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Hopeless Tales

Alienation

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By Keith Errington

2B-loop had been given a very important mission. His first proper mission! And it was off world! He was very excited and honoured to be given this task. His supervisor, 1A-doop, had said it was vital work! So vital, in fact, none of the other protoinvestigators could be spared to do it. Only he, 2B-loop the student, was suitable for the task.

He went over the mission in his head one more time: land, observe, collect material, record data, and leave. Although it was simple, 1A-doop had stressed that it was vitally important work and also that he might face some trivial difficulties on the way.

As 2B-loop headed towards his circular spacecraft, his chest (or equivalent) puffed with pride. He beeped and chirped to himself. His first mission!

–◊–

He struggled a bit with the landing but managed to put the saucer shaped craft down in a small clearing in what his notes said was a forest. Now, what was the name of this place again? Oh yes, that’s right, this existence was known as Hopeless, Maine.

–◊–

As 2B-loop stepped down from his craft, he made the weird but cute chirping noises his species made when they were happy. He looked around. The edge of the clearing was surrounded by dense vegetation. “No creatures visible,” he noted in his log.

He walked forward into the forest and immediately a nearby piece of vegetation reacted to his presence, lashing out and wrapping itself around his appendage. “Bloof,” he chirped out loud. This was an unarmed fact-finding mission, so without a weapon, 2B-loop resorted to hitting the vegetation with his note taking scanner device. It recoiled and then attacked again. How annoying, thought 2B-loop.

A more thorough thrashing with his device was delivered, and the vegetation backed off, folding in on itself as it did so. Well, that was irritating. Fortunately, the note-taking device was virtually indestructible, so he was able to note down, ‘Aggressive plant life.’ And then he moved more carefully, and quickly through the forest.

–◊–

After a while, he cleared the edge of the forest and appeared to be on some sort of unnatural route. Hmm. He consulted his device. “Road” it told him. Ah, 2B-loop thought, perhaps I can now get to observe some of the creatures that inhabit this existence. Almost as soon as he had that thought, something came bounding up to him. 2B-loop aimed his note taking scanner at the leaping object.

The device started searching for matches within the data captured from other existences on this planet. No results. He fiddled with the settings. Ah, now he had something, “Dog – skeleton – remains – post living” Well, that’s all very well, thought 2B-loop, but this specimen is very much alive and jumping up at me!

Apparently, according to the data, the correct course of action was a “shoo.” He didn’t know what a shoo was, so he raised his cruethnot and waggled his dangbabbler. That seemed to do the trick as the “dog” ran away. It took 2B-loop a few moments to record some observations about the incident and then he resumed his walk.

–◊–

He was being careful to keep to the side of the road so he could hide in the woods if anyone should appear, when, jang! A creature rushed headlong out of the woods to his left, catching him completely unawares. Oh no! thought 2B-loop, I’m only supposed to observe – interaction was clearly forbidden. I’ve already failed!

“Well, my you are a curious one” said the strange creature now standing in front of him, with 2B-loop’s notetaker translating. He tried scanning the entity, but it kept saying, ‘unknown, unknown.’

“I wonder where you are from?” Asked the creature, “Not of this world, I think.” There was a commotion in the trees to 2B-loop’s left, and the strange creature was distracted for a few seconds. 2B-loop took that moment to triumphantly engage his diffraction mode, which would make him invisible to all.

“You know I can still see you, right?” said the strange creature. “You’ll have to try harder than that to fool one such as I!” More noise from the trees, much closer this time. “No matter, I shall come and find you. And then we shall have some fun.” There was a strange expression on the creature’s face. Then it ran off, pursued by an angry mob of what the notetaker said categorically, were humans. There were shouts of “Come back Durosimi!” And “You’ve gone too far this time” and “she was my daughter, you demon!” They didn’t seem to notice 2B-loop at all.

2B-loop reflected on the event. Confusing, but it was pleasing that the encounter had ended with the creature suggesting fun. That sounded nice.

–◊–

2B-loop moved on. This time he didn’t move in a straight line, he wandered around examining this flower, that grass, this shrub, that moving tentacle. It seemed in diffraction mode he was less bothered by aggressive vegetation, so he remained invisible for now. All the while he took copious notes. Pleased that he was recording so much data for his report. 1A-doop was going to be mightily impressed – he knew it. In time, he came across a small house. It seemed to be owned by a small, black, four-legged furry creature. Which was odd, because the proportions were all wrong. The house was way too big for such a small thing.

‘Cat,’ announced his scanner. Although he still had diffraction mode activated, the creature actually seemed to sense him somehow, and they stood regarding one another for quite a while. Then the creature just turned, rolled over and started licking itself in a very relaxed manner. Was that a welcome gesture? 2B-loop thought it must be and tried to emulate the move as closely as possible. The creature stopped and stared at him. Then just walked away. I must have done it wrong somehow, thought 2B-loop, picking himself up off the ground. Or maybe the walking away was part of it? And so, he too, walked away, in the opposite direction. This is so exciting! Out on an alien existence and interacting with the locals! Of course, the fact that he wasn’t really supposed to be interacting made it even more exciting!

–◊–

Over the course of the next few days, 2B-loop had many encounters with the vegetation, creatures and inhabitants of Hopeless, Maine. Many were aggressive, dangerous even, but some were just interesting, or weird, or… curious. He had collected so much data. So many notes to present to 1A-doop. His scanner device had a finite storage capacity and 2B-loop noted that it was almost full. So, somewhat reluctantly, he headed back to his saucer ship for the trip home.

As he neared the spot where he left it, he realised that the clearing was no longer a clearing. A huge mound of spiky, writhing vegetation had taken over most of it. There was no sign of his ship… although the mound’s shape suggested the ship was at the heart of it. 2B-loop’s normally happy demeanour sank slightly. There was no way to get to his ship. He flopped down where he was. All the air seemed to go out of him as he contemplated his existence.

–◊–

After a very long time, his tracker beeped at him. A pre-recorded, personal message from 1A-doop. “2B-loop, by now, you may have realised the particular issue with this existence, Hopeless, Maine. We have sent in two researchers in the past and neither came back. It appears to be a feature of the place. Any entity that ends up on the island cannot escape it. It was decided that we would try one more mission. And you were chosen 2B-loop. You had an extremely important quality. You were entirely expendable, especially as you had proven yourself to be entirely useless in every one of the investigators’ specialisms. Of course, should you manage to come back, you will be lauded a hero, the greatest proto-investigator of all time and offered leadership of all investigators and investigations.”

There was an unusual noise then on the recording. 2B-loop realised it must be 1A-doop laughing.

“Good luck 2B-loop. And from all of us here, goodbye. Your sacrifice will hardly be noticed.”

2B-loop deflated further and for a day or so didn’t move at all. Eventually, he moved.

–◊– –◊– –◊–

The Squid and Teapot was mostly frequented by regulars, attracted to its character, if not its food and beverages. It was a place to meet friends and talk about enemies. Of course, those who found themselves freshly shipwrecked would often head for the pub, assuming it was some kind of safe haven, a bastion against the dangers and extreme strangeness of the Island. Whether that be true or not, strangers would occasionally arrive in the bar. Almost always they would walk up to the bar, acknowledge the server, order a drink and then look around. And almost always, their first question would be, “What is that bright pink and yellow blob covering the back table and two chairs?” “That, oh, that’s just 2B-loop. He’s an alien. Now, will you be wanting any food?”

–◊–

Hopeless Tales

Convocation of dust

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Most people don’t think a great deal about where dust comes from. Dust is people. Dust is dead skin, although unless you have the opportunity to stare at it under a microscope and see the tiny cells for yourself, this may not be a familiar thought. For most people on the island, dust is just something that turns up; a small, relentless nuisance that adds to the discomfort of daily life.

Dust is you.

It might be tempting, if you live alone, to gather the dust that is made purely from your skin, and hoard it all in a massive jar. You might spend years, carefully collecting the dead bits of yourself that gather, ghostlike in the silent place you call home. 

Sweeping with a small paintbrush, slowly cleaning surfaces of your own dead self. 

You might wonder after a while exactly how much dust you will make in your lifetime. Will you live for long enough such that there is more dust in the dust jars than there is living skin on your body? You might panic at that point, afraid of what could happen if your dust self becomes bigger than your not-yet-dust self.

You are the dust.

(Art by Kat Delarus, words by Nimue).

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

My Phoney Valentine

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“Miss Bucket… a moment, if I may, please.”

Philomena turned slowly. She recognised the voice, well enough, but the tone was unusually conciliatory.

“Yes, Mr O’Stoat?”

Durosimi  O’Stoat stood before her, his hands clasped before him, a wan smile upon his face.

“Miss Bucket… may I call you Phyllis?”

“Philomena,” she corrected him.

“Philomena… what a pretty name… I feel I owe you an apology.”

Philomena could think of several things that Durosimi might have to apologise for, but, in her experience, remorse had never been high on his agenda. She was fairly certain that the wily old rogue was up to something.

“An apology? Whatever for?”

“I feel that I have been less than well-disposed towards you, recently. I have had much on my mind, of late, and fear that I may have come across as being maybe a little tetchy, occasionally.”

Philomena said nothing. Durosimi had been a good deal more than a little tetchy, from the very first day that she set foot on the island.

“The truth is, Philomena, I cannot rest until I have made it up to you, in some way.”

“Oh, you needn’t…” she began, but Durosimi held up a hand to silence her.

“Please, humour me. It is Saint Valentine’s Day on the fourteenth, a most appropriate occasion to heal our wounds. Do me the honour of coming to dinner with me.” 

“At The Squid?” she asked, more than a little taken aback.

“I think not,” said Durosimi. “After all, you work there; it would be less than conducive to our needs. Besides, I have far better fare in my own humble abode.”

“You are asking me to have dinner with you in your home?”

“Indeed, and I very much hope that this will be the beginning of a long and fruitful friendship.”

Valentine’s Day was just two days away. Philomena knew that going to Durosimi’s home alone could be dangerous but she was curious to find out exactly what he was scheming. She decided that, whatever it might be, she would play along for a while. 

“Thank you,” she said. “I would be delighted.”

“I would love to know what he is up to,” said Philomena to Miss Calder that evening.

She had just left a basket containing a generous slice of starry-grabby pie and two bottles of Old Colonel on Rhys Cranham’s doorstep. On her return to The Squid and Teapot she had met Miss Calder, the ghostly administrator of The Pallid Rock Orphanage. Miss Calder was given to regularly haunting the path to Poo Cottage, the Night-Soil Man’s home, just as darkness was falling. She was forever in the hope of running into Rhys as he started his rounds.

“Be careful of him, Philomena,” warned Miss Calder. “By what you have told me, this behaviour is very out of character. Is there anything I can do?”

“Not really,” said Philomena, then added, thoughtfully. “Can you get into his house?”

“No problem,” said Miss Calder, “as long as it’s not protected by a ring of salt, or anything like that. You know, the usual ghost deterrents.”

“Then would you, please?” asked Philomena. “There might be a clue there.”

The church clock struck three. That meant very little, as the mechanism had long had a mind of its own and was particularly taken with the sound of three chimes. The only certainty was that the time was not three o’clock. It did not matter. The island was in darkness, and even Durosimi O’Stoat needed to sleep occasionally.

Miss Calder drifted noiselessly up to ‘Dun Necromancin’ (or whatever it was that Durosimi chose to name his house) and slipped through its walls as if they did not exist. She checked each room with care, even the master-bedroom, where the great man lay in bed, snoring gently.

She was about to leave when something stopped her. It was not a noise or movement that made her halt, but a sense. It was the sense that one ghost will get when another is trying to communicate with them.  And this one was definitely unhappy. Miss Calder allowed herself to be drawn towards the source of the sense, the feeling of anxiety and distress growing with every step she took.

The oak door presented no problems. She had not noticed it earlier, which was unsurprising, as, to all intents and purposes, it was part of the bookcase.  She glided down the narrow stairs and into a basement.

You will remember that Durosimi had gate-crashed Granny Bucket’s deathday party the previous week, and captured the ghost of Melusine O’Stoat, trapping her in a bottle. Melusine had been a sixteenth century witch, a common ancestor, not only to Durosimi, but also to none other than Philomena, to whom she bore a most remarkable resemblance

“Philomena? How did you…?

“I’m not Philomena, but I know all about her,” said the ghostly figure, imprisoned firmly in a circle of salt. “Ye gods, her grandmother wouldn’t stop going on about her. It was Philomena this and Philomena that…”

“Then who are you?”

“I’m Melusine. Can you please get me out of here?”

“Sorry,” said Miss Calder, “But I can’t move things, least of all salt.”

“Well, we need to do something,” said Melusine, frantically, “because that maniac out there has got plans to bottle me up inside Philomena. She is the ideal vessel, he said, as to all appearances we could be the same person. He would have us totally in his power, slaves to do his bidding.”

Miss Calder was a little shocked, but maintained, as ever, a calm exterior.

“He won’t be doing anything until Valentine’s Day,” she said, reassuringly. “I’ll find a way to get you free by then.”

It was early in the evening of February the thirteenth, and darkness had once more fallen upon the island of Hopeless, Maine. The church clock struck three.

A casual observer might have noticed an unearthly flickering amid the trees. But hey, this is Hopeless; what do you expect?

That same casual observer may also have spotted Durosimi O’Stoat dragging on his overcoat as he slipped through his front door. He did not bother locking it, safe in the knowledge that no one would be foolish enough to attempt to break into his home.

Miss Calder, followed by Rhys Cranham and Drury, the skeletal hound, left the shelter of the trees and hurried towards the house.

Rhys turned the door knob and said,

“Right! That’s as much as I dare do until you’re out again. He’ll smell it if I go inside. You’re on your own in there, but I’ll stay around”

Miss Calder led Drury to the bookcase, quietly praying that the dog would be able to get them through the hidden door. She need not have worried, for it took little more than a push with his bony old legs for the door to swing open. A candle had been lit in the basement, and Miss Calder entered with her usual grace and dignity, unlike Drury, who bounded noisily down the stairs, missed his footing and ended up as a pile of bones at the bottom. He staggered to his feet, shook himself and made sure that everything was where it was supposed to be.

“What the devil is that?”

“That” said Miss Calder, with some emphasis, “is Drury, and you can thank him for being the key to your freedom.”

Drury gave the ghostly witch a puzzled stare, then realised, with relief, that she was not his good friend Philomena, who was, thankfully, still in the land of the living.

Gingerly he pawed at the salt circle, disturbing a few grains. Miss Calder had told him to move a bare minimum of the salt.

He scratched away some more until there was a slim but definite means of egress from the trap.

“Now go, quickly, before he returns,” said Miss Calder.

Melusine required no second bidding. In an instant she was no more than a violet mist, gently evaporating through the wall.

With exquisite care and precision, which surprised even himself, Drury pushed the disturbed grains of salt back into place.

“It’s time that we were gone,” declared Miss Calder, and with no more ado they raced up the stairs and back to the front door, where Rhys was waiting to secure it.

“My dear Philomena,” said Durosimi “I am so glad that you asked me to meet you here this evening.”

The other patrons of The Squid and Teapot had given them a few sidelong glances, not quite believing that Philomena would be the sort to get pally with Durosimi O’Stoat.

They had been sitting and talking quietly for over two hours. Philomena stretched and yawned.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, Durosimi,” she said, “but I need to get some sleep. I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow, and if I’m having dinner with you, it will doubtless be a late night.”

Durosimi smiled, and looked at his pocket watch.

“I had quite lost track of the time, my dear. Is it really nine o’clock already?”

As if in confirmation, somewhere, in the distance, the church clock struck three.

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Hopeless Tales

The Marshes

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The Marshes is a Hopeless, Maine story by Keith Healing, performed by Tom Brown. Originally this story was broadcast as “interruptions” to the scheduled broadcast during The Eldritch Broadcasting Corporation’s online festival. For this video, they have been presented together here, so you can follow the whole piece in one go.

You can find the playlist for the entire event over here – https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLgL8NSDkxNIrw-_OZ4vL4mG61BG9MWjgZ

Hopeless Tales, Island News

Children Find Old Church in Uplands

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By Harrison W. Crow

It is doubtless some of the long-time Hopelessers remember the history or have heard the stories about how, centuries ago, medieval monks from Ireland landed on the island and built a community upon it, totally unaware that they had landed on an island on the Maine coast and not in Scotland, as they had thought.

We now have reason to believe that their community was not limited to an abbey and a distillery; it may have been bigger than thought. In the thickly-wooded uplands of the island, Jim Farnsworth – 7-year-old son of Daniel and Winona Farnsworth – was out late playing in the woods against his parents’ wishes with his imaginary friend Guy O’Hara, 8-year-old son of unknown parents (though we may surmise at least one of them is also named O’Hara,) when O’Hara tripped on a rock and skinned his knee. In turning back to cuss the stone, he and Jim saw the stone was unusual.

“It wasn’t like any rock we’d ever seen in the woods,” said Jim, whose
parents allowed him to speak with the Vendetta during his grounding. “Guy and I know the rocks here can be jagged, but it looked too clean cut, like a large brick almost.”

News spread quickly, and amateur archaeologists Hephzibah Corey and James Hansen were interested in the boys’ story.

The young Messrs. O’Hara and Farnsworth, the latter under the watchful eyes of his accompanying parents, guided Corey and Hansen to the spot, which is memorable for a prevalence of dead and curiously crooked pine trees. There they found the stone. The two archaeologists decided to clear it off, and after only a little brushing away of fallen leaves and pine needles, found the site consisted of even more stones, of similar shape.

“We could already tell that what we were looking at was something far grander in scale than any old drystone wall built up by any common farmer,” said Corey, who added, “though I have to give credit to Mr. and Mrs. Buxton for coming closest with their ambitious 100-foot-long 9-footer. We’re still trying to figure out how in Tunket they did that
and why, but I digress.”

With shovels, mattocks, and willing hands John Adam, Damien Chevin, and Paula Greenstone, (hands which were undoubtedly difficult to come by, what with Ash Peterson’s archaeology- related death still imprinted on town memory) they returned to the site and conducted a fuller
excavation. What they dug up was that O’Hara had literally stumbled onto the collapsed remains of a stone cathedral! Several well-worn inscriptions in Latin were found, two branding the building as “The Church of St. Brendan,” built “in the year of the Lord, 12__.”

“I don’t want to jump to conclusions,” said Hansen, “as the stone is so badly effaced to be certain, but the tens digit looks like it could be a 1 or a 7. Don’t quote me on that.”

According to the team, it is safe to assume that the builders, having made a long ocean voyage, were inspired by St. Brendan the Navigator’s sea travels to strange lands. This corroborates a few tales about the medieval monks that are extant on the island, as well a recently rediscovered tale of a particular accursed dwelling lost in the woods of the island, still recalled by Lorraine Gagnon, a local Algonquian mythologist and storyteller.

When the team began digging at the floor, John Adam pried a flagstone with a prybar and was hit with a stench.

“It was foul and musty,” said Adam, “like the dry fart of death.”

Moving the flagstone revealed something wholly unexpected: a shallow recess beneath the floor with a bony foot. Removing more flagstones not only revealed one body, but a total of 48 skeletal corpses, all in the same state: they were bound by the wrists and ankles, their arms and legs were broken, iron nails were driven through the joints of their limbs and jaws, their sternums were each pressed under a boulder, and a rock was jammed between each of their jaws.

In the words of Corey, “To see them all at once, for the first time…it was paralysing. Of course, we’re aware of things like animal sacrifices made to be church grims, and even of people buried under the floors of churches, dead and sometimes alive. But this…all we could do was stare, in stunned silence, probably for a solid minute.”

The bindings and mutilations suggested that those who buried the corpses believed them to be revenants – most likely vampires. The belief in revenants is corroborated in Gagnon’s story, in which the people from across the sea who settled into their new stone dwelling succumbed to a
strange sickness, and “despite their sickness, refused to die.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Corey says. “If these are foundation sacrifices, why did their buriers take such extreme measures? If these are church burials, why entomb so many dangerous ‘sinners’ on holy ground? Surely such a strong, evil presence would taint the ground, in the buriers’ minds.”

The next day, the team returned to the ruins of St. Brendan’s Church to conduct an even more thorough investigation, as well as to search the surroundings for other buildings and a quarry, to find the site disturbed; ground stakes were knocked over, tarpaulins moved, and every last one of the bodies was gone. According to Corey, “It was as if they had somehow wriggled out from under the boulders and left, like every last one of them was Harry Houdini.”

The team will pay for any information regarding the whereabouts of the corpses, and will pay handsomely for their return. They are each a few inches over five feet tall, with tawny, leathery skin stretched tightly over crooked, skeletal frames, and bearing multiple rows of sharp, pointed
teeth. They will probably be attempting to communicate in Latin or cussing out in pain in Old Irish if not for the rocks in their mouths, and shambling with stiff joints and a wicked limp, if not still squirming or rolling around in their bindings.

Ask about Hephzibah Corey and James Hansen at the Historical Society or the Squid and Teapot for more information.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Happy Deathday, Granny Bucket

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By Martin Pearson

Philomena Bucket stood on the summit of the Gydynap Hills, watching, with some trepidation, the eerie mist that snaked up through the darkness.

“I’m glad that they are meeting here, and not in The Squid,” she thought to herself. “Even by Hopeless standards, this is beyond weird.”

It was late evening on the seventh day of February, the anniversary of Granny Bucket’s death. A few weeks previously Philomena had rashly suggested that there should be some sort of event to mark the occasion.

“After all,” she had reasoned, “everybody has a birthday, and they also have a deathday.”

If, like Granny Bucket, the departed are able to enjoy a full and active afterlife, happily haunting all and sundry, then Philomena could see no reason why there should not be a party, of some description, to celebrate their special day.  What Philomena had failed to take into account was Granny insisting that she should have a veto regarding the guest list, and then summarily rejecting all of her granddaughter’s suggestions.

As the mist drew closer, Philomena could see wispy forms gradually taking shape within it. These were Granny’s party guests, the ghosts of her witch-brood ancestors; generation upon generation of Bucket women. Some were from such a distant past that they were almost invisible.

Philomena had no idea how the Bucket surname had originated.  Given the mysterious nature of that ancient Irish clan, I like to believe that it derives from the old Gaelic word “púca”, for a shape-shifting spirit. The truth, however, is probably far more prosaic. Whatever its root, the name has been carried proudly for hundreds – possibly thousands – of years by countless female Buckets, regardless of their marital state. And here they all were, shades gathered upon a dark hilltop, honouring Granny Bucket. Philomena gazed fondly at her grandmother, and as she did so, the scene changed. She was in a tiny, badly-lit room where an old woman lay in a truckle bed. Her face was almost as white as the pillow upon which she lay. It was Granny. These were her final moments of life. Philomena was only a child at the time, but she could remember this vividly.  The vision faded and once more it was night-time on the Gydynaps. Philomena’s gaze fell upon another party guest. Although a wraith, this one looked to be little more than a girl. Suddenly, alarmingly, she was ablaze, her hair a fiery halo, her mouth opened in a soundless scream. Shaken, Philomena turned away abruptly, only for her eyes to fall upon another ghost, who, an instant later, appeared to be hanging from gallows, her eyes bulging and her legs kicking helplessly. Horrified, Philomena knew at once that she was witnessing the deathday of these women. Wherever she looked, she was assailed by visions of violent death. Few had been as lucky as Granny, to die in bed surrounded by a loving family. 

There was another watcher on those hills. For reasons known only to himself, Durosimi O’Stoat had asked for an invitation to Granny’s party.

“After all,” he had said, “I am family.”

It was true, to a degree. Somewhere in that melee of ghosts drifted a common ancestor, a forebear who marked the exact time when two magically powerful families – the Buckets and the O’Stoats – had found each other.

When no invitation had been forthcoming, Durosimi decided to turn up anyway.

By now the phantom witches had started chanting. This was obviously what passed as fun in witchy circles, Philomena decided. Not so much a party as a gathering. A meet.

“Merry meet and merry part, and merry meet again,” intoned Philomena aloud, somewhat surprising herself, for she had no idea where the words had come from.

It was almost as if this was a signal. Led by Granny, the witches drifted towards her and, surrounded, she felt herself lifted, as if by nothing more substantial than clouds. She floated, unafraid and deliriously happy, in the night-air, for what felt like an age.

Durosimi watched with fascination. While no stranger to the world of the supernatural, this was something completely new to him. In fact, so mesmerised was he that he had almost forgotten the reason for his gate-crashing the party. Then the weight of the little black bottle that he carried drew him sharply from his reverie.

The ghostly throng surrounding Philomena seemed to be unaware of Durosimi’s presence. It was only when he held the bottle aloft that one of the witches turned towards him, as if in answer to a summons. She drifted through the night until her shimmering form was within his arms’ length.

Durosimi smiled, coldly. The spell had worked. And then he froze. The witch standing before him looked exactly like Philomena Bucket.

“Melusine?” he asked, incredulous.

It was Doctor John Dee who had given him the idea. The sixteenth-century alchemist had visited Hopeless some time before and had revealed that Melusine O’Stoat, burned for heresy and witchcraft in Elizabethan times, was not only Durosimi’s ancestor, but Philomena’s as well. She had been a wonder-child, the product of the union of two magically powerful dynasties. The O’Stoats would not allow her to revert to her maiden name, however, and that had been her undoing. It was dangerous being an O’Stoat in those days.

Granny’s party had been the perfect opportunity for Durosimi to summon the spirit of Melusine, and trap her. The black bottle looked innocuous enough, but Durosimi had soaked it in enough magic to capture a dozen of her kind. But he did not want a dozen; only Melusine. How he would extract the power and knowledge that he craved, he had yet to work out.  

Philomena opened her eyes. She was lying on the damp grass of the Gydynaps.

“Happy deathday, Granny Bucket,” she called, but no one replied.

The phantom witches had gone. Even Granny.

Philomena shivered, pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders, and made her way down the hill.

“Well, that’s over,” she thought to herself, with a certain amount of relief. “Thank goodness that nothing untoward happened.”

Durosimi gazed at the nondescript bottle sitting on his desk.

He smiled to himself. Who said that you couldn’t put a djinn back into a bottle?

But now that he had her, how was he going to control her? 

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Party Politics

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By Martin Pearson

“So, who have you invited so far?”

“Invited?” Philomena Bucket’s face was a picture of innocence.

If she had been shocked by being whisked away to some liminal place, as a whim of the ghost of Granny Bucket, Philomena did not show it. Over the years she had ceased to be surprised by any stunt that Granny pulled. She was, however, a little taken aback that her elderly, and long-dead, relative had got wind of the impending celebrations.

“To my surprise deathday party. Don’t pretend you’re not planning one,” said Granny. “I heard you plotting with that Middlestreet fellow. Now, who have you invited?”

Philomena knew that there was no point in trying to hide the details any longer.

“Well, I have asked Miss Calder…” began Philomena

“Miss Calder?” interrupted Granny. “I hardly know the woman. Why are you asking her?”

“If you would allow me to finish,” said Philomena archly, “I have asked Miss Calder to talk to the other ghosts on the island and find out who would like to come.”

“And I don’t get a say in anything?” snapped Granny

“It is supposed to be a surprise party!” exclaimed Philomena, exasperated. “Anyway,” she added, keen to change the subject, “I don’t recognise this place. Where exactly is it that you have brought me?”

You, like Philomena, will recall that she had been wandering up the Gydynap Hills in an effort to clear her head. She had no idea that Granny’s wraith was following her until she found herself suddenly standing next to a babbling stream, deep within a sun-dappled hazel wood. It was quite beautiful and certainly bore no resemblance to anywhere on the island of Hopeless, Maine.

“We’re safe within a memory I have of the Old Country,” said Granny, nostalgically. “I used to do a spot of courting here, as a girl.”

This was news to Philomena.

“And who was the lucky man, may I ask?” she said.

“Ah, Indeed you may. ‘Twas a young rascal called Willie Yeats. That was long before your time, though” confided Granny. “You wouldn’t know him.”

“Hmm… the name’s familiar,” said Philomena, uncertainly.

“But back to this party business…” Granny was like a lurcher with a rabbit. “Who do you intend to ask?”

“The maiden ladies of the Mild Hunt…”

“Them old biddies? With their yappy dogs and fartin’ mules? I don’t think so!” said Granny, emphatically.

“Very well. How about Lady Margaret D’Avening and Father Ignatius Stamage?”

“That sanctimonious pair, haunting the lavvy in The Squid and Teapot?” Granny was aghast at the suggestion. “They’re devout Catholics, the two of them. They won’t want to be hob-nobbing with a load of witches, that’s for sure.”

“A load of witches?”

Philomena had echoed the words with a certain amount of unease.

“Well, the ghosts of witches, anyway.  They are my friends and relations,” said Granny. “And it’s my deathday, after all.”

“How many, exactly, are we talking about?”

“Not sure yet,” said Granny. “I’ll let you know.”

As she spoke these final words, Granny began to gradually fade away, and with her went the stream and the hazel wood. Suddenly it was dark, and the familiar shapes of the Gydynap rocks were outlined against the misty skyline.

Drury was confused. He had spent hours searching for Philomena, following her trail high into the Gydynaps, only for it to disappear in a most unexpected manner. When it abruptly returned, in a dizzying burst of fragrance and accompanied by the lady herself, he was overjoyed. The osseous hound wagged his bony old tail in obvious pleasure. He had been seriously concerned when one of his two favourite people in all of the world had vanished, apparently into thin air.

“Come on Drury,” said Philomena, not even slightly surprised to find her old friend waiting for her. “I’ve got to get back and see how Rhys is faring. I must have been gone for hours.”

For the last few days, Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man had been struck down with influenza. Philomena, armed only with a clothes-peg to keep the smell at bay, had taken it upon herself to administer to him.  Her humanitarian mission had to be put on hold for a while longer, however, when a lean figure emerged from the darkness.

Drury growled menacingly.

“You can call your dog off, Miss Bucket. I mean you no harm.”

Philomena recognised the voice of Durosimi O’Stoat immediately.

“I hear,” he drawled, “that you intend commemorating your grandmother’s deathday, next week.”

“I don’t know who might have told you that,” said Philomena defiantly, trying to hide the tremble in her voice. “But yes, you heard correctly. As a matter of fact I do.”

“With the island’s ghosts in attendance, if my information is correct,” said Durosimi. “Young lady, that is not a good idea and I suggest you abandon it now.”

“And why would that be, Mister O’Stoat?”

“It would not be … politic” he said, struggling to find a suitably apposite adjective. “The spirits of this island have come from different times, different cultures, different mind-sets. You would be creating a potentially explosive situation. In dealing with these opposing energies, I fear you would be unleashing forces far beyond your comprehension.”    

“Well you needn’t be worrying on that score,” said Philomena, her face reddening with rage, “because the island’s ghosts don’t seem to be invited anymore.”

“How so?” Durosimi was suddenly interested.

Philomena felt suddenly bold. Who was Durosimi to tell her who could come to Granny’s party?

“Granny is most insistent,” she said quietly, “that it will be a knees-up for just witches, and ghostly witches at that; friends and relations, some from different times, but every one of them with the same mind. So, there is no chance that I might be unleashing any opposing energies, whatever that means.”

“No, indeed,” said Durosimi. He paused for a moment, as if processing the information.

“I believe,” he said carefully, “that your grandmother is under the impression that she and I – and obviously you and I – share a common ancestor.  In view of this I would very much like an invitation, being family, and all that. May I rely on you to ask her, please?”

“I can ask,” said Philomena, having a fair idea what Granny’s reply would be.

Durosimi smiled chillingly and disappeared into the night.

“I wish I’d never thought of any of this,” muttered Philomena.

Drury wagged his tail again. He could smell trouble in the air. Drury liked trouble. Trouble was fun.

Hopeless Tales

The diagnosis

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Doc Willoughby sucked on his teeth for a little while, as he tended to do when he wanted people to think he was considering matters carefully. The small ‘fff’ noise did not confer the dignity he imagined, but this was of little consequence. If Doc Willoughby had really understood how little dignity he was afforded, he might never have dared to even venture outside his own doors. Thankfully, a lifetime dedicated to the science of distilling had protected him from such discomforts.

He took a swig from the cup on his desk, which still had something in it. After a briefly unpleasant sensation in his mouth. It occurred to Doc Willoughby that some of what was in it had been a spider, probably now deceased. He shrugged, and swallowed anyway.

“Ffffff,” he repeated, on the inbreath, shaking his head slightly. “Too much excitement of the nerves,” he pronounced. 

His patient sighed heavily at this.

“You’ve been overdoing things,” the Doc continued, nodding to himself as he warmed to his theme.

“I was worried I’d gone too far with the fasting this time,” Reverend Davies admitted, seeming relieved. “Miss Calder has been nagging me about it.”

“Fasting is good for you,” Doc Willoughby said. “It would be terrible for me, but it is clearly right for your nature and constitution.”

“I haven’t slept in about a week now,” Reverend Davies added, a statement supported by just how bruised his eyes appeared to be.

“That’s overstimulation for you,” Doc Willoughby said.

“What should I do?” Reverend Davies asked. “I was thinking about prostrating myself in prayer for an entire night, do you think that would help?”

“It might,” Doc Willoughby said. “But I think the most important thing is to try and have less fun.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Busy Day

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By Martin Pearson

Drury was not in the best of moods. He considered himself to be neglected, deserted and generally abandoned. A small confluence of circumstances had apparently conspired to leave the skeletal hound feeling suddenly alone, and deprived of the company of his two best friends, Rhys Cranham and Philomena Bucket. As faithful companion to Rhys, the Night-Soil Man, he had spent many a happy hour wandering over the island of Hopeless, while Rhys serviced the outside privies, cesspools and, occasionally, earth closets of its inhabitants.  This week, however, Rhys had been too unwell to perform his duties. Struck down by influenza, the Night-Soil Man had taken to his bed in an effort to shake off the malaise. His illness had unfortunately coincided with Les Demoiselles dancing troupe moving into larger premises. While their move did not directly affect Rhys, Philomena felt it to be incumbent upon her to help both parties, as well as fulfilling her duties at The Squid and Teapot. In one stroke, therefore, Drury was deprived of both of his friends and main sources of entertainment.

Drury had not always been so dependent on others for company. For more years than anyone could remember he had been a presence on the island, minding his own business and invariably poking his bony nose into other people’s. True, he had frequently found companionship with several generations of Night-Soil Men, but he had formed a special bond with Rhys and, more recently, Philomena.

Doc Willoughby had refused to go within twenty yards of the House at Poo Corner, which surprised no one. Philomena was thankful, convinced that a visit from the Doc usually had the effect of prolonging an illness. She, on the other hand, had no such inhibitions. The peg adorning her nose was barely sufficient for the intended task, but it at least enabled her to bring Rhys the pots of soup, plates of starry-grabby pie and flasks of Gannicox Distillery’s finest spirit, that she considered essential for the completion of a full recovery.  

“I wonder if I could go through married life wearing a peg on me nose?” she thought, idly remembering how close she had come to marrying Rhys. That was in the days, not so long ago, when it seemed as though the Night-Soil Man would give up his job for her. He would have done so, too, had his apprentice, Naboth Scarhill, not met an untimely end. 

“Well, enough of this daydreaming,” said Philomena, aloud. “Dwelling on the past will achieve nothing.”

 Drury watched forlornly as she pocketed the peg and bustled away, back to the inn.

With the absence of anything better to do, Drury resorted, that afternoon, to his old habits of removing washing from lines and terrorising the occasional spoonwalker. Usually these activities would leave him feeling fulfilled. Today, however, they held no pleasure for him at all. He wandered listlessly over to the establishment known for years as Madame Evadne’s, lately renamed the School of Dance, in the hope that Philomena would be there. Several of the Washwell brothers were shifting furniture in through the big front door, with Mirielle D’Illay barking orders at them in French and English, but there was no sign of Philomena. Nor was she in The Squid and Teapot. Drury was puzzled.

It must be remembered that, even allowing for the fact that he may appear to be nothing more than a collection of bones, Drury is no ordinary dog; he has been around for a very long time. So when Philomena failed to appear by nightfall, he knew that something was amiss. Had Rhys Cranham been in any fit state to search for Philomena, Drury would have tugged at his jacket, in the best Rin Tin Tin style, and made him understand that something was wrong. As it was, Rhys was huddled under a pile of blankets, running a temperature and feeling extremely sorry for himself.

It had been Philomena’s habit to wander into the Gydynap Hills whenever she felt the need to clear her head. The extra workload of helping Les Demoiselles to move into new premises, worrying about Rhys and wondering how to organise Granny Bucket’s forthcoming deathday party, was beginning to take its toll. Despite being horribly busy, she just had to get away for an hour or two. More often than not, Drury would appear from nowhere and accompany her. It was ironic that he had decided to feel particularly unloved that day, and chosen to wreck washing lines on the other side of the island, just when she needed him most. Unaware of this, and deciding that her old friend must have been nobly watching over Rhys, she set off alone.

Night falls quickly on Hopeless at the best of times. In the winter it slips in like a thief, and steals away the daylight before you realise what has happened. Almost uniquely among the islanders, being out in the dark had never particularly bothered Philomena, especially since learning that powerful witch-blood flowed in her veins. In the past this, and the fact that Rhys had been secretly keeping an eye on her, had kept the less pleasant denizens of Hopeless at bay. Tonight, however, was different. Rhys was fitfully sleeping in his sick-bed and, because of her preoccupation with those other things, Philomena’s defences were down. That is why she did not sense the presence of the figure following her. At least, not until it was too late.

 Drury sniffed the air. Although he had just a gap where a dog’s nose would normally be, he was as adept as a bloodhound when it came to following a trail. That Philomena had gone to the Gydynaps was no surprise, but she might have taken any one of a dozen different footpaths. To Drury, however, her scent was as clear as if etched in luminous paint upon the grass. With the gap in his ribcage, where his heart used to be, brimming with hope, he raced through the night, confident of tracking down his friend. Then he came to an abrupt halt. The trail had stopped at an outcrop of rocks. Drury clawed frantically at the ground. There was no trace of Philomena. She had apparently disappeared into thin air.

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

Mrs Beaten goes on a date.

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He took me to the graveyard at twilight

The thrilling risk of staying out so late

He harvested the plants that bloom by night

An unexpected opening to the date.

I did not know how many herbs there sprout

Amongst the resting places of the dead

To take  them is grotesque I feel put out 

This does not seem the right way to be fed.

Nonetheless he set about the picking

Fragrant and flavoursome the plants he chose

Down there underneath the dead lie rotting

Will I eat that which has been fed by those?

He spoke of sauce to marinade his catch

As though he meant to take me in his snare

Would talk of stuffing make for me a match

Or did he mean to kill me in his lair?

How can one truly know a man’s intent

Talk of flesh is shameless and confusing

Is a fine banquet invitation meant

What exactly is the meat he’s using?

A wanton gesture, leaves touched to my face

As though he had designs upon my heart

Feed me herbs just to hasten my disgrace

Or break my ribs to take me quite apart.

How to interpret all this talk of food

Courtship or a terrible seduction

Romantic aims or something far more lewd

Honest soul or creature of corruption.

I thought about it.

For pity’s sake man don’t talk about meat

Without clarity and firm explaining

Don’t tempt with food trying to be discrete

Oblique offers are not that persuading.

Talk plainly fellow, if you talk at all,

Am I to go and look upon your hams

Have you got a pot that’s full of meatballs

Are you inviting me to taste your clams.

There’s nothing more annoying to my mind

Than being vague when speaking about meat

I like to know what I am going to find

Be it firm, or soft, distended or neat.

A gentleman should make himself quite clear

Be plain about what he has in his pot

His corpse herb sauce does not fill me with fear

Tell me how many tentacles he’s got.

(Whether Mrs Beaten knows what she is implying, is always a question you have to ask with her. It’s hard to say which would be more alarming, some kind of deadpan innuendo, or managing to say this from a state of utter obliviousness.)