, whose hair was long and matted, but so fair as to be almost white in colour, as was her skin.

“Albino,” she whispered to herself.

“The poor child,” said Reggie. “We must get her to the orphanage. Miss Calder will know what to do.”

“No,” said Philomena, urgently. She gave Rhys a long and lingering look.

“Can we?” she mouthed, soundlessly.

Rhys wiped an uncharacteristic tear from the corner of his eye.

“She looks enough like you to be your daughter,” he said, a tremor in his voice.

Philomena knelt down and scooped the girl into her arms.

“Our daughter,” she corrected him. “And it’s time to take her home.”