Category Archives: Hopeless Tales

story, poetry, rumour and gossip

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Remarkable Resemblance

Leave a comment

Nothing stays secret on Hopeless, Maine, for very long. News that a visitor from the sixteenth century was staying in The Squid and Teapot had caused ripples of surprise all over the island, almost before he had been offered a room at the inn. While others only marvelled that their little island home should be graced by a traveller of such antiquity, Durosimi O’Stoat was excited beyond words, although, of course, he would never admit to entertaining such a vulgar emotion. What had captured Durosimi’s undivided attention was the fact that he had heard the name ‘John Dee’ being bandied around. While no one else on Hopeless had any idea who John Dee was, or had been, Durosimi knew him to be the Astrologer Royal to Queen Elizabeth of England, an alchemist and scholar, respectable occupations for a man of his era. Durosimi, however, was also aware of Dee’s reputation as a necromancer and a magician. Here was a man after his own heart, someone unafraid to open forbidden doors to dangerous secrets. And John Dee was now residing in The Squid and Teapot!

Durosimi was not known for being attracted to such common places, but for the chance of meeting John Dee, he would have happily taken tea in the Night-Soil Man’s front parlour.

“Might I be of some assistance?” he had asked innocently, from his seat in the corner of the snug. Bartholomew and Ariadne Middlestreet, Philomena Bucket and Norbert Gannicox turned their heads as one at the sound of his voice. They had no idea that anyone else was in the room while they were discussing the strange events that had brought Dee to the island.

“John Dee. I understand that he is a guest here. I may be able to help in returning him to…” Durosimi paused, searching for the right words. Finding nothing appropriate he added “… returning him to his loved ones.”

Philomena shuddered involuntarily. Although the voice was full of charm, she imagined it was how a particularly well-mannered spider might sound as it invited you into its web.

“That would be up to Doctor Dee,” said Bartholomew, coldly. He had never liked, or trusted Durosimi.

“Indeed,” replied Durosimi. “But I am keen to speak to the good doctor. I have always been a great admirer of his work. Please be good enough to give him an invitation to my home, at his convenience, of course.”

With that he stood up, gave them a stiff nod of his head, and stalked out. There was, for a few seconds, a stunned silence.

“Always been an admirer of his work?” said Ariadne scornfully. “What a load of rubbish. Why, the doctor hasn’t been on the island for five minutes.”

“I’m not so sure it’s rubbish,” said Norbert. “Dee’s a rum character, and no mistake. You should have seen the room we first met him in. O’Stoat would have given an eye to have some of the playthings we saw there. I reckon our Doctor Dee is more famous than any of us know.”  

“That’s as maybe,” said Philomena, “but an invitation is an invitation. We’ll have to tell him.”

It was over a pint of Old Colonel and a hefty slice of Starry-Grabby pie that Doctor Dee learned of Durosimi’s invitation.

“O’Stoat,” he said, ruminatively chewing a particularly tough bit of tentacle. “Yes… O’Stoat. Of course… Melusine O’Stoat! That’s who she reminds me of.”

“Sorry… who reminds you of Mellers.. Melons… whatever her name was?” asked Bartholomew, pouring him another drink.

“Melusine? Oh, Mistress Bucket looks very much like her. In fact, the resemblance is remarkable.”

“I don’t think that Philomena is related to the O’Stoats,” said Bartholomew. “This Melus… woman, is she a friend of yours?”

“She was, many years ago, yes,” said Dee, sadly. “Burned for heresy, I regret to say, during Mary’s reign, as I almost was myself. But I am positive that Mistress Bucket must be her descendant.”

Bartholomew said nothing. He was by no means sure how pleased – or otherwise – Philomena might be to hear that she was possibly related to the O’Stoats.

John Dee downed his second pint of Old Colonel, smacked his lips and said,

“But yes, I’ll meet with this O’Stoat fellow. They were a family famous for their dabbling in all sorts of magical arts, not all of them safe, in my day. It will be interesting to see how their line has progressed.”

“Or not,” thought Bartholomew, but was wise enough to keep his own counsel.

“I’ll ask Philomena to take you along to Durosimi’s home tomorrow,” he said, instead. “It will be a chance for you to see some of the island… and maybe you can tell her about Melons.”

“Melusine,” corrected Dee.

It had taken Doctor Dee half of the following morning to be convinced that Drury was not a Hell-Hound. Having been confronted by an irate spoonwalker, felt the gaze of the eyes in the sky, and then embarrassingly surprised by Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless Lady who haunted the privy of The Squid and Teapot, he decided that a skeletal dog was not that unusual after all, and the pair became quite friendly. This was just as well, for whenever Philomena went for a walk, Drury insisted on tagging along.

Philomena found the doctor to be both attentive and interesting company, and easy to talk to. She found herself telling him about her childhood in Ireland and her voyage, stowing-away on the ship that brought her to Hopeless. She even burst into a few verses of ‘Molly Malone.’ Like Drury, Dee was particularly taken with the chorus of ‘Alive, alive-oh’, joining in enthusiastically.

“That’s a good song,” he said. “I must tell young Will Kempe. He’s one of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, Master Shakespeare’s company of actors. You’ve heard of Master Shakespeare?”

“Oh yes,” said Philomena, “but not Will Kempe.”

“That surprises me,” said Dee. “He is as famous as Will Shakespeare in my time. Do you know, he danced all the way from London to Norwich. One hundred and twenty-five difficult miles. It took him nine days. The Nine Days’ Wonder, they called it… and you, dear Mistress Bucket, you too are a wonder, do you not know?”

Philomena’s pale face reddened slightly,

“Doctor Dee, I believe that you are a married man… “ she began nervously, but before she could say any more,  Dee interrupted.

“My dear young lady, please do not misunderstand me. All I meant was that you are someone who possesses great power, though you may not know it. I recognised you as being a descendant of Mistress Melusine O’Stoat, a wise woman and seer, and I see in you even greater abilities than were hers.”

Philomena’s face reddened even deeper.

“I’m nothing to do with the O’Stoats,” she said, defensively. “Surely you must be mistaking me with someone else.”

John Dee took Philomena by the shoulders and allowed his fierce blue eyes to bore into hers.

“No. Believe me, Mistress Bucket, I know power when I see it, and yours is greater than mine will ever be. It is like a wild horse, just waiting to be set free. If you are not her descendant, then I honestly believe you to be Melusine O’Stoat reborn.”

Philomena gulped.

“I can’t believe that. I don’t feel very powerful” she said. “Please, Doctor Dee, don’t tell this to anyone else… especially Durosimi O’Stoat.”

Dee smiled. “If that is your wish,” he said. “Why, I believe that is Master O’Stoats abode ahead. I will leave you now, Mistress Bucket. Do not ignore what I have told you. Magical power such as yours will find its way out eventually.”

Just then Durosimi appeared at his door and strode down the pathway, greeting John Dee and totally ignoring Philomena.

“There is no way on this earth that I am an O’Stoat,” she thought to herself grimly.

Somewhere, in the far recesses of her mind, she could hear Granny Bucket chuckling.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Just One Thing After Another…

Leave a comment

Doctor John Dee, Astrologer Royal, alchemist and occasional necromancer, still cut a handsome figure, despite his years.

This was not the first thought that entered Philomena Bucket’s head as she looked about her. When she had embarked upon a stroll through the tunnels, deep beneath The Squid and Teapot, with Norbert Gannicox, Bartholomew Middlestreet and the now-absent Drury, the osseous hound, she little thought that she would find herself in Tudor England before the day was out. But here they were, and standing before them was the man who had introduced himself as Doctor John Dee. Famous as Dee had become, however, none of the tunnel-explorers had heard his name before, but the décor of the room in which they stood gave every clue as to his many interests.  His shelves were filled with a variety of impressive-looking instruments, which had they known it, could have been identified as astrolabes, armillary spheres, quadrants and sextants, to name but a few. Skeletons of various birds and animals hung from the rafters (Philomena half-expected to see Drury amongst them) while malformed foetuses, preserved reptiles and human brains lurked worryingly in heavy glass jars. Every wall was festooned with a series of anatomical, astrological, alchemical and nautical charts, whilst books from his large library were piled on every available surface. Here was clutter indeed, but clutter of an infinitely superior nature to any found on the island of Hopeless, Maine.

If the three had found the contents of Dee’s study to be strange, they found his accent stranger, though perfectly intelligible. After all, he was a highly educated man who spoke the English of Shakespeare (although, I suspect he never knowingly conversed in iambic pentameters). Above all, John Dee was courteous to his unexpected visitors.

“Welcome to my humble home,” he said, spreading his arms expansively. No sooner were the words out of his mouth, however, than the fabric of the room seemed to dissolve around them, with Dee looking even more surprised than the others. They were falling, falling through a kaleidoscope of people and places, light and darkness, until things began to slow and gloom gave way to brilliant sunshine…

“Stowaways in the jolly boat” cried a harsh voice, and Philomena found herself being dragged by the arms on to the deck of a large sailing ship. A throng of rough and unkempt men had gathered about them.  

“What have we here then? Who’s the geezer in the frock?”  

Philomena thought the speaker was referring to her, but realised that everyone’s attention was focussed on John Dee, tall, bearded and stately in his long velvet robe. Despite his discomfort at being addressed so, the alchemist managed to remain dignified.

“Never mind him,” said another voice, “look what I’ve found!”

Now it was Philomena’s turn to be the centre of attention. She spun around and, with her free hand, hit her captor hard in the face. The experiences of the day so far had given her a sense of unreality, and so she was surprised when he hit her back, and it hurt.

“Tricky little vixen,” said a cultured British voice. “I think I had best take charge now, don’t you bosun?”

The newcomer, obviously the captain, took hold of Philomena, securing both of her arms in his firm hands.

“What about the others, Cap’n Vane,” asked the bosun, still hoping that the woman might be passed around after the captain had finished with her.

“Fish food. That’s all they’re good for,” Charles Vane replied, with a dismissive gesture

A cheer went up, and Bartholomew, Norbert and Doctor Dee found themselves being pushed towards the side of the ship.

“This can’t be happening,” thought Philomena, somewhat prophetically, for it suddenly was not happening. The astonished captives saw the ship and its crew disappear before their very eyes, and once more they were falling through time and space into a field of smoke and noise…

Captain Louis Nolan could not believe his eyes.  He was leading a hare-brained cavalry dash into the jaws of death, and four civilians had suddenly appeared in their way, as if from nowhere. It would take the horsemen very little time to cover the mile-and-a-half to reach their objective, and these four, if they didn’t get blown to bits by cannon-fire, would be trampled underfoot in less than a minute.

John Dee could only think that he had died and gone to Hell. The previous episode had been bad enough, but now he appeared to be witnessing warfare between two sets of demons. The ones on horseback would soon be upon them, with their brazen hooves and flashing swords and spears. He closed his eyes and wished that he had spent his life dabbling in less heretical pursuits.

Was there a man dismayed? I’ll say there was. And a woman. Philomena, Norbert and Bartholomew stood huddled and totally bewildered by their predicament. There were cannon to the right of them, cannon to the left of them, and hundreds of stampeding horses with armed soldiers on their backs bearing down at great speed. Taking Dee’s lead, they closed their eyes and prayed to who – or whatever might be listening.

Captain Nolan, still leading the charge, veered his horse to the left in a noble attempt to avoid careering into the four. He paid for this manoeuvre by catching a Russian bullet in the neck. As he fell, dying, from his steed it crossed his mind that he had been mistaken. The way ahead was clear. The four had disappeared. No one had been impeding charge of the Light Brigade.

This time the travellers knew what to expect, and gave in with grace to the sensation of falling. Whatever was causing these things seemed to be kind enough to remove them, in the nick of time, from the scrape they found themselves in, but the trepidation of not knowing what horrors awaited was still unnerving.

The auditorium of Ford’s Theatre, in Washington was hushed, the lights dimmed and the orchestra struck up ‘Hail to the Chief’, a tune unfamiliar to the party of four who found themselves in very plush and comfortable surroundings for once.

“There must be someone important watching this play tonight,” said Norbert, as the audience burst into cheers and applause as the final strains died away. They craned their heads to see who the ovation might be for, when the spotlight fell upon a box at the side of the auditorium, where a tall, spare-framed man had got to his feet, his hand raised in acknowledgement. Philomena thought dimly that she recognised the lean, bearded face.

The play was fairly tedious, but when the heroine of the piece asked for a seat, away from the draught, and the hero responded, to a certain amount of polite laughter,

“The draft has already been stopped, by orders of the president.”

The President! Philomena sat up straight, and realised, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, exactly where they were.

“We need to be out of here,” she said to the others, urgently. “There will be trouble before long, and with the way things have been going, we’ll be drawn into it.”

“That will make a change,” said Norbert drily. “Where’s the exit?”

Just then they heard a bark.

“Since when do they allow dogs in theatres?” asked Bartholomew, then turned to see a familiar bony figure standing in the corner.

“Drury!” exclaimed Philomena.

“It’s the Hell-Hound,” wailed Dee, shrinking back into his seat and receiving some irate ‘shushes’ for his trouble.

“Grab him and let’s go” said Philomena.

Norbert and Bartholomew took the reluctant alchemist by the armpits and manhandled him to the back of the theatre, where Drury was waiting.

“Quick,” hissed Philomena, and they fled through a curtained opening, Dee still complaining about Hell-Hounds, just as a shot was fired.

The air behind the curtain was cold but welcoming.

“We’re back in the tunnels,” said Norbert, relief in his voice.

“Come on, our lanterns are still over there and they’re alight. It’s as though we have not been away for more than a minute or two,” said Bartholomew.

The journey back seemed to pass surprisingly quickly. They walked again through the great chamber, where the sconces on the walls still flared brightly. Then they came to the staircase, long and steep, which led to the cellar of The Squid and Teapot.

“So this is the enchanted isle of which Saint Brendan wrote,” said Dee, looking about him. “Might I find lodgings here, Master Middlestreet?”

Bartholomew liked the sound of ‘Master Middlestreet’.

“By all means Doctor Dee. Stay as long as you will.”

“Welcome to Hopeless, Maine” said Philomena. “And you may call me Mistress Bucket!”

An hour or so later, after a somewhat bewildered, but unaccountably happy, Doctor Dee had retired to one of the guest-rooms of inn, Bartholomew, Norbert and Philomena sat, with Bartholomew’s wife, Ariadne, in the snug of The Squid and Teapot, trying to make sense of all that had happened.

“It was as though we were being dropped through history,” said Bartholomew, thoughtfully.

“Or maybe it was all no more than an illusion,” offered Ariadne.

“None of that felt like an illusion,” said Philomena, recalling the blow that the pirate had dealt her. “And Doctor Dee is real enough. Maybe he might have some idea what happened to us.”

“Don’t bank on it,” laughed Ariadne. “He looked more confused than the rest of you put together.”

“I can see why Sebastian Lypiatt wanted to get rid of the key to the tunnels,” said Norbert, sipping his sarsaparilla, referring to the old key that had been sent to his grandfather, a century before.

“Yes,” said Bartholomew, “That passage should be locked forever, and the key put where no one will ever find it. Maybe Doctor Dee can take it back to his own time – if he can ever get there, that is.”

So intent had the four been on their conversation that they had not noticed the lone figure who had wandered in, and settled himself quietly in the corner.

“Might I be of some assistance?” he asked.

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Obsidian Cliff

Leave a comment

Doctor John Dee, alchemist and Court Astrologer to Good Queen Bess, was seeking, through the medium of his scrying-bowl, visions of lands and events far away in time and space. When the clouds had cleared from the dark waters of the bowl, several things had been revealed to the doctor, a few of which he actually understood. Most exciting, however, was the glimpse of three figures exploring the tunnels that wound beneath a mysterious island. This particular vision was especially enthralling, as Dee was convinced that here was the island mentioned by the legendary navigator, Saint Brendan, as being a portal to other worlds. Unfortunately for Doctor Dee his viewing was ruined when the antics of a skeletal dog, or ‘Hell Hound’ as he described it, upset him to such a degree that he had to stop watching.

You will have gathered, by now of course, that the island in question was Hopeless Maine, and the old Elizabethan’s Hell Hound was none other than dear old Drury, the dog who refused to acknowledge that he had died. It took the good doctor some hours to recover, but eventually he boldly decided to light a candle and fill the bowl once more, in the hope that he could find once again this strange land that he one day planned to visit.

Norbert Gannicox, Bartholomew Middlestreet and Philomena Bucket had been concerned that their candle-lanterns would expire before they could get out of the tunnels. It was with some relief, therefore, when they spotted daylight ahead. Upon closer inspection Philomena declared that she could see fog swirling some yards away at the tunnel’s mouth.

“Good old Hopeless Fog,” she had said and, after hours of darkness, it filled their hearts with cheer. Then Norbert had a thought.

“Be careful, Philomena,” he cautioned, “don’t go dashing outside. We must have descended a good two hundred feet or more before getting into the main cavern, and I can’t say we’ve climbed a lot since then. If we’re that far down, this must be an entrance from the cliff-face. All you’ll find on the other side of that hole is fresh air and the Atlantic Ocean.”

The faces of the other two fell, and they regarded the spluttering and stunted candles in their lanterns with some consternation.

“We’d best turn around now, and hope for the best,” said Bartholomew.

They turned to leave, when out of the darkness bounded Drury. He was about to throw his bony frame on to Philomena, as was his wont, when he spotted the foggy tunnel mouth ahead. With a cheerful bark he galloped through the gap before anyone could stop him.

“Drury…” yelled Philomena, her voice filled with panic. Even if Drury was seemingly immortal, a long drop into a raging ocean would carry him far from Hopeless, where his undead status might have little meaning.

After a second or two the dog’s inquisitive skull poked through the mist at the tunnel’s mouth, as if to say, “You called?”

Philomena regarded her friend with some surprise, and then it occurred to her that if Drury could go through with no mishap, then so could she. Without a word to the others she purposefully strode into the fog.

Bartholomew looked at Norbert with a mixture of dismay and resignation.

“Here we go again,” he said, and, as one, they followed in the barmaid’s footsteps.

It had been Philomena’s resolve to pursue Drury that had drawn the three into the labyrinth, far beneath The Squid and Teapot, in the first place. While, at that point, it would have been easy to have turned back, this latest venture was a definite leap of faith. After all, they were on the island of Hopeless, Maine, and anything was possible.

They appeared to have wandered into a sheltered valley, of sorts. The mist swirled about them, but seemed to be gradually thinning. The ground beneath their feet was smooth and hard, not at all like the usual rocky terrain of the island.

“Look at these cliffs,” said Philomena. “They’re like none that I’ve seen before… almost artificial.”

The others had to agree. For as far as the eye could see, the unbroken line of the cliff face rose smooth and black and totally unclimbable. For a while they followed its curve, but found no way out, and the foggy entrance through which they had entered was nowhere to be found.  A soft yellow light suffused the sky above them, giving a clear view of the featureless and unremitting landscape in which they stood. Then Philomena happened to glance up through the thinning mist, and let out a completely uncharacteristic scream.

John Dee watched the mists clear from his simple, obsidian scrying-bowl. His mind was quiet as he waited for the visions to materialise, and his heart leapt to see, once more, the three explorers on the mysterious island. The Hell-Hound was nowhere about, thankfully. Maybe it had returned to the infernal pit, where it belonged.

The woman and her male companions seemed to be wandering through some sort of cavern. They looked confused and frightened, running their hands along the dark walls, obviously searching for some point of egress. Something stirred in Dee’s mind, and he allowed himself to look closer at the scene beneath him, being careful not to touch the water. A second later he almost fell off his seat in surprise as the woman peered up from the depths of the bowl, looked him squarely in the eye and, with terror written all over her face, opened her mouth in a silent scream.

“She can see me!” he said aloud to himself.

“Did you see that face?” asked Philomena Bucket, as she sank to the floor, her voice trembling,

The others shook their heads; they had genuinely seen nothing unusual.

“It was awful,” said Philomena, composing herself. “Not an awful face, I don’t mean that. It was just so… so huge. It filled up all of the sky. I can’t believe you didn’t see it.”

The others shook their heads again. They did not disbelieve Philomena. It was well known on the island that she was in receipt of that dubious gift known as ‘The Sight’. If Philomena claimed to have seen something weird, then no one disputed it. 

“Do you think it was God?” she asked nervously, and slightly concerned, as they had not been on speaking terms for some years.

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” said Bartholomew. “More like the other fellow. Don’t forget, this is Hopeless.”

“He didn’t look particularly good or evil,” reflected Philomena. “Just a bit old, beardy and bewildered.”

“Well, I guess it’s gone now, who or whatever it was,” said Norbert. “Let’s get out of here before it comes back and brings some friends. I don’t like this place. Give me the tunnels any day.”

Doctor Dee pulled off his cap and scratched his head. In all of his years of scrying, he had never been seen by the object of his attentions; it was unheard of. Impossible even. And those people… they appeared to be actually walking in his scrying bowl. He could see its obsidian sides towering above them. That was impossible too. However, impossible or not, if any tiny people were in the bowl they would be placed in a gilded cage and presented as a gift to Her Majesty.

Dee beamed quietly to himself, thinking of the honours and riches such a novelty would reap.

He carried the bowl into a small chamber, annexed to his study. On the floor of the chamber was inscribed a magical diagram, composed of two circles, in which was drawn a pentagram, two heptagons and a heptagram. All around the edges of these symbols could be seen a collection of letters, both Greek and Latin, along with arcane words, said to be the secret name of the God of the Old Testament, and all of his angels. The whole made up the Sigillum Dei, an amulet said to give an initiated magician power over all living things. With care and reverence Dee laid the bowl in its centre and began to chant.

The room grew darker, until all light, except a pale glow emanating from the surface of the scrying-bowl, was extinguished. Then there was a small explosion, and Doctor Dee passed out.

“I have no idea how we get out of here,” said Norbert despairingly. “It was Drury who got us in, he should get us out.”

“There’s no sign of him anywhere,” said Philomena, sadly.

Just then the gentle yellow light that had lit their time beneath the obsidian walls was dimmed, and it was as if the whole world was being turned upside-down. The three of them were thrown roughly off their feet, tumbling over and over through a starless sky.

“Oh, what now?” thought Philomena, testily, just before she drifted into unconsciousness.

Doctor Dee awoke to find the room in chaos. There were scorch marks on the walls, the Sigillum Dei had been wiped clean from the floor and the obsidian bowl upturned. Stranger still, the three explorers were sprawled inelegantly across the floor. They were full-sized, barely conscious and looking not a little bemused. Dee peered across at them and cleared his throat.

“Good morrow,” he said politely, as though all that had occurred was the most natural thing in the world. “Allow me to introduce myself…”

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Visions of Doctor Dee

Leave a comment

The domestic bliss of the Dee household was being severely strained. Doctor John Dee, Court Astrologer and Advisor to Queen Elizabeth of England, had unwisely mentioned to his wife, Jane, that he intended setting off to the New World in search of a mysterious island; that was when the night-soil really hit the windmill.

“You’re clearing off for months on end, looking for some island?” she questioned. There was an edge to her voice that her husband recognised, and did not like one little bit.

“Where is it this time? High Brasil? Rocabarraigh? Tír na nÓg? Or maybe it’s the Isle of Maidens… oh yes, I bet it’s the Isle of bloody Maidens.”

“No, no,” protested her husband “it is none of those places, I assure you. As far as I know, it’s Hopeless.”

“I’ll say it’s hopeless,” retorted Jane, “leaving me here with eight children to bring up while you’re gallivanting off to Lord knows where.”

“I will make sure that you are well provided for, my sweet,” assured Doctor Dee, hurriedly retiring to his study.

Dee had married Jane Fromond in 1578, when he was fifty-one, and she was just twenty-three. Having previously been a widower twice over, and each marriage childless, he had seemingly made it his mission to make up for lost time with Jane, and within ten years they had produced eight children. In view of this, as a man now in his sixties, life was occasionally inclined to be somewhat more hectic than he would have liked. John Dee was definitely looking forward to this little excursion to The Americas.

In the relative peace of his study, Doctor Dee lit a candle and lifted his black, obsidian scrying bowl down from the shelf. To a casual onlooker the bowl would have appeared to be less than impressive, being decidedly shallow and having a diameter slightly shorter than the span of a man’s hand. When filled with water, however, and approached in the correct way, the scrying-bowl opened doors to the past, present and future of lands both near and far away. Its only drawback was that there was no way of telling exactly what, or indeed when, you were seeing.

With his mind clear and his breath measured, Dee watched the dark water gradually becoming cloudy. Eventually the mists dispersed, and, dimly, he could discern the figure of a man climbing out of a window. The picture grew sharper and, to the doctor’s surprise, he saw that it was Edward Kelley, his erstwhile associate and fellow alchemist, who had recently taken employment with Rudolf ll of Saxony. Dee chuckled to himself as he watched Kelley struggle out of the window and fall a dozen feet to the ground. (Maybe his mirth would have been slightly less had he known that his friend’s fall would result in a broken leg, contributing to his death soon after.)

 The picture grew misty once more until, from the depths, the vague shape of a worried looking woman appeared; she was standing next to a badly dented carriage at the side of a broad road. No, it was not a carriage, for there were no horses to be seen. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a rotund man with a mop of dark curly hair and a preposterously long waxed moustache, skipped nimbly into the scene. By the movement of his mouth and body he appeared to be singing, and the woman smiled. Trying to lip-read, Dee could, initially, only make out the word ‘Gocum’. Obviously the man was singing about the Hottentot Fig, Carpobrotus Edulis, commonly known as a gocum. Subsequent reading of the singer’s lips, however, indicated that he believed the plant to be a pear. Dee shook his head, incredulous at the man’s ignorance; surely, everyone knew that it was a gocum fig, not a gocum pear. Dee had no idea what relevance the episode held, but he was sure it had little to do with the New World.

Again the mists slid over the water. It took some time for Dee to realise exactly when they had cleared, for what was revealed was dense fog, and lots of it. Now and then he would glimpse a sight of land, albeit from a great height. Gradually, as if some great bird was winging its way to earth, the details of the terrain became clearer. Dee became excited, for it was suddenly obvious that he was looking at an island, wreathed in fog and lashed by wild ocean waves. Surely, this was the mysterious island that Saint Brendan had spoken of. He could see buildings. There was a tall stone tower overlooking the sea. More and more detail appeared, and the birds-eye view became a worms-eye view as the subterranean realms of the island were revealed. There was a broad chamber, with lit torches fastened to the wall. Shadows danced in the light of the flames. Dee strained to see who, or what was making those shadows, and then he spotted them. His mind and the scrying mirror were working in unison, zooming-in on three figures who walked with candle-lanterns held high, towards the mouth of a dark tunnel. It appeared to Dee that the party consisted of two men and a woman. While both men were of average appearance, notwithstanding their outrageous clothing, the woman immediately caught his eye. Even in the dim light of the candle-lantern, Dee, who had a definite eye for the ladies, could see that her hair and skin were extremely pale; she appeared to be almost albino.

“Damned fine looking woman, all the same,” he muttered to himself, smoothing his whiskers.

It was then that a fourth figure hove into view. Dee sat back in his chair with shock. This was a skeleton, apparently moving of its own volition. Incredibly the humans seemed unsurprised by its presence, and paid it little heed.  

“A Hell-Hound,” he said aloud, crossing himself and instinctively reaching for a rosary, having temporarily forgotten, in his shock, that he was no longer a Catholic.

The Hell-Hound must have sensed that an unseen eye was watching, for it loped back and filled the surface of the scrying-bowl with an inquisitive skull. Dee dropped back in horror when it appeared to sniff the water. The hound then turned around three times, languidly lifted a hind leg, and took a totally dry and ineffective pee. Doctor Dee crossed himself again and decided that he had seen enough for one day.  

Philomena Bucket, Norbert Gannicox and Bartholomew Middlestreet were completely unaware that their progress into the tunnel had been followed by a long-dead Elizabethan, although stranger things had happened on Hopeless.  The way before them was dark and narrow and their footsteps echoed ominously. Only Drury seemed to be at ease, especially now that the thing that had been watching them had gone away.

“It can’t be much further to the end of this tunnel,” said Norbert nervously. “After all, the island isn’t that big.”

“But if it leads to the mainland, as the legends say, we could have miles to go,” said Bartholomew, not sounding too pleased at the prospect.

Philomena was too busy watching Drury to comment. To the left of them the osseous hound had found another passageway. Philomena insisted on following, and the others promised to wait, begging her to shout if there was a problem. In the event, she was gone for less than a minute.

“There is a weird green light along there,” she said. “Drury didn’t like the look of it, and that’s good enough for me.”

Relieved, the others agreed that discretion was the better part of valour and moved on. Had they followed that tunnel they would have found themselves tumbling down into the mysterious sinkhole, the top of which sat innocently in the Night-Soil Man’s garden, two hundred feet above.  No one knew what depths and terrors lay beneath.

“Ten more minutes and then we go back,” said Bartholomew. “These lanterns are not going to burn forever.”

“We won’t need ten minutes,” said Philomena. “Look over there. There is another tunnel, branching off in the opposite direction. I can definitely see light, and it’s not green and it’s not ominous. Look! It’s filled with good old Hopeless fog!”

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Cavern

Leave a comment

“Well!” exclaimed Philomena Bucket, “I really didn’t this expect this.”

Bartholomew Middlestreet and Norbert Gannicox stayed silent, but wordlessly acknowledged to themselves that the barmaid was right; what they had found was totally unexpected. An hour earlier the three had discovered a secret passage beneath The Squid and Teapot, and along with Drury, the skeletal hound, had clambered down countless steps, hoping to come upon the fabled long-lost tunnel which would take them to the mainland.  Instead they had walked into this vast, cathedral-like space, lying deep beneath the fog-strewn island of Hopeless, Maine.

“Maybe this was a smugglers’ den,” said Bartholomew, “and if that is the case, there ought to be another tunnel somewhere, leading to the sea.”

It seemed to be a reasonable assumption, and they immediately set about exploring the area. The meagre light of their candle-lanterns, however, was no match for the blanket of darkness that surrounded them, and there looked to be little hope of finding another way out; then Philomena spotted a sconce attached to the stonework. Further exploration revealed that there were several arrayed around the perimeter of the walls, each one filled with dry rushes. It was obvious that these had, at some point long ago, been prepared in readiness for a gathering of some description. Norbert, who was the tallest of the trio, reached up and lit one of the sconces with his candle. In an instant the rushes burst into flame, casting huge shadows that danced alarmingly against the harsh, unforgiving grey walls that soared high above them.

Norbert lit two more of the torches. It was only then that the trio truly appreciated the space in which they were standing. This was no simple subterranean cavern, but a huge underground chamber with walls of dressed granite, and close-fitting flagstones beneath their feet. Any clue as to who had constructed this, much less the when and why, was apparently lost long ago.

“Over there…” said Norbert, pointing to a point on the far wall that lay in deeper shadow.

He had spotted the mouth of a tunnel, gloomy and uninviting, on the opposite side of the room. The three intrepid explorers were in no hurry to go on, and it was only Drury who seemed to be unfazed by the prospect of entering. With his bony tail wagging and his feet clattering on the hard floor, he wandered nonchalantly across and sniffed at the threshold of dark passage. Filled with uncertainty, the others followed.

“Well, if Drury is happy with it, I have no problem in following,” declared Philomena, stoutly.

Bartholomew looked at Norbert and raised his eyebrows. Unlike Philomena, both men had lived on Hopeless for all of their lives, and were aware that tunnels and passageways were not the nicest of places to frequent at the best of times. Compared to the denizens of The Underland, the creatures who lived above the ground were warm and cuddly. Besides this, Drury was not exactly a barometer of common-sense. It was only the fact that the dog was seemingly immortal, that had saved him from many a scrape in the past.

“I don’t think we should…” began Bartholomew, but he saw the look in Philomena’s eye and hurriedly amended the remainder of his sentence. “I don’t think we should go into these unknown areas completely unprepared. Your idea about taking various bits of equipment with us was sound, Philomena.”

(If you recall, in the tale ‘The Underland’, Philomena had, indeed, suggested that they take a small mountain of equipment on the expedition.)

Before the words were out of his mouth, however, Drury gave a bark and disappeared into the depths of the tunnel.

“Hey, wait for me…” cried Philomena and, with her candle-lantern held aloft, dashed after him.

“Philomena…” shouted Bartholomew, but it was too late, she was out of sight.

For the second time in as many minutes the two men looked at each other with eyebrows raised.

“Ah, what the heck,” said Norbert, getting as perilously close to cursing as he ever did. “In for a penny…”

Reluctantly the two men disappeared into the gaping maw that yawned before them.

Meanwhile, far away in time and space, two men sat hunched over their respective flagons of warm ale. One was Doctor John Dee, necromancer, and Court Astrologer to Queen Elizabeth the First of England; the other, much younger man, was his friend and associate, the spirit-medium and would-be alchemist, Edward Kelley. They had come to The George Inn, in Southwark, in the knowledge that they would not be recognised. This part of the city of London was largely populated by a colourful array of whores, vagabonds, conmen, thieves, escaped criminals, mountebanks, wandering minstrels and other ne’er do-wells. When not guarding their own lives and property, each and every one of these citizens was far more interested in watching the bloodshed occurring in the bear pits, the bullrings, and the alehouses that staged bare-knuckle fights, than spying on Dee and Kelley.

Looking furtively over his shoulder, Doctor Dee opened a nondescript leather satchel and pulled out an ancient looking book.

“What’s that?” demanded Kelley

“Navigatio Sancti Brendani Abbatis,” said Dee, triumphantly.

To John Dee’s disappointment Edward Kelley looked singularly unimpressed.

“The voyage of Saint Brendan the Abbot,” he translated. “So what? I can’t get excited about the antics of some old Irish monk taking a pleasure-trip.”

“Edward… Edward,” hissed Dee, urgently. “Do you not know of Brendan’s discoveries. I grant you, much related in these pages might be brain-addled rubbish from drinking salt-water, but there was one island that he mentions, towards the very end of his voyage, that really seems to be a portal between earth and all the hidden realms beyond. Imagine that, Edward, from that island we can reach the very shores of Heaven and Hell themselves. Who knows what we may discover? I have permission to mount an expedition in the Queen’s name – and at her expense, obviously – and you and I shall find this island, far away on the edge of the New World, and discover all of its secrets.”

“Sorry, I cannot,” replied Kelley, “I’ve just gained a position as alchemist to King Rudolf of Saxony. I’ll be leaving London at the end of this month.”

Dee’s face darkened.

“How on earth do you think that you are going to turn base metal into gold?” he asked brusquely. “The last time I looked, the only alchemical transformation that you’ve managed successfully is turning sour ale into piss!”

“Rudolf doesn’t know that, but I’m sure I’ll be fine” replied Kelley, breezily ignoring the insult. “Anyway, I am sorry I can’t join you on your voyage.  By the way, what is the name of this place you’ll be sailing to?”

“As far as I can tell, Brendan did not name it,” said Dee. “Though, upon returning to Ireland, when asked to describe the place, he clutched his head at the memory, curled up in a ball, and wailed, “It’s Hopeless, I tell you. The island is Hopeless!”

To be continued…

Author’s note: Over the years the George Inn, in Southwark, has been a favourite watering-hole of many famous people, including Shakespeare, Dickens, Chaucer and Winston Churchill. It was rebuilt following the Great Fire of Southwark in 1676.

(Cave image in this post is a chapter cover from Victims, and has a goblin in it, which may cause confusion, but that’s what goblins do…)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Underland

Leave a comment
Secret passages are always a good idea. Yes.

Philomena Bucket had discovered a secret passage, housed in the walls of The Squid and Teapot. It descended, by way of an iron ladder, from the far attic to the cellar.

Bartholomew Middlestreet and Norbert Gannicox had been enjoying a surreptitious pint of ‘Old Colonel’, while ostensibly searching for a hidden door in the cellar of the inn. Norbert normally eschews strong drink, but Bartholomew had assured him that drinking to quench a thirst, as they were, was quite different to social drinking, and therefore, on this occasion, would not count as ‘drinking’. (Similarly, I have never felt that the consumption of digestive biscuits, when dunked into tea or coffee, can ever be regarded as ‘eating’.)

When a section of the wall slid noisily back to reveal Philomena standing before them, her skirt knotted at the waist to facilitate easy ladder-climbing, they realised, with great surprise and a certain amount of embarrassment, that the door had, indeed, been discovered.

Philomena hastily adjusted her dress, and, with the aid of a foaming tankard of the Ebley Brewery’s best bitter, related how she and Ariadne, Bartholomew’s wife, had stumbled on the entrance to the passage, which had been concealed in a small extension to the attic wall, cleverly constructed to resemble a locked sea-chest.

“But it makes no sense,” declared Bartholomew. “What is the point of going to the trouble of making a secret passage which only takes you from the top to the bottom of the inn?”

“None that I can see,” agreed Norbert, peering up the shaft down which Philomena had climbed. “To be honest, it would have been a bit of a squeeze for me to have climbed down there. It’s very narrow.”

Philomena and Bartholomew exchanged a meaningful look. Norbert’s fondness for starry-grabby pies was legendary.

“Maybe there is a similar projecting brick on the back wall which opens up another secret door,” suggested Philomena.

They pushed and prodded the stonework for a few minutes, until Bartholomew remembered that the only things of interest likely to be found on the other side of the wall was a cobbled pathway and the Atlantic Ocean.

Bartholomew scratched his chin, thoughtfully.

“My pa always reckoned that there was a secret tunnel, somewhere under The Squid, that led directly to the mainland,” he said.  

“Now that would be a thing!” said Norbert, enthusiastically. “Nobody has managed to get off this island for the best part of a century.”

It was true, apparently. There were stories on Hopeless of how, years earlier, Joseph, a Passamaquoddy trader who had settled on the island, occasionally ferried back and forth to the mainland. On rare occasions, it was said, he had taken passengers. That was a long time ago, and any who might have verified these tales were long dead (although, in fairness, the mere fact of being deceased has never prevented anyone on Hopeless from voicing their opinion).

“So maybe we’re looking in the wrong place,” said Philomena, dropping to her knees and feeling around the floor of the shaft. It took her but moments to locate a flagstone that seemed to be slightly looser than any of the others. Taking the initiative, Bartholomew dashed outside for a lever of some description, returning less than a minute later with a shovel. Thrusting the blade of the shovel between the flagstones, he put all of his weight on the handle, until his feet left the ground. Philomena bit her lip, anxiously, expecting the handle to snap. Little by little, however, the stone was prised up, gently lowering Bartholomew back on to his feet. Once the gap was sufficiently wide to allow Norbert some purchase for his hands, the flagstone gave up the struggle, obviously realising that it was no match for the joint efforts of a zealous innkeeper and a hefty, not to say slightly tipsy, distiller.

Where the flagstone had so recently lain, a cold breeze now wafted from the dark opening that yawned before the feet of the three friends. The rectangular hole was twice as long as it was wide, and a steep, stone staircase descended into its depths.

“We’re going to need torches,” Philomena was the first to speak.

“We?” said Bartholomew. “I can’t allow you to go down there, Philomena. You’ve no idea what is lurking in that pit. It could be dangerous.”

“Then I resign,” shouted Philomena, angrily, making the other two jump in surprise. “And as you’re not my boss anymore, you can’t be telling me what to do.”

There followed a few minutes of Bartholomew trying not to panic, coupled with a certain amount of hand-wringing, as he attempted to calm his barmaid, assuring her that he didn’t mean to sound as though he was giving her orders, and that The Squid would not be the same without her. When sufficiently placated, Philomena immediately withdrew her resignation, mentally putting herself in charge of the forthcoming adventure.

Once they had retired to the snug of The Squid and Teapot, Philomena began making plans and writing a list of things they would need on their expedition into, what she had already named, The Underland. The attics would have to be ransacked for sturdy boots, helmets, candle-powered head-torches, lengths of rope, various items of weaponry, waterproof clothing, knapsacks, grappling hooks, crampons, carabineers…

“Hold on, just for a minute,” cautioned Bartholomew, treading carefully in case he upset her again. “Maybe, before we load ourselves down with too much equipment, most of which I’m not sure we have anyway, should we just do a reconnaissance with a couple of candle-lanterns?”

Philomena looked disappointed, then Bartholomew had a flash of inspiration.

“If we took Drury along with us, he could sniff out any danger and give us plenty of warning.”

The barmaid brightened at the prospect of her best friend, the skeletal hound, joining their party.

“Well, you can count me out,” said Ariadne, who had been minding the inn while the unearthing of The Underland had been taking place. “I have no wish to go delving about in the bowels of the earth. Anyway, somebody has to look after The Squid while you lot are off enjoying yourselves.”   

 Her light tone belied the worry behind her eyes.

The following morning found Bartholomew, Norbert and Philomena, with candle lanterns held high and Drury rattling happily at the head of the procession, intrepidly descending the steep stone steps, into the stygian gloom of The Underland…

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Secrets of the Squid

Leave a comment

Norbert Gannicox and Bartholomew Middlestreet appeared to be transfixed by the key that Norbert had placed upon the bar of The Squid and Teapot. It was ornate, obviously old and, until that morning, had spent the previous half-century or more hidden in a damp cupboard, in a dusty corner of the Gannicox Distillery. The box in which the key had been found also contained a mysterious letter, signed by Sebastian Lypiatt (a previous landlord of the inn), who had suggested that it would be preferable for ‘the item’, as he called it, to be kept anywhere other than The Squid and Teapot, and asking Solomon (Norbert’s grandfather) to do the decent thing, and hang on to it.

It was Philomena Bucket who broke the spell, mopping up puddles of spilt beer and rearranging the dust on the floor with a sweeping brush.

“What’s that old thing you’ve got there that’s causing so much interest? “she enquired, casually brushing a shower of pastry crumbs over Norbert’s boots.

“It’s a key to a door we don’t seem to have,” replied Bartholomew, shaking his head. “I know every door in this inn, and I also know what every key to every door looks like, and none of them look like this one.”

“Then maybe it doesn’t belong here at all,” declared Philomena, then added, jokingly, “unless, of course, you’ve not yet found the secret doorway that leads to a treasure chest.”

“I can’t imagine that,” said Bartholomew, although the sudden enthusiastic look on his face told Philomena and Norbert that he certainly could imagine it, and the prospect excited him no end.

“Well, if you don’t look you won’t find anything,” said Philomena, philosophically. “I don’t mind having a poke about, up in the attics, if you like.”

The truth of the matter is that Philomena enjoys nothing more than rummaging around in the attics of The Squid and Teapot, so this was not too arduous a chore for her.

“Yes, alright, if you’re sure, but that’s a big space to cover on your own,” said Bartholomew.

Just then his wife, Ariadne, wandered in and was immediately press-ganged into helping.

“If you two take a look in the attics, Norbert and I will see if there are any secret doors in the cellar,” said Bartholomew, adding pessimistically, “but I don’t expect we’ll find anything.”

The Squid and Teapot is one of the oldest buildings on the island of Hopeless. Originally thought to have been a church, and constructed long before the founding families arrived here, it has changed in shape, size and purpose considerably during its lifetime. Over the years it has been the subject of several building projects, leaving it both impressive in appearance and somewhat eccentric in design.  The inside of The Squid, as it is affectionately known, is no less remarkable. While its cellars contain as many barrels of alcohol as the Ebley Brewery and Gannicox distillery are able to provide, plus anything else vaguely alcoholic that the tide brings in, the spacious attics are an Aladdin’s cave, filled with any spoils of the sea which, for now, are not required for use on the island.

While Bartholomew and Norbert peered and prodded behind the barrels in the cellar, Philomena and Ariadne busied themselves moving boxes away from the attic walls in the hope that they would find the elusive doorway. The light filtering through the small, grimy windows, however, was not particularly good, and their tallow candles illuminated little. It was beginning to look like a lost cause.

“Let’s take a break,” said Ariadne after an hour of fruitless searching, and flopped down on to an old sea-chest that they had found to be too heavy to pull from the far wall.

“What’s kept in there?” asked Philomena. “It looks old.”

“No idea,” replied Ariadne. “It has always been here, as far as I know. We’ve tried to open it in the past, but not even crowbars will prise the lid up. Sadly, it’s locked tight, and we haven’t got the key. “

A meaningful silence filled the room, and the two women looked at each other for what felt like an eternity.

“You don’t think…” said Philomena.

She said no more, but rushed down the stairs, grabbed the ornate key that was still sitting on the bar, and returned, red-faced and breathless.

“What kept you?” grinned Ariadne. She moved off the chest and, with trembling hands, Philomena put the key into the lock. She expected the mechanism to be stiff and unyielding but was surprised by the ease with which it turned.  Gingerly, as if she half-expected something to leap out and attack her, she lifted the lid and peered inside.

“What’s in there?” asked Ariadne, excitedly.

“Nothing at all,” replied Philomena.

“Nothing? Oh for goodness sake…” Ariadne began, but Philomena cut her short.

“No… it’s empty but it goes down forever. There’s a ladder inside and I can’t see the how far it is to the bottom.”

“I don’t understand,” said Ariadne, “how can the chest be bottomless?”

“Because it’s not a chest. Not a real one, anyway. It won’t come from the wall because it’s part of it, a small extension built to look like a sea-chest. It is a secret passage! Come on, let’s see what’s down there,” said Philomena.

“I’m not sure that I can…” said Ariadne, hesitantly.

“Well I will!” replied Philomena, “Give me a candle and hang around up here until you know that I’m safely at the bottom. Will you do that?”

Ariadne nodded, feeling feeble, but unable to face the challenge of a vertical ladder that seemed to descend into nothing but unfathomable darkness.

Philomena tied her skirt into a knot around her waist and put her foot on the top rung, quietly praying that rust had not attacked the metalwork. Ariadne looked on anxiously as her friend disappeared into the gloom.

The shaft was cold and narrow, little wider than the span of Philomena’s shoulders. The smoky candle barely pierced the darkness, which seemed to wrap itself around her like a blanket.

“Can’t be far now,” she thought to herself. Her senses, usually so acute, felt numbed and the short while that she had been on the ladder felt like an eternity. Then her feet touched the floor.

Philomena reached out and felt cold stone all around her. She told herself not to panic; if there was no way out, other than the way she had come, then she’d climb back up. She would be fine.  The problem was that she did not feel fine, encased in what felt like a stone sepulchre. She allowed the meagre light of the candle to play over the unremitting wall of granite, but found no sign of a means of egress, other than via the ladder.

She was about to turn back, ready to face the long and perilous climb to the top, when she noticed the flame waver, a tiny flicker that would have been easy to miss. Raising a pale finger, Philomena traced it against the stonework. There was a definite line to follow, just enough of a crack to allow the tiniest whiff of air to find its way through the otherwise solid wall.

“This must be a door,” she told herself, pushing at the wall, but nothing moved. The candle was almost spent and its flame was growing weaker by the second. Then it went out altogether.

“Blast! I give up,” she moaned, almost in tears, and reached for the ladder. Philomena, however, had lost her bearings in the darkness and instead of touching cold iron, she found her hand leaning against a stone projecting very slightly from the rest of the wall. There was a soft rumble, and a mechanism that had lain idle for at least fifty years was coaxed into life. A second or two later a narrow section of wall slid back, revealing Bartholomew and Norbert. They were happily perched on a couple of beer barrels, and enjoying a quiet pint of Old Colonel.

They stared in surprise at Philomena, who was suddenly conscious of her skirt knotted up around her waist and her pale, bare thighs on show, for all to see.

“Hello there, fellas,” she said, unabashed. “I could really use a drop of that stuff.”

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Key of Solomon

Leave a comment

For the past few years – in fact, ever since a copy of Mark Twain’s ‘Life on the Mississippi’ came ashore in an old sea-chest – the last Tuesday in every month has been designated as being ‘Poker Night’ in the snug of The Squid and Teapot. Don’t ask me why. There is no great significance to the last Tuesday in every month, except that it can never clash with Thanksgiving (which, except for the odd occasion, has been pretty much ignored on Hopeless, anyway).  Although not a particularly exciting affair, the small handful of islanders who choose to play always look forward to poker night as an opportunity to put on whatever passes as their finery; for a fanciful few hours they can imagine themselves gambling on a paddle-driven steamboat, like those so famously evoked by the aforementioned Mr Samuel Langhorne Clemens.

Norbert Gannicox is no exception to this unwritten rule, habitually donning his much-coveted (though slightly too-large and badly sea-stained) Stetson, frilly shirt (that buttons-up the wrong way, on account of it having belonged to his mother), and bootlace tie (made from a real bootlace). Cards in hand, he likes to sit and sip a sarsaparilla or two, for despite being the proprietor of the Gannicox Distillery, Norbert has made it a rule never to touch strong drink, after finding his father drowned in a barrel of moonshine. On the evening of this tale, however, Norbert was panicking. His bootlace tie was missing. He had looked in all of the usual places, turning out drawers and cupboards in desperation, completely forgetting that he had asked his wife to secure a particularly noisy copper pipe which had developed an annoying rattle during the distilling process. A handy bootlace did the job admirably, and, with the pipe firmly secured, the annoying rattle, along with Norbert’s Tuesday-night neckwear, became a thing of the past.

It seems to be a universal truth that, whenever something goes missing, the subsequent search turns up all manner of long-lost items, except the one thing that you have been looking for. Once treasured possessions, generally thought to have been spirited away to whatever place it is that odd socks, teaspoons, broken scissors and loose change are given to migrate, will miraculously appear in locations previously ransacked a dozen times. Invariably, when you eventually find these things, the moment has passed and they have no importance whatsoever in your life anymore. While Norbert’s search did, indeed, throw up all sorts of half-remembered treasures, the battered old tin box he discovered, sitting in the back of a damp cupboard, was completely unfamiliar, and somehow unsettling. The box was closed tight, a thick crust of red rust welding the lid firmly in place. There was no opportunity to prise it open just then, however. Norbert was all too aware that time was getting on, and soon Bartholomew Middlestreet, the inn’s landlord, would be shuffling his venerable pack of dog-eared playing cards in readiness for the evening’s entertainment.  All the same, all through the game his mind kept wandering back to the subject of the tin box, and he found it difficult to concentrate on his cards. Others noticed that he was distracted, and attributed this, and the fact that he had forgotten to wear his tie, to some temporary mental aberration, possibly caused by over-exposure to distillation fumes.

It was the following morning when Norbert eventually found time to get to grips with the box, spraying a fine patina of rust over himself in the process. His initial reaction, however, was one of disappointment; there appeared to be little of interest lurking within its depths. There were a few scribbled notes, all yellowed with age, that seemed to pertain to various, fairly primitive, methods of distillation. He found a letter addressed to Mr. Solomon Gannicox, of the New Gannicox Distillery, from Sebastian Lypiatt, whom Norbert knew to be a former landlord of The Squid and Teapot. There was also a somewhat unpleasant missive from someone called Reverend Crackstone, railing against the production of ‘The Demon Drink’. 

As Norbert lifted the pile of papers out of the box, an envelope dropped on to the table with a resounding clunk. The contents sounded far too heavy to be merely paper. Excitedly, and with trembling hands, Norbert carefully removed the envelope’s red waxed seal. To his surprise he found an iron key nestling inside. The key was obviously old and quite ornate, unlike any Norbert that had seen before. The tin box had clearly been the property of his grandfather, Solomon Gannicox, the founder of the distillery, but why or how Solomon had come in possession of the key was anyone’s guess, and, more to the point, where was the door that it could unlock? Maybe there was another clue that he had missed, hidden somewhere among his grandfather’s papers.

Looking again, and instantly dismissing Reverend Crackstone’s offensive tirade, Norbert noticed that the letter from Sebastian Lypiatt made some intriguing references to Solomon looking after ‘the enclosed item’ which, apparently, was deemed to be a far safer option than it being housed within the walls of The Squid and Teapot. The distiller’s heart missed a beat. This was it, here was the lead that he had been seeking. Although, by no means a fanciful man, Norbert felt that here was an adventure in the making. The riddle of the key of Solomon would only be solved when, with the help of Bartholomew Middlestreet, the location of the door, and whatever lay behind it, was discovered.

To be continued…

(Key by Matt Inkel)

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

The horrifying ladies in the night

Leave a comment

Mrs Beaten dreams of naked ladies. This is awkward because Mrs Beaten has never really seen any ladies who were naked. She has of course looked at her own body, occasionally, in stolen, furtive glances that do more to make her afraid than they do to answer curiosity.

She has some idea of what might occur beneath clothing. The stays and strings and pads and cages, the lobster pots. It would be more comfortable to assume that was everything, just layers of skirts and ropes and pulleys, and no flesh at all.

It’s that last layer that frightens her. The unspeakable, unseeable inside of a garment. Humans were not meant to be naked, she feels strongly. It isn’t natural, or proper.

In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, they come at night. Sometimes alone and pale and loitering. Sometimes with too many teeth in places surely teeth should not be? Some of them dance. Some of them wave parts of themselves around and Mrs Beaten does not know if those parts have names, or even if they are ordinary ladyparts to be possessed of.

In the daylight, she suspects the presence of demons, and murmurs her prayers and charms in the hopes of seeing them off. If all else fails, she gets another lobster pot to go inside her skirts. Somehow there is always room for one more.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Living in the Past

Leave a comment

You may remember that Durosimi O’Stoat’s failed experiment had sent young Freya Draycott hurtling back a thousand years in time, to a green and fertile Hopeless, where a peaceful Danish settlement flourished, and a loving family greeted her with open arms. No one, including Durosimi, had any inkling of where the child might be, but to save face he had fashioned a tableau of thought-forms to give the impression that, on returning to the orphanage, Freya had been lifted into the sky by a huge raptor.

Miss Calder, whose ghostly presence was crucial to the smooth running of the Pallid Rock Orphanage, was incensed regarding the disappearance of Freya. Although the orphan had certainly appeared to have been transported into the heavens by a bird of prey, Miss Calder was convinced that, somehow, Durosimi had a hand in matters, and her preternatural senses smelt a rat, or, in this instance, an O’Stoat. Her eyes were bright to the point of incandescence as she relayed the events of the day to her friends, Philomena Bucket and the ghost of Marjorie Toadsmoor, who both listened, appalled. Marjorie, one of the first women to be admitted to Oxford University, had helped at the orphanage both before and after her untimely death; it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do. At least, it seemed the most natural thing to do on the decidedly strange island of Hopeless, Maine.

Unlike Marjorie, Philomena was not familiar with the word ‘refulgent’. This is a pity, as it would have been useful later that day, when trying describe, to Ariadne Middlestreet, the strange light that had glowed in Miss Calder’s eyes. Whether Ariadne would have been aware of the meaning of the word is, of course, another matter.

“If the O’Stoats are involved – especially Durosimi – you’d be well advised to let things be,” said Ariadne, earnestly. “If Miss Calder wants to take him on, that’s up to her. After all, he can hardly kill her, can he? Whatever other horrors he could inflict on her, though, is anybody’s guess.”

“Yes, you’re right,” agreed Philomena, adding, “but you couldn’t help but love little Freya. I hope that she’s okay, wherever she is.”

Ariadne said nothing. If an overgrown hawk had really snatched the girl, she didn’t give a lot for her chances.

You or I, or indeed, Durosimi O’Stoat, might not know where to start in ascertaining Freya’s whereabouts. Not so, Miss Calder. For all of her attachment to the orphanage, she is, after all, a ghost and, by definition, inhabits a liminal landscape beyond our imagining, where the portal between life and death is a two-way door. It is a realm outside time and space as we know it. This is how she realised that Freya was still alive, for it was clear that the child’s shade had never walked those paths. It took a millennium of listening – a millennium condensed into mere seconds – for her to hear the voice of Helga, the vǫlva, the wise woman of the Danish settlement, welcoming Freya to her village.

It must be remembered that the role of the vǫlva, in Viking society, was much more than that of being a healer and herbalist; she was both revered and feared as a powerful shaman, intimate with the ways of the spirit-world. And so it was, while in a deep shamanic trance, that Helga sensed the presence of Miss Calder, probing the centuries with silver tendrils of esoteric energy, in her search for Freya. Spirit reached out to spirit and, without speech or language, Helga assured Miss Calder that the child was safe, well and very happy.

Miss Calder wasted no time in informing Reverend Davies of Freya’s fate. She was still angry, but grateful that no apparent harm had befallen the child. For his part, the Reverend had been adamant that he had no idea that Durosimi would use the girl in such a way, but that he would remonstrate with the man at the first opportunity. Being somewhat fearful of Durosimi, he effected this by asking Doc Willoughby to “have a quiet word with O’Stoat”.  The Doc, having scant desire to stir up trouble for himself, did little more than drop the issue into general conversation.

“I hear from Reverend Davies that young Freya has been deposited in the distant past,” Doc Willoughby told Durosimi. “Back to the Viking era, or so it appears.”

“Is that a fact?” replied Durosimi, seemingly unconcerned. “I don’t think you can put the blame squarely on my shoulders, Willoughby. After all, you were the one who brought her to me.”

“True… but I distinctly saw that huge bird take her away, and so did Reverend Davies and Miss Calder,” said the Doc, defensively. “It must have somehow dropped her through some wormhole to an earlier age. Obviously this is nothing to do with either of us.”

“Indeed,” agreed Durosimi. “These things happen.”

It was an hour later, after the Doc had left, that Durosimi allowed himself to think about the implications of that which he had done. He was not concerned about the orphan. There were more than enough of those already on Hopeless. Presumably the goat, his first subject, had been sent to that era as well. He was not too worried about that, either. What did give him pause for thought, however, was the half-dozen spoonwalkers that he had trapped and experimented with, while waiting for Freya to be delivered from the orphanage. It was safe to assume that they, too, had been transported to the Danish settlement. As far as he was aware, Hopeless at that time was free of the eternal fog and attendant horrors that haunted it now. It would seem, therefore, that those half-dozen spoonwalkers were, paradoxically, their own ancestors. If this was the case, and looking at things another way, had they not been sent there, no antecedents would have been in evidence to spawn future generations. This confusing state of affairs left Durosimi to conclude that spoonwalkers only existed on Hopeless today because he had sent six of the little nuisances back in time.

“I need a drink,” he thought to himself, massaging his head in an effort to make sense of things.

Meanwhile, and a thousand years earlier, Freya had been getting to grips with a new language, and doing well. Her skills were such that she fully understood when her adopted parents spoke in hushed tones about Lars Pedersen, the spoon-whittler. It seems that when he found that his stock of spoons and collection of gulls eggs had been stolen, he blamed a group of strange little demons that tottered around on stilts.

“Old Lars is definitely going crazy,” said Bendt to his wife, Sigrid. “Demons on stilts, indeed!”

Freya watched as Lars wandered blindly down the dusty road, as if in a trance. She knew all about spoonwalkers, and, like all of the orphans, was all too familiar with the legend of the ghostly Eggless Norseman of Creepy Hollow. Lars was not a ghost yet, she observed, but by the looks of him it would not be too long before he was. For one so young, Freya had a wise head on her shoulders, and decided that it would probably be best to keep this information to herself. After all, who would believe her? No, they would probably think that she was as crazy as Lars.