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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Yeti

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Reggie Upton, as you may recall, has no sense of smell, a relic of his days as an army officer in the India of the British Raj. As a result of this, and unlike others, he is able to happily enjoy the company of Winston Oldspot, the young Night-Soil Man, without fainting, gagging or throwing up.

There had been a recent occasion when Winston had gone missing for the best part of a week. Reggie had been terribly worried, and made a promise to himself that he would, in future, keep an eye on the lad, and make sure that he stayed safe. For a short while there seemed to be no threats to Winston’s well-being, then, one evening, to his horror, he discovered the young man apparently entertaining what appeared to be a Yeti. Although Reggie felt immediate panic, the old soldier that he was came swiftly to the fore, and he chose not to betray his feelings. Instead, he set his homburg firmly on his head, and prepared himself to join the pair with a jaunty air, a welcoming smile, and his trusty sword-stick at the ready.

You may ask why Reggie believed Winston’s companion – whom we know as Mr Squash – to be a Yeti, or indeed, how he had even heard of such beings. This is no great mystery; it was simply because the creature bore a marked resemblance to a sketch he had once been shown by a certain Lieutenant Colonel Francis Younghusband, a fellow officer who had led a British expedition to Tibet in the early 1900s. Reminiscing on his adventures a year or two later, Younghusband claimed, over a few drinks in the mess one evening, to have encountered a family of very large, ape-like animals, high in the Himalayas. As if to prove his point, he produced a sketch of the group, which he had purportedly drawn from life.

“Our Sherpa guides called them ‘Metoh Kangmi’ which translates as ‘The Scruffy Snowman’,” he explained. “It’s not a very complimentary moniker, is it, chaps? To my eyes they seem quite noble, in their own way. I prefer the other name by which they’re known, which is ‘The Bear of the Rock-Strewn Places.’ That’s a bit of a mouthful in English, but in Tibetan it sounds something like ‘Yeti.’

Until now, Reggie had taken Frankie Younghusband’s account with a large pinch of salt. It had become evident to all that, since returning from Tibet, the fellow had taken onboard quite a few rum ideas which he had picked up on his travels. However, seeing Mr Squash in the flesh, as it were, certainly forced Reggie to reconsider his opinion; Younghusband might have been on to something, after all. This ‘Metoh Kangmi’ with Winston, however, was far from scruffy and bore not the remotest resemblance to a snowman. As for being a ‘Bear of the Rock-Strewn Places,’ the impressive pelt of dark brown hair was somewhat bear-like, but there the similarity ended.

 “Reggie, meet my very good friend, Mr Squash,” said Winston, proudly.

Although Winston was obviously comfortable in the Yeti’s company, Reggie remained wary, but good manners dictated that he should be polite, at least until he knew more.

“How do you do,” said Reggie, instinctively offering a handshake, then immediately feeling foolish for having done so. He was surprised, therefore, to find that Mr Squash extended his own, huge leathery hand in response, and caught him in a firm, but gentle, grip.

“It is very good to meet you,” said Mr Squash in dark, velvety tones.

Despite his previous concerns, Reggie felt immediately at ease. Very few things fazed him anymore, and the fact that Mr Squash could engage in intelligent conversation seemed to be the most natural thing in the world. Dash it, this chap was considerably more civilised than most of the people who lived on the island of Hopeless, Maine.

Winston looked on with approval as his two best friends conversed amicably; it was almost as though they had known each other for years.

 “Yeti?” said Mr Squash. “Is that what the humans call my relatives who live in The Land of Snow? Unfortunately, I don’t get to visit them very often these days – once every fifty years or so at best, I suppose. Oh, it isn’t about distance. These doorways we use – portals, you could say – mean that we’re only ever a few steps away from anywhere, but honestly, it’s too darned cold up there in those high, snowy mountains for me. Give me forests any day. Why, even this island is a better option.”

 “I hate to interrupt,” said Winston, “but I need to get to work, and time is getting on. You two carry on talking, I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Nonsense,” said Reggie.“Go and get your bucket, and put your boots on, lad. I’m sure that Mr Squash will be happy to walk with us.”

The Sasquatch nodded in agreement and, for the first time that evening, rose to his feet. Reggie gasped audibly and looking up, nearly lost his hat. He had not fully appreciated how incredibly huge the fellow was.

“With an army of chaps like him you could conquer the world,” he mused to himself. “It is a jolly good job that we’re on the same side,”

A thought crossed his mind and he caught Mr Squash’s eye.

“I must introduce you to a very dear friend of mine,” he said, with a mischievous grin. “Her name is Philomena Bucket…”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Watcher

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“Five days?” Winston Oldspot looked aghast. “That can’t be right, surely.”

“Five days,” confirmed Reggie Upton. “You were absent without leave for fully five days, m’boy. If it hadn’t been for the ghostly wisdom of Granny Bucket, who knows about such things, we would have assumed that you were dead.”

“I don’t understand it,” said Winston. “I went into a cave to shelter from a storm. I remember dropping off to sleep, and when I woke up the storm had passed. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than a couple of hours.”

“I can promise you, you were gone for more than a couple of hours,” said Reggie. “It was as much as any of us could do to stop Rhys Cranham from getting back into his Night-Soil togs. It’s only for the fact that you’d taken the bucket with you that made him change his mind.”

Winston shook his head, bemused.

“And nothing at all strange happened, as far as you know?” enquired Reggie.

“Only a few weird dreams, which I’ve forgotten,” replied the young Night-Soil Man.

“Although… but no, that’s me being silly.”

“Go on, “ said Reggie. “There is no harm in saying it.”

“Well… ever since I’ve been back, I feel as though someone is watching me. That’s all.”

 A huge and hairy creature known as Mr Squash had, indeed, been watching Winston.

Upon discovering the boy unconscious, and apparently close to death, high on the Appalachian Trail, the Sasquatch carried him gently back to Hopeless, via one of the many hidden portals that only certain gifted beings, such as himself, can see. Mr Squash had used this portal to visit Hopeless on several occasions previously, and had cultivated no great love for the island. He especially disliked its perpetual fog and lamentable lack of anything resembling a primal forest. He had, however, developed something of an affection for Winston, and felt duty-bound to protect the lad. Unlike most others (not including Reggie Upton, who had long ago lost his sense of smell) he had no problem with the all-pervading reek of the Night-Soil Man.

 (This may be a good point to speak about the species to which Mr Squash belongs. From Siberia to Australia, via Asia and North America, tales are told of huge, hair-covered man-like creatures. Depending upon the location, they may be known as Sasquatch, Bigfoot, Skunk Ape, Yeti, Abominable Snowman, Elmasti, Mansi, Yowie, Almas… the list goes on. While many deny their very existence, there are others who insist that they have crossed paths with them, for good or ill. The one common trait linking all of these cryptids, as they may be described, is their elusiveness. They leave few traces, and seem to have the ability to disappear at will. In view of this, I can only assume that they all share Mr Squash’s gift for being able to swiftly dive into hidden portals and transport themselves to some distant spot.)

 Meanwhile, back in the tale… within a day or two of returning to Hopeless, Maine, Winston fell back into his old routine of sleeping during the day, and traversing the island at night to service the privies, thunder-boxes and, occasionally, cesspools, of an often less than grateful public. To all intents and purposes, little had changed in his life, except this creepy feeling of being constantly observed. It was only when he visited Ghastly Green, and the hermit, Neville Moore, did he have any clue as to who or what might be watching him.

Neville tended to keep late hours, mainly because his pet raven, Lenore, refused to come in before midnight, and spent her time gently rapping, rapping at his chamber door; only that, and nothing more.

“Good evening, Winston,” called Neville, a dozen yards away and safely upwind of the Night-Soil Man. He was standing on his porch, which, as porches go, was grander than most, its fluted columns lending the hermit’s cottage a look that would not disgrace a mausoleum. The overall effect was somewhat spoiled, however, by the many unsightly streaks of raven guano, but no one was going to mention that to Lenore.

 Winston waved back in greeting.

“I see that you have Mr Squash helping you these days,” shouted Neville. “It must be nice to have some company.”

“Mister who? Sorry I don’t understand…”

“Mr Squash. I haven’t seen him about for a year or two. It’s good to have him back.”

Winston was nonplussed. He had no idea as to what, or whom, Neville was referring.

The hermit, who rarely spoke more than he needed to, retired indoors, Lenore flapping noisily after him, fiercely intent on reaching the bust of Pallas, where she frequently liked to perch.

 Gathering all of his courage, Winston turned and spoke quietly into the dark, foggy stillness of the night.

“Will you come out to where I can see you, please, whoever you are?”

There was a rustling in the darkness, and Winston froze, suddenly confronted by nine feet and eight hundred pounds of hair and muscle.

For a long moment the night was wreathed in utter silence, then Winston said,

“I saw you… you were in my dream the other day.”

“That was not a dream,” said Mr Squash. His voice was as deep and dark as you might expect.

“You can speak!” exclaimed Winston in surprise.

“Of course I can speak,” said Mr Squash, sounding slightly offended. “What do you think I am, a sock-puppet?”

“No… no of course not,” stammered Winston.

“That’s alright, then,” said Mr Squash, amiably. “Come on, let’s get these privies emptied, and then you can fill me in with everything that’s been happening on the island since I was last here. Is Durosimi O’Stoat still alive?”

Winston’s heart dropped. If Mr Squash was a friend of Durosimi, that could not be good.

“Yes… well he was last week,” he said cautiously.

Mr Squash sighed.

“That’s a shame,” he said. “Still, you can’t have everything.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Mr Squash

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Having secretly followed Durosimi O’Stoat into the Underland, Winston Oldspot, Hopeless Maine’s newest Night-Soil Man, found himself in the mysterious Crystal Cave. While Durosimi had mastered some of the secrets of the cave, and could use it as a portal to Elizabethan England, Winston had no such skill, and was, instead, deposited onto a seemingly never ending woodland path. Eventually he came upon a sign informing him that he was walking along something called the Appalachian Trail, and heading for Mount Katahadin, in Maine. This, at least, was good news. Winston knew that he lived on an island in the state of Maine, and reasoned to himself that, in that case, he could not be too far away from Hopeless.

How wrong could he be? The Night-Soil Man had been walking for hours, without food or water. What he had hoped would be a short stroll home had become a gruelling, endless torment. Night had fallen and Winston felt afraid, vulnerable, and – more than anything else – exhausted. He dragged himself into a natural shelf scooped out beneath some tree roots, and fell into a deep, bone-weary, sleep.

Mr Squash had been patrolling parts of the Appalachian Trail pretty much since the very first sections were opened, back in nineteen twenty-three. He had, over the years, walked its entire length at least a hundred times, he reckoned. During that time he had made it his business to look out for the welfare of the trail’s many hikers, and keep them safe from bears, cougars and anything else that might threaten them. Not that everyone was grateful, but that didn’t stop Mr Squash. He had learned that he could be anonymous, keep back in the trees, and still help the folks who walked along the trail. Not all were hikers, though. There were some who came out here to do no more than whoop, bang sticks on the trunks of trees and generally try to raise Cain. Sometimes he had the distinct feeling that they were making all that fuss just to grab his attention. Heck, one or two fools had even been known to pour some sort of white muck into his footprints. Much as he was happy to help anyone, he wasn’t in the business of making friends with them. No sir! He had seen the sort of mess that friendships like that can make too many times.

It was the stink that first grabbed his attention. It reminded Mr Squash of some of the less thoughtful hikers who left their scat uncovered too close to the trail. It was a smell which was pretty much like that, but a hundred times stronger. Not that it bothered him. Smells – natural smells, at any rate – were a fact of life. Why, he had even heard himself described as being smelly. That was rubbish, of course, but this fellow sleeping under the tree roots was more than a little ripe.

I ought to mention that Mr Squash was fully nine feet tall and covered in thick, chestnut-brown hair. His face was neither human, nor ape, but somewhere in between. You could understand why his appearance might cause fear, but it is never wise to judge by outward appearances. Mr Squash had hidden abilities. When he put a huge, leathery hand on Winston’s brow, the young Night-Soil Man’s history was revealed to Mr Squash as easily as if it had been in a book (in fact, as Mr Squash was somewhat less than literate, Winston’s life, revealed in book-form, would have remained a total mystery to him). The Sasquatch, Skunk Ape, Bigfoot, call him what you will (but always Mr Squash to his face, of course) hefted the sleeping Winston into his arms as easily as if he were a feather, and carried him away from the trail to a place where two big old trees had fallen into each other’s branches, like reunited lovers. Their trunks formed an archway, through which Mr Squash carried Winston, and immediately disappeared.

The Night-Soil Man yawned, stretched and lay, for a few moments, with his eyes closed. The soft earth of the cave was beneath him, and he realised, with some relief, that he must have nodded off to sleep when the storm was raging outside. He recalled how he had been plunged into some very strange dreams; dreams that were now quickly fading. With a sigh, he picked up his bucket, secured the lid, and made his way to the cleft in the rocks, which had led him into the cavern. It was still not daylight outside, so he couldn’t have been there for too long.

Mr Squash had been around for too many years not to know where the secret portals lay. How many times had he wandered into a cave, or through some other natural gateway, to find himself far away from his intended destination? This morning, however, he was exactly where he needed to be, looking out onto the island of Hopeless, Maine. He had visited the place a few times before and, quite honestly, was not too fond of it. There were not enough trees here for his liking. But it seemed to be the place where the stinky kid called home, though. Standing in deep shadow he watched Winston make his way along the headland. He felt almost fatherly to the boy. Maybe he would stick around for a while and keep an eye out for him. He knew how hazardous the island could be. But not hazardous for him, of course. Nothing much ever troubled Mr Squash.

Author’s note: As you may know, the Appalachian Trail is about two thousand two hundred miles long. It runs from Georgia to Maine, passing through no less than fourteen states.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Way Through the Woods

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While sheltering from a storm, Winston Oldspot, Hopeless Maine’s new Night-Soil Man, had been surprised to see the sorcerer, Durosimi O’Stoat, appear at the entrance to the cave in which he had sought refuge. Intent on his mission, Durosimi, with his lantern held aloft, hurried upon his way, disappearing into the darkness. It was obvious from the confident manner in which he moved that the sorcerer had trodden these pathways many times before.

His curiosity whetted, Winston decided to follow. While staying well back, he made sure to keep the glim of the lantern in view, until eventually finding himself at the mouth of the mysterious Crystal Cave. Regular readers will be aware that the Crystal Cave is strange and liminal, providing a portal to anywhere that it wishes to send you in time and space. Winston was totally ignorant of this. Durosimi, on the other hand, had mastered many of its secrets. His very first visit had deposited him in the study of the Elizabethan alchemist, Doctor John Dee. Fortunately, Dee had been in Poland at the time with his friend and associate, Edward Kelley, leaving Durosimi free to peruse the Doctor’s library and notebooks to his heart’s content. It was there that Durosimi had learned the secrets of the Crystal Cave, and the means by which he could control when and where it conveyed him. Winston had no such advantage, however, and was destined to be deposited wherever and whenever the cave’s capricious nature took him.

The eerie luminosity of tens of thousands of crystals had drawn Winston, moth-like, into the cave. Once inside, however, the light became subdued, and he suddenly found himself standing upon a well defined trackway, deep within a forest. He turned, and was relieved to see that the mouth of the cave was still visible, just a few yards away. It resembled a dark, egg-shaped patch, somehow stitched incongruously upon a tapestry of tall trees. Suddenly, his relief turned to dismay as the egg-shaped patch diminished, until all that remained was little more than an orb, the size of a tennis ball. He watched it hanging in the air for a moment, until, with a brief crackle of crystal light, the orb flared into nothingness.

Winston felt suddenly alone. He had no idea where he was, or what to do. He took a deep breath and persuaded himself not to panic, reasoning that the path upon which he was standing must eventually lead to somewhere, and Hopeless was only an island, after all. Home could not be too far away… could it? It felt to Winston that he had walked for miles. The daylight was fading and there seemed to be no end to the path through the forest. It was then that he heard voices. For a moment his heart leapt; here was rescue at last. Then he realised that, because of his particular odour, the noxious reek that has been the trademark of every Night-Soil Man who has ever lived, that it would be unlikely that anyone could bear to be within a dozen yards of him. Maybe it would be a better plan to disappear into the trees and follow whoever was coming from a discreet distance.

From a vantage point upwind of the path, Winston spied upon the two walkers. The boy and the girl looked to be around his own age, or possibly a year or two older. To the Night-Soil Man’s eyes, everything about the pair was outlandish. For a start, each carried an unfeasibly large pack on their back. It made him think wistfully of his lidded night-soil bucket, abandoned in the cave when he first stopped for shelter. Their jackets were shiny, and brightly coloured, but strangest of all, both wore short trousers. As far as he knew, no one on Hopeless would be likely to wear short trousers, certainly not that short, anyway. It would not be sensible, given the perpetual foggy weather… and then Winston’s world came crashing down. Where was the fog, the ribbons of mist? He had never known a day go by without seeing mist of some description.

For the first time that day he realised that he had been walking under a canopy of sun-dappled leaves, and not a wisp of fog in sight? Where was this place? By now the two hikers had gone, apparently walking back towards wherever it was that Winston had started his journey. They were a strange couple, to be sure, but they must have come from some sort of habitation. He scrambled back on to the pathway, and carried on heading, he guessed, in a vaguely north-easterly direction. After little more than ten minutes hope flared in his heart. He could see a signpost in the distance. Things, at last, were looking up.

Winston stared up at the signpost with confusion written all over his face. The pole itself was topped by diamond shaped board, with wooden eaves to keep the rain off. It reminded Winston of a birdhouse. On the board a thick black arrow pointed upwards, and encircling the arrow were the words ‘APPALACHIAN TRAIL – MAINE TO GEORGIA’. Immediately beneath the sign was a finger post proclaiming ‘1,090.5 Springer Mt’, followed by a large letter S. Beneath that was another finger post. An equally large N was followed by the legend ‘Mt Katahdin 1,090.5.’

Winston breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that he lived in the State of Maine, and there it was, marked on the signpost. General geography had never been on the curriculum at the Pallid Rock Orphanage, mainly because anywhere beyond the rocky shores of Hopeless was a mystery to most of the islanders, However, Winston had always prided himself upon his knowledge of mathematics and measurements. He knew that a mile consisted of five thousand two hundred and eighty feet, or one thousand seven hundred and sixty yards. If he was only just over a thousand yards from that mountain in Maine, why, he would be home within the hour. He strode into the dimming of the day with renewed hope and a light heart.

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales

Why Your Socks Have Holes…

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By Prudence Weatherpenny (Professor)

Although it was my housemate Miss White’s turn to attempt the laundry (“attack” might be more appropriate given the state of some of her garments, but that is a matter for some other time), I found myself joining in the most recent hunting of stray socks and stockings.

The regular discovery of seemingly-expired examples of these pieces is often distressing enough (I have covered this in a Treatise elsewhere, although I have my doubts that the Hopeless Philosophical Society here on the Island will ever publish it, narrow-minded and jealous little bigots that they are) but imagine my surprise – nay, almost horror! – when, on
lifting yet another raggedly woolly former-footwear from its place of expiration behind the chest-of-drawers, I was just in time to spot something slither away from the Scene of the Crime.

It did not take much pursuing: the house that Miss White and I currently share might be rickety, battered, tumbledown and slowly filling with mould – in other words a perfectly acceptable dwelling by Hopeless standards – but the wainscoting is solid and the skirting-boards sound. We do not even suffer from mice in the usual way of things beyond the
scullery (as far as I am aware they have not yet evolved sufficiently to contemplate tool usage), so I was confident of their being no escape for this… whatever it was. And so it proved!

The timely, inspired and spontaneous re-employment of the Chamber Pot as a temporary prison was a master-stroke, if I say so myself; what matter a little extra cleaning afterwards? Is that not what we engage an Orphan for?

Whatever this thing was, it was lively! It slithered and clattered and thrashed around within the porcelain as, with a heavy book across the top, I carried it downstairs into the scullery – where, not only is the light better but it is where my Research Implements are kept, such as
they are on this Island (any implication that they also form part of the Kitchen Paraphenalia is firmly and resolutely refuted, I might add). With a notebook to hand, and Miss White to take those notes and assist as I might direct, we lifted the book from the pot and peered inside.

It was immediately obvious that whatever we had caught was at least a part of the solution to the most common cause of death found among our socks and similar, for in the short journey down the ramshackle stairs, it had either coughed up – or otherwise ejected from itself – some unmistakable strands of wool and silk. Aha! – so socks can – sometimes at least – fall prey to this… well, what was it, precisely? It did not exhibit the body-segments one might expect from a worm, or at least those in the outside world, but nor did it have the scales of a regular serpent. It was clearly quite at home in air rather than water, but I was minded most strongly of the Lamprey, especially when the creature reared up unexpectedly as Miss White’s rather frayed jacket-cuff strayed over the pot in her reaching for yet another biscuit (we are going to have to either stop buying those quite so often, or discover a seamstress to let out some of her dresses). As it did so, this diminutive little worm-creature
revealed the most enormous mouth, a mouth lined with ferocious, if minuscule, teeth!

From a body no broader than a knitting-needle but almost as long as a middle-finger, came a gape fully as round as my palm, and those teeth were sharp – as Miss White discovered to her chagrin. The wound is still not fully healed even now, though it does not appear to affect her
ability to pull biscuits from the jar.

Mindful of the usual pattern of Island Life, particularly when things are released into the wild, I am at something of a loss as to what to do with the creature. I have discovered no others, and the rate of death among our stockings appears to have lessened, which can only be a good thing given the scarcity of such items on the island generally. I have no wish to set it loose in the landscape as it clearly represents a serious danger to one and all; I think on balance I might keep it somehow, against the chance of slight or insult from one or other of my fellow-dwellers on this little island in the mist. Perhaps that information might even be
sufficient to “persuade” the Philosophical Society of the good sense in overcoming their ages-old and completely nonsensical prejudices and actually publishing some of my findings at last!

(Actual author, Roz White, image by Nimue)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

When you walk through a storm…

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Winston Oldspot dragged on his boots, and peered out of the window with little enthusiasm. Since taking on the role of the official Night-Soil Man of the island of Hopeless, Maine, he had so far enjoyed his work. While there was always mist, and frequently thick fog, this was somehow a comfort; a cotton-wool blanket seemingly keeping the world at bay. Not that he needed anything like that, of course. Even as a comparative novice, the overarching stench of his calling was enough to keep even the most ravenous predator at bay. Tonight, however, there was the promise of a storm brewing. Something in his young bones told him that he needed to get to work, do as little as was absolutely necessary, then hurry back home before the skies burst and the wind threatened to blow him and his lidded-bucket out to sea.

It took less than an half-an-hour for Winston to realise that he had drastically underestimated the mood of the weather. It was very soon apparent that this was not going to be some gentlemanly tempest which allowed him time to fulfil his obligations before, almost apologetically, deciding to start playfully ruffling the trees. What was sweeping in from the wild Atlantic was a full-on, no-nonsense bruiser of a storm that roared across the island, screaming ‘Come on out if you think you’re hard enough,’ to anyone who cared to listen. Discretion had to be the better part of valour on a night like this and, with his bucket barely sullied, the young Night-Soil Man was forced to seek shelter.

Hopeless is honeycombed with caves, and it took next to no time for Winston to find a narrow cleft in the rocks, which opened out into a spacious cavern. He flopped gratefully onto the soft, sandy floor and prepared to sit patiently until such times as the storm eased sufficiently for him to return to the House at Poo Corner, the place that many generations of Night-Soil Men had called home.. That was the plan, anyway; the reality was that, within minutes, he had eased onto his back and allowed himself to drift into a comfortable slumber.

When he awoke the wind had stopped whistling through the cavern and the sound of rain outside had lessened. He reasoned to himself that in order for the storm to have blown itself out, several hours must have passed. With his joints aching, Winston pulled himself to his feet, then stiffened. There was a faint light illuminating the cave’s mouth. Someone was outside with a lantern and they were coming in. Quietly, he slipped into a recess,deep in the darkness of the cave, far enough away from anyone entering for them not to see, or more importantly, not to smell him.  Even if the newcomer was no threat, Winston had no wish to meet anyone; he did not enjoy the company of others. That is why he had chosen to become a Night-Soil Man.

The yellow gleam of the lantern pierced the gloom of the cave, casting long shadows that swept up the walls. Winston pushed himself further into the recess and watched intrigued, as the sinister shape of the lantern-bearer strode confidently along. It quickly became obvious to the Night-Soil Man that this could be only one person – Durosimi O’Stoat. He had seen the sorcerer skulking around the island in the depths of the night before. It was also clear that this was not the first time that Durosimi had walked this path. On a whim, Winston resolved to follow him, being careful to keep the glimmer of the lantern in view, but maintaining a safe distance; he needed to be far enough behind to ensure that his malodour was not going to betray him.

Following the dancing light of Durosimi’s lantern, Winston lost all sense of time and distance. He may have been walking for an hour, or possibly only for ten minutes, when the darkness became impenetrable. Either Durosimi had doused his lantern, or he had gone into a part of the cave which shielded the flame completely. Winston stopped, straining his ears for the slightest movement, but there was none. He remained standing stock-still for some minutes, until his curiosity, and a sudden cramp in his left leg, forced him to move. Gingerly feeling his way along the wall, he ventured deeper into the cave. He had been aware that the path was gradually descending for some time, but now the gradient became more obvious, then his outstretched hand felt nothing; the wall had disappeared. It took but a moment to realise that he had reached a junction, and that the path had taken a ninety-degree turn. That was why the lantern’s glow had disappeared. Before him, now, he could see a pale, unearthly glow. It emanated from the entrance to yet another cavern. The memory of a snatch of conversation stirred in his mind. It was something that he had overheard  some months earlier, before Rhys Cranham had retired and Winston was still an apprentice. Rhys had been talking to Reggie Upton about Philomena Bucket closing the pathway to somewhere called the Underworld. No, that was not right. It was the Underland. Reggie had said something about some girl getting lost after straying into the Crystal Cave, and that is why the way to the Underland was being shut off for good.

Winston gulped. If that was really the Crystal Cave ahead, and Durosimi was in there, he wasn’t making any noise. Maybe he needed rescuing. Taking his bucket off his back, and placing it on the stony ground, he decided that it was no more than his duty to come to the aid of the notorious Mr. O’Stoat; maybe he would be rewarded for his trouble. Besides that, he was curious to see for himself what all the fuss was about, concerning the mysterious Crystal Cave. With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation he made his way in…

To be continued.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Portent

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“I cannot help but think it strange,” declared Philomena Bucket, “that things are suddenly being found washed up on the beach at Scilly Point. Not just ordinary things, either; so far we have been brought cheese, brandy, wine, pies, flour, confections made from marzipan… and all in excellent condition, too.”

“Well,” said Reggie Upton, “you know how it can be at sea. Things are always getting jettisoned overboard for one reason or another.”

“All the same, it smells a bit fishy to me,” said Philomena. “In fact, thinking about it, I would be more convinced that there was nothing strange going on if things really did smell fishy. As it is, everything that has turned up so far smells as though it only left the shop this morning.”

“You know I can vouch for the provenance of most of what has turned up,” said Reggie, defensively. “After all, I have been the one finding the stuff.”

Philomena gave the old soldier a sideways glance, but said nothing.

Reggie had been on the island for months now, and, until very recently, his wanderings (or flâneuring, as he liked to call it) had yielded very little in the way of useful discoveries. Now, suddenly, it was as if he had been granted the keys to some magical food hall. Still, she thought, she ought not to complain. Lately, the bill of fare at The Squid and Teapot had improved beyond all imagining.

“You’ll have to persuade Durosimi to start dropping the food off in other locations. And we need more people in on the secret, too.

Philomena is becoming most suspicious; it’s getting to be embarrassing.”

The ghost of Granny Bucket listened to Reggie’s worries with growing impatience.

“I’ve got no sway over Durosimi,” she said. “If I start making demands, he’ll stop bringing things back.”

“It’s beyond me why he wants his trips to the Underland to be kept secret, anyway,” said Reggie.

“Because he knows that Philomena will do her utmost to seal the passage, in the way that she closed up the other one,” said Granny.

“She could do that?” Reggie was intrigued.

Granny nodded. Durosimi was well aware that when it came to magical abilities, Philomena was the only person on Hopeless who could beat him hands down every day. Much to Granny’s disapproval, however, unless pushed to extremes, her granddaughter eschewed using, or even acknowledging, her powers.

“I might have a quiet word with Septimus Washwell,” said Reggie, thoughtfully, “and let him in on the secret. It occurred to me that if he says that he found the next consignment on another part of the island, that would, at least, let me off the hook.”

“I’m not comfortable with all this deceit,” complained Granny. “To begin with, I was the only one who knew about Durosimi’s trips to Tudor England. I thought a spot of blackmail might be worthwhile. Then young Winston Oldspot had to go and tell you that he saw Durosimi hiding that box of cheese and wine, and now you’re planning to bring Septimus on board. If too many people know, things will start getting out of hand, Reggie, and if Philomena finds out that I’ve been hob-nobbing with O’Stoat, she’ll never speak to me again.“

“Oh, nonsense,” said Reggie. “She should be pleased. The Squid and Teapot has taken on a new lease of life with all of this wonderful provender, brought to us directly from the time of Good Queen Bess.”

“Oh, I’m beginning to see the error of my ways,” said Granny ominously. “No good will come of this now, you mark my words.” With that she allowed herself to vanish into the ether, leaving not a trace of her ever having been there.

“Dashed annoying habit,” muttered Reggie. “Anyway, despite what the old girl says, I shall certainly be lurking around Scilly Point tomorrow morning. I wonder what we’ll get this time…?”

The following day struggled into reluctant life through a haze of murky fog and light drizzle. True to his word, Reggie slipped out of the inn and made his way to Scilly Point, where Durosimi would have left the latest cache of Elizabethan groceries.

The haul looked particularly appetising on this occasion. Reggie could spot several dark, wax-sealed bottles, an ornate confection, shaped like a swan, and a variety of pies and puddings, all wrapped in muslin.

He pulled the box out from its hiding place and eyed it appreciatively, rubbing his hands together in joyful anticipation. His good mood suddenly evaporated, however, when, as if from nowhere, a pale blue rock, the size of a football, dropped from the sky, missing Reggie by inches. Then, to his great dismay, the mysterious missile managed to totally destroy the box and all of its delectable contents, before bouncing harmlessly into the sea.

It is not often that Reggie has been rendered speechless, but with his legs wobbling and his heart pounding, for once in his life, he had nothing to say.

Granny’s words reverberated in his ears. “No good will come of this, you mark my words.”

Was this some sort of portent? It certainly felt like one. The worst of it was, he would never be able to tell anyone. He could hear the comments already.

“A blue rock hurled from the sky? Have you been on the absinthe again, Reggie? Who threw it, the Green Fairy?”

No, it would probably be best to say nothing about the bolt from the heavens, but just tell Granny that he could now see that she was right. She should tell Durosimi to stop bringing food. After all, the next blue rock might be aimed at any one of them, and Reggie had no wish for it to be him.

Author’s note:

As has been mentioned before, Hopeless, Maine has a complicated relationship with time and space. Maybe it is for the best that its inhabitants have no idea that a frightening world exists just beyond their reach. A world in which vastly complicated flying machines grace the skies, high above their little island. Sophisticated as they are, even these machines are not infallible. Occasionally one will have a leak in its septic tank, allowing a potentially lethal projectile to form, frozen in the high altitude and composed of something as basic as good old night-soil, bathed in liquid disinfectant. This is known as blue ice, and, over the past fifty years or so, has been responsible for dozens of instances of destruction to property throughout the United States and Europe.

Hopeless Tales

The Thistlebomb

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Story by Keith Errington, art by Nimue Brown

“STOP!” old Jedbrough Smallpinch commanded, and the youngster halted his slow progress along the narrow path to the curious object ahead and turned to face him.

“That there’s a Thistlebomb nest, it’s dangerous,” explained Jedbrough.
“You said everything is dangerous, but despite that, we needed to catalogue everything through careful examination. I was being careful.” His new apprentice responded with an air of petulance in his voice.

“There’s careful examination, and there’s sheer foolhardiness! Come back here, and we’ll find a way around.” Jedbrough was relieved when the young lad did as he was told; he really didn’t want to lose a new signup on the first day.

“Is it really that dangerous?” The young lad asked.

Jedbrough sighed. The impetuousness of youth. This lad will either learn or he won’t. And the won’t is the bit that will involve questions, paperwork, digging and burial. “Yes, it is.”

“Why, what does it do?” the young lad asked.

Jedbrough was going to run out of sighs at this rate; he thought as he sighed once more. But he had to admit it was a good question for a newbie to ask, so, having checked the area around an old log, he beckoned the youth to come and sit and then proceeded to answer
the young lad’s query. “Let me tell you a story…”

◊◊◊

“Thistlebombs were not always dangerous (Jedbrough began). There was a time when they were a wonderful distraction. People even planted them outside their homes or across their garden paths, little realising what was to come. There was little to know about them then.

They seemed to live quite happily on any reasonable soil and grew from a small seed into a nest, just like that one. They were known as Sudden Sprays back then. They always seemed to grow in pairs, on either side of a path or a small stream, or occasionally even in a clearing.

The nests start very small but grow to about the size you see over there. When they are ready, a curious thing happens. Together, somehow, a pair of plants would each launch a large thistle sort of thing up from the nest to a height of about 8 feet in an arc across the path, stream or clearing; at the top of the arc, they would suddenly explode in a mass of seedlings, almost translucent, with beautiful colours and patterns, accompanied by the sweetest of sighs. Somehow, the two sets of sprays would mingle, and everyone figured that this was the way they pollinated.

Only a few of the seedlings would cross paths, sometimes none, but a successful crossing would result in two more nests growing a little further up the path, stream or clearing. Of course, you could never tell when it was going to happen, so it was always a surprising delight if you caught it – there was something very magical about it, and it was considered by some to be good luck to see it.”
“That sounds delightful,” interrupted the youngster, “not dangerous at all.”

“Ah, but that was then, and this is now,” replied Jedbrough cryptically. “Listen to the story, boy, and no more interruptions, or we will be here all night!”

The boy looked sheepish and mumbled an apology.

“It was magic, of course; it’s always magic. Causes more problems than it solves, I reckon. It’s best to stay well away when magic is about. Have you heard of Grandma Kettle?”

The boy nodded – most people on Hopeless, Maine had heard the tales or caught her mentioned in a story.

“Well, Grandma Kettle went by the name Jemima Kettle in those days, and she got herself in a bit of a bind when she was a young lass; the combination of young minds and magic is rarely an untroubled one. She had tried to help a young girl in trouble with her family or some such. Anyway, she was being chased by the menfolk of that family – three in number, I believe it was – though some people tell of ten or twenty. People round here do love to puff up their telling. It was not a particularly fast chase; Grandma Kettle was encumbered by her
choice of skirt she was wearing that day, and the menfolk, well, let’s just say they weren’t the fittest or ablest of men. Despite this, they were a real threat, one carrying a pitchfork, one a heavy spade, and the third a large loofah, so the story goes, not the brightest that one.

They were catching her up, too, when she chose a very deliberate path, not too far from here, as I recall, where many Sudden Sprays were growing. The men were shouting and getting closer, but Grandma Kettle remained calm as she ran down that path. As she did so, she drew a pouch from her garments and took pinches of a powder, spreading it over the plants where she could and uttering something magical as she did so. The men were almost upon her, and they were determined to do her grave harm, I’ve no doubt.

Suddenly, all the Sudden Sprays launched their thistles at once, but these had somehow changed under the influence, no doubt, of Grandma Kettle’s magic. They were all black now, black as the darkest depths of the ocean, and spikier. The men stopped under a cluster, not sure how to react. The thistles exploded, but this time, it wasn’t with a sigh; it was with an awful bang, and shards of razor-sharp seeds rained down upon the men.

The two in front were badly hurt and fell to the ground. Some say they died in agony right there, although others say they took weeks to die. The third was a little way behind, and so he missed the terrible rain of deathly seeds. He dropped his loofah and ran off, and nobody
remembers seeing him after that.

Ever since then, the Sudden Sprays were forever changed; they became known as ThistleBombs, and these dark versions gradually replaced all the wonderful Sudden Sprays on the island. People whose families had planted Sudden Sprays across the entrance to their homes years ago when they were benign now have to climb through their windows to leave their houses.

Getting caught in their deadly rain can kill you – there have been many who have gone that way, and even if they don’t kill you straight away, they are deadly poisonous, and you are likely to have a slow, painful death. Like most deadly things on Hopeless, there is no known cure for their poison. That is why we avoid them; there is no telling when they might go off and end you.” Jedbrough finished.

“Can we go home now?” Asked the young lad.

Jedbrough sighed once more. He was not getting any younger, and his bones were tired from sitting on the cold log. He rose slowly. “Aye me, lad, that’s enough for your first day; let’s get home”.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Cheese and Wine

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“It was dashed fortunate that your grandmother chose to be haunting Scilly Point this morning, or we might never have found it,” said Reggie Upton, gazing appreciatively at the open wooden box that was sitting on the table.

“Isn’t it just,” said Philomena Bucket, with surprisingly little enthusiasm.

“Why, that wheel of cheese must weigh at least nine pounds,” gushed Reggie, adding hopefully, ”I wonder what the wine will taste like?”

“What I’m wondering,” said Philomena, ignoring him, “is what, exactly, Granny was doing down at Scilly Point in the first place. She never ventures far from the inn, unless she has to.”

“Well, that’s as maybe,” said Reggie. “Let’s just consider ourselves lucky that she was able to tell us where to find the box before the tide washed it back out to sea again.”

Philomena said nothing. This did not, somehow, feel at all right.

Little did either of them suspect that the cheese and wine came courtesy of Durosimi O’Stoat, who, for once, had been as good as his word.

You may recall that, having discovered another route to the Underland, and finding himself in Doctor John Dee’s study, Durosimi had wasted no time in perusing the alchemist’s notebooks. By great good fortune he had arrived there in the year 1583, when Dee and his friend, Edward Kelley, were safely out of the way. It seemed that the pair were indulging in some magical mystery tour of their own, somewhere in the depths of Poland.

Hopeless Maine’s very own sorcerer pored over the notebooks, envisaging the power he might have, once his mastery of the Underland was established. John Dee’s occasionally impenetrable handwriting indicated that he was fully conversant with the arcane secrets of the Underland – secrets that Durosimi was keen to unravel.  So far his best efforts had only allowed him the ability to return to Tudor England whenever he chose. Until he knew more, this was better than nothing, and by disguising himself as a genuine Elizabethan gentleman, was able to move freely around London. Durosimi had to admit, that for all of the city’s squalor, it provided a most pleasant change from being forever in the confines of fog-bound and impoverished Hopeless.

Then one day Granny Bucket materialised in Dee’s study. Durosimi was keen to keep his visits to the Underland safely under wraps, at least until he knew more, and Granny was famously indiscreet. Being, above all, a pragmatist (albeit a devious one), he made a deal with Granny; tell no one, and the patrons of The Squid and Teapot will soon be enjoying the choicest fare that Elizabthen England could offer.

Pro quid quo, he had said. Pro quid quo.

When Philomena had satisfied herself that the cheese and wine were genuinely fit for human consumption, and not a trap set by some soul-devouring entity, or any similar agent of evil, she consented for it to be put on the menu of The Squid and Teapot. Those who had lived all of their days on the island had, in all likelihood, never tasted cheese.

“I can’t help but think that young Winston Oldspot might enjoy a spot of cheese,” Reggie said to Rhys Cranham. “I’ll wander down to Poo Corner later, when he starts his rounds.”

Winston had been Rhys’ protege, and was now the island’s new Night-Soil Man. Having lost his sense of smell when in India, years earlier, Reggie was in the unique position of being happily able to spend time in the company of the Night-Soil Man.

“I just hope that he appreciates what you’re doing.” said Rhys with a smile, thinking of his years of isolation in the job, when no one could bear to stand within a hundred yards of him.

“I have heard of cheese,” said Winston. “Never tried it, though.” The young man chewed reflectively, nodding in approval as his taste-buds registered that here was something new to take on board.

“Is this what Mister O’Stoat left at Scilly Point last night?”

“Durosimi?” said Reggie in surprise, “I wouldn’t think so…”

‘Well, I saw him leaving a box of something there. I reckon it must’ve been this.”

Reggie scratched his head. What was Durosimi up to this time? And had Granny really stumbled on the wooden box by accident?

Reggie wondered if he should tell Philomena, then he thought better of it. If the girl believed that Durosimi had anything to do with the cheese and wine she would probably throw the lot into the Atlantic, and that would be a great pity.

“I wouldn’t be inclined to mention that, if I were you,” said Reggie.

“Best keep it under your hat for now, my friend.”

“As no one else ever speaks to me, that won’t be a problem” replied

Winston, philosophically.

“I must have a quiet word with Granny Bucket,” Reggie thought to himself as he walked back to the inn. “I am sure that the old girl knows far more than she is saying.”

Meanwhile, far away, in time and space, Granny was busily trying to persuade Durosimi that the price of her silence far exceeded nine pounds of Cheddar and a flagon of malmsey…

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

The Rotten Shark

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Being the culinary notes of Mrs Beaten.

The shark was not an overwhelming success, I am sad to say. When reports of it, washed up on the beach came in last year, I was initially somewhat excited. Mrs Ephemery and I arranged a little team of workers to prepare the shark. I gutted the shark myself, a smelly and visceral process. Mrs Ephemery undertook the beheading. I was not previously aware that she had such a great fondness for that process.

We buried the shark in sandy gravel, as I have been informed is traditional. Although it is rather a lot of work. There were those who said we should eat what could be salvaged from the shark at once. There were others who said it was too far gone and that we might as well try something else. There were those… (and I hesitate to quote them) who said that the shark would taste of (something terrible) no matter what we did with it.

Mrs Ephemery cheerfully assured us that the meat at this stage would be poisonous, and that anyone daring to eat it before she had processed it would be likely to go blind. 

After the fermenting process, we had to dig up the shark – which to my great astonishment had not been eaten by anything else during the months of its being buried. We then cut it into strips and took it to The Crow to be dried. At this point the shark had a discernible smell, and it was not the smell of decay, but of something else altogether. It put me in mind of my late husband at his most beastly.

We waited for a further four months, during which time Mrs Ephemery and I discussed the shark on a number of occasions. I have found her to be an excellent companion. We share a passion for unusual food, and have sampled all kinds of meat together. I did not think that at this stage of my life I might find a friend, but it has come to pass. I shall remain ever grateful for the day that I saw the board outside The Crow announcing “Dead Mans Fingers” on the menu. They turn out to be an edible mushroom with only mild side effects.

I approached the day of the shark testing with great excitement. Mrs Ephemery and I worked together to remove the crust from the outside of the shark meat. She reassured me that she had been expecting this, as it was mentioned in her great grandmother’s kitchen notes. 

The texture was inoffensive. The smell… pungent and reminiscent of my late husband. Of the tasters gathered, three did not make it past the stage of smelling the meat, even though we were samping it outside. Mrs Ephemery had informed us that despite the snowstorm, outside was the best choice for eating this dish.

Of course I partook of the shark meat. I have tasted worse. It was not wholly impossible to swallow, although I seem to be the only one who could manage much of this. Mrs Ephemery only ever tastes small amounts of food and seems to enjoy food more in terms of preparation and as a spectator’s sport. 

One of the Scientific Gentleman kindly informed me that the correct technical name for the flavour – which has the merit of not being uncouth – is ammonia.

(Written by Nimue)