Category Archives: Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

It was a dark and stormy night…

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Story by Martin Pearson, festive tentacles by Nimue.

In these grey days, around the time of the winter solstice, it is no exaggeration to describe The Squid and Teapot as being a small oasis of hope in a grim and foggy landscape.  The inn invariably acts as a beacon to the good folk (and, it must be said, to some of the not-so-good folk) of Hopeless, Maine, and within its stout walls the troubled islanders can almost imagine themselves as being in a normal, albeit Dickensian, environment.

On the evening of our tale, business was brisk. Flickering candles, and lanterns exuding a gentle, amber light, glowed on every table, while a roaring log fire danced and crackled in the hearth. The bar and tiny snuggery of The Squid, packed with patrons, were bathed in a welcoming wash of gold that belied the horrors that lurked in every mist-strewn shadow beyond the walls. Safe within the inn, the air was filled with snatches of half-remembered songs and the hubbub of companionable conversation. Bartholomew Middlestreet, the landlord, made sure that the evening was fuelled with generous plates of Starry-Grabby Pie, washed down with copious amounts of Gannicox Spirit, foaming tankards of ‘Old Colonel’ ale and, not least, Reggie Upton’s home-made absinthe. One could almost be forgiven for thinking that nothing on earth could easily stop the flow of conversation and general bonhomie of this winter’s night – but one would have been wrong.

In the best tradition of well-worn clichés, the great oak door of The Squid and Teapot swung open dramatically, allowing a blast of cold air to send a flurry of snowflakes over the threshold, where they dissolved instantly. A sudden silence descended upon the revellers; heads turned, and every eye fell upon the dark shape silhouetted in the doorway. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop.

It was Reggie who broke the spell.

“My dear chap, I thought you were never going to get here.”

The newcomer stepped into the bar, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Rhys…?” It was Philomena Bucket’s turn to speak, apparently frozen to the spot with a tray of drinks expertly balanced on one hand.

A ripple of excitement swept through the room. It was Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man.

By necessity, Night-Soil Men have always been shadowy figures, rarely seen in the light, and then only from a distance. As is well known, the Night-Soil Man’s all-pervading reek routinely prevents people getting too close. There are exceptions of course; Reggie Upton suffers from anosmia – a total lack of any sense of smell – and had befriended Rhys, often accompanying him on his rounds. Philomena Bucket had been similarly afflicted when she came to the island, and Rhys had saved her from a gruesome end, wrapped in the deadly tentacles of some nameless creature. Philomena instantly fell in love with her rescuer, but their relationship was thwarted when an unexpected salt-water nasal douche, administered when she fell into the sea, loosened the deposits of grain in Philomena’s nose, instantly returning her olfactory senses to their original and efficient selves. On two previous occasions Rhys had attempted to give up his job, and both times things had gone horribly wrong, preventing the two from marrying. The likelihood of them setting up home together seemed ever more remote. Now, however, things had changed and Rhys had at last retired from his night-soil duties. He had subjected himself to a succession of baths, arranged for Reggie to secretly find him some clean clothes from the attics of The Squid, and summoned up his courage to re-join the daily life of the island.  

The former Night-Soil Man made his way through the back-slapping throng to where the love of his life stood, still poised, holding a drinks-tray aloft. More than one pair of ears strained to hear what endearments might pass between the two.

“You might have let me know,” said Philomena, testily. There was anger in her voice.

Rhys was taken aback.

“Let you know what?”

“That you had been feeding that elf fella; that Tomte, or whatever his name is.”

“The Tomte at old Blomqvist’s place? Yes, I’ve been looking after him, but what has he got to do with anything?”

“He’s cleaning our house,” said Philomena, exasperated.

“Our house? I had no idea,” said Rhys. “But if he’s cleaning it, isn’t that a good thing?”

“No it isn’t,” said Philomena. “I wanted it to be just for us, not some museum piece, looking just as the previous owner had left it, years ago.”

“But I couldn’t let him starve,” said Rhys. “Besides, a Tomte can get pretty nasty if they’re neglected. But I honestly had no idea…”

“Of course you didn’t,” snapped Philomena. “It was to be my surprise. A place of our own that I brought back to life myself. Now it’s ruined.”

Rhys looked crestfallen. This was not the welcome that he had expected.

“I am truly sorry,” he said, “but this need not stop us from moving in.”

“Not with him there,” said Philomena. “And I get the idea that his sort doesn’t take kindly to being shifted.”

“No…” conceded Rhys.

Philomena looked close to tears.

“There will be other houses,” said Rhys, “but at least we still have each other.”

With that he dropped to one knee and produced a small gold ring. It carried a crest which depicted a square and compass, and looked suspiciously like the signet ring that Reggie Upton had worn upon his little finger until very recently.

“Philomena Bucket…”

Before Rhys could utter the question, Philomena blurted,

“Of course I will, you dam’ fool!”

A rousing cheer rattled the windows of The Squid and Teapot. A pile of bones, seemingly discarded in the corner, shook themselves into the shape of Drury, who barked approvingly and wagged a bony tail.

“So when?” asked Rhys, happy at last.

“Next week. A Christmas wedding,” replied Philomena, who was even happier.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Housekeeper

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You may remember that an elderly and enigmatic resident of Hopeless, Herr Schicklegruber, disappeared under mysterious circumstances on December the fifth, a date which is not only St. Nicholas Eve, but also known as Krampusnacht (see the tale of that name). It is generally believed that Herr Schicklegruber was spirited away by Krampus, which is odd for two reasons: Firstly, the Krampus of legend usually focuses his dark attentions upon misbehaving children and, secondly, although the island is ripe with monsters of all descriptions, as far as anyone knows, this particular Christmas terror has never before been seen on Hopeless.

It has been speculated that Herr Schicklegruber, an Austrian gentleman, had somehow brought Krampus from his distant homeland, as part of his luggage, as it were. This is not beyond the realms of possibility, as the author Mr Neil Gaiman has so ably posited in his novel, ‘American Gods’.

I only mention this, as Rhys Cranham and Reggie Upton recently encountered a strange character who, it seems, came to the island under similar circumstances… but I am jumping ahead.

Regular readers will be aware that, at long last, Philomena Bucket is to marry Rhys Cranham, who will shortly be relinquishing his job as the island’s Night-Soil Man. This is only the second time in the history of Hopeless, Maine, that a Night-Soil Man has retired from his post, the first to do so being Randall Middlestreet, grandfather of the current Landlord of The Squid and Teapot, Bartholomew Middlestreet.

Having lived in The Squid and Teapot ever since her arrival on the island several years earlier, it seemed obvious to Philomena that the time had come to move on, and that she and Rhys should start their married life in their own home. This came as something of a shock to the Middlestreets, and the other resident, Reggie Upton, who expected the newlyweds to live at the inn. Philomena, however, was adamant, but promised that this was to be the only change; she would continue to act as cleaner, cook and barmaid at The Squid for as long as she was able.

“As long as you’re able?” asked Bartholomew, puzzled. “What does that mean?”

A flush came to Philomena’s pale cheeks.

“Well… you never know…” she said, not meeting his eye.

Bartholomew’s wife, Ariadne, gave her a knowing smile.

“If it should be that you cannot help us, be assured, we will certainly help you,” she said.

Bartholomew shook his head in bafflement. These women were talking in riddles as far as he was concerned.

“And when you move away,” he asked, trying to get back on to firmer ground. “Do you have anywhere in mind where you would like to live?”

“There’s an empty cottage out towards Scilly Point,” Philomena said. “No one has lived there for ages. I thought that we might go there.”

“Sven Blomqvist’s old home?” said Ariadne. “He died years ago. Long before you arrived here. It must be a damp and dusty old place after all of this time.”

“That can soon be put right,” Philomena said, confidently. “I haven’t actually been inside yet, but a bit of elbow-grease and a few fires and we’ll soon have it looking homely. In fact, I intend making a start before Rhys gives up his job next week. I want it looking nice for him.”

“I can help you,” said Ariadne, “and I am sure that Reggie will be more than happy to lend Bartholomew a hand while we’re away.”

The following morning the two women walked the half-mile or so to Scilly Point, armed with cleaning cloths and brushes, intent on bringing the abandoned cottage back to somewhere fit for human habitation. When they arrived there, and pushed open the front door, each was suddenly grasped by a feeling of trepidation, and looked anxiously inside.

The scene before them was not what either had expected.

“I think that I have made a mistake,” said Philomena. “Someone obviously lives here. Someone a darn sight tidier than me, too!”

The little parlour was scrupulously clean. Not a speck of dust or strand of cobweb could be seen.

“You don’t think that Mrs Beaton has moved in?” said Ariadne, worriedly. “I imagine that this is how her place must look.”

Philomena shuddered.

“If she has, I don’t want her finding us here… oh, but look… “

She pointed to a small bookcase.

“These books… they’re all in some foreign language,” she said.

“It’s probably Swedish,” said Ariadne, pointing to a map hanging on the wall, which proclaimed itself to be an accurate, if somewhat elderly, representation of Sweden.

“Mrs Beaton is definitely not Swedish,” said Philomena. “I don’t know anyone on the island who is, either.”

“Mr Blomqvist was,” said Ariadne.

That evening, when Rhys Cranham left his cottage to go to the bunkhouse and rouse his apprentice, Winston Oldspot, he noticed a letter pinned to his front door. In the light of his candle lantern he could just make out his name, written in a familiar hand, which made him smile. It was a note from Philomena. He took the paper to read indoors, where there was more light.

A knock came on the door.

“Are you ready, boss?”

It was Winston.

“Um… yes. Are you happy to go down to service the houses at Tragedy Creek?  I’ve got something to do over at Scilly Point. I’ll meet up with you later.”

Winston nodded, and left. He was a lad of few words, which was a common trait in Night-Soil Men.

Rhys had barely walked a dozen yards when Reggie Upton slipped out of the shadows. Rhys could have guessed that Philomena would have sent his old friend as moral support.

“Philomena told me about the Blomqvist house,” said Reggie. “It’s all very rum. Apparently the old chap’s been dead for years and his place looks like a palace.”

“Yes, she wrote to me. She thinks someone is living there,” said Rhys.

“I know,” said Reggie. “Then she felt guilty, worried that you’d be confronting heaven knows what. That’s why she asked me to join you.”

Rhys grinned as the old soldier brandished his sword stick menacingly.

The two men had only been standing under the trees for a few minutes when they heard signs of movement around the cottage; it was the unmistakable scrape of a tin bucket, and something being dragged over the cobbled pathway. Then, like something out of a child’s picture-book, a tiny man appeared around the corner, pulling a sack behind him. He was no more than a foot high. He was colourfully dressed, with a loose red cap covering his head, and a long grey beard that reached down to his belt.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie. “What the devil is that?”

“More of a who than a what,” corrected Rhys. “That little fellow is some sort of elf, and is the one responsible for the housework.”

“You honestly think that he’s an elf?” Reggie sounded incredulous. “They don’t exist – they’re the stuff of fairy tales.”

Rhys gave Reggie a long, hard stare.

“You have come to an island where werewolves, shapeshifters and all manner of night-creatures are commonplace, strange little critters totter about, using stolen cutlery for stilts, and you live in an inn where two of your fellow residents are ghosts. How is it that you can’t bring yourself to believe in elves?”

For once in his life Reggie had no answer, all he could say was,

“I’d better report back to Philomena.”

As is so often the case, the answer was discovered in one of the many encyclopaedias littering the attics of The Squid and Teapot.

“The creature is called a Tomte, apparently,” said Reggie, thumbing through a dusty old tome. “Some sort of Swedish gnome, by all accounts. Old Blomqvist must have brought him over in his luggage. It says here that as long as you leave food out for him, he’ll continue to help. The downside is, if he isn’t fed, then he will cause all sorts of trouble for you.”

“Marvellous!” exclaimed Philomena, with a frown. “An angry gnome is all that I need at the moment.”

“Well, he didn’t look as though he’s starving,” said Reggie. “So someone must be leaving food for him – and I have a suspicion that Rhys knows more than he’s saying.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Krampusnacht

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By Martin Pearson

Herr Schicklegruber had lived on Hopeless, Maine for a very long time. In fact, it was such a long time that Herr Schicklegruber, besides having no recollection of when he had first landed on the island, was equally vague regarding the how, or indeed, the why. This, in many ways, was unsurprising, as he was extremely old and his mental faculties were not as sharp as they might be.

It had always been his practice to keep himself very much to himself. He had no idea why this seemed like a good plan, only that somewhere, far back in the deepest recesses of his mind, something told him that it would be wise to maintain the lowest of low profiles. So aloof was he that no one on the island even knew his first name; in fact, it had been such an age since that particular appellation was used, Mr Schicklegruber had quite forgotten what it was himself. Accordingly, he had no friends, and few acquaintances, even of the most distant variety. He lived a simple, solitary existence, preferring to slumber in his armchair and dream dreams which were forgotten as soon as he awoke. Then one day, in a dream of his childhood, memories flooded back to him with crystal clear clarity.

In the days when he was a boy, Austria was a country steeped in folklore, with a peasantry who believed every word of it. In young Schicklegruber’s mind there strode a panoply of mythic characters, some beautiful, some scary, some both.  None, however, were more terrifying than Krampus.

Young Schicklegruber’s maternal grandmother had filled his head with tales of Krampus, the goat-footed, long-tongued monster; an ancient being who stalked the earth on St. Nicholas Eve, seeking out naughty children. Every child in the village secretly cowered beneath their blankets on that particular night, terrified that the monstrous creature would bind them in chains and haul them away in his sack, to meet some ghastly, but undisclosed, fate. Of course, this fear was unfounded for most, as they knew that deep down they were relatively good, and totally undeserving of any punishment that Krampus might choose to dole out. Young Schicklegruber, however, had no such illusions. He knew that he was bad to the bone.  Really, really bad. His father had told him as much, many times.

Herr Schicklegruber senior was a most unpleasant man, who treated his wife and children abominably, with beatings being a regular feature of family life. It is no wonder that Schicklegruber junior believed his father’s words, for when one’s days are viewed through such a prism, it becomes easy to suppose that such brutish treatment is an inevitable consequence of being a truly bad person. Yes, young Schicklegruber genuinely believed that if there was anyone deserving of Krampus’ displeasure, it was surely him.

The old man emerged from his slumbers and looked in confusion at the dying embers of the fire. Whatever was it that had made him have such a vivid and memorable dream? He had not thought about his childhood for years, much less the infantile fear of folkloric monsters. He sighed, then shuffled outside to his meagre woodpile, returning a few minutes later carrying an armful of dark, twisted sticks of wood. These would have to do until morning. A few flakes of snow were beginning to fall, and he had no intention of venturing out again tonight; besides, those thoughts of Krampus had made him feel distinctly uneasy.

Wrapped in the warmth of the newly-fed fire, Herr Schicklegruber drifted once more into a contented doze. All dreams of childhood had left him now, and it seemed that he was standing in his sitting room, but observing his sleeping self. It was an odd dream, to be sure. Then it became odder.

A long shadow fell across the doorway, and the suddenly familiar features of the monster that had haunted his every December towered over his sleeping body. The cruel horns, shaggy coat, cloven hooves and obscenely lolling tongue could only belong to…

“Krampus!” screamed the watching Schicklegruber, but his sleeping counterpart stirred not at all.

He watched in horror as the creature wound heavy chains around the figure in the chair, then threw him in a sack. Then Krampus turned to the watching Schicklegruber, looked him full in the eye, and said, in his father’s voice,

“It is time for a reckoning… and you have been such a wicked boy.”

Rhys Cranham wanted to be certain that his apprentice, Winston Oldspot, was ready to take on the mantle of a full-time Night-Soil Man. Rhys was planning to retire from the position very soon, and marry the love of his life, Philomena Bucket. The Schicklegruber house was one he visited but infrequently, but it was necessary that Winston was familiar with every dwelling on the island.

They were more than a little surprised to see that the door appeared to have been ripped off its hinges. The two Night-Soil men looked at each other, not knowing what to expect when they peered through the window of the tiny parlour. In the event, there was nothing to see, the room was empty, but every stick of furniture was broken, as though some great beast had ravaged it. There were drag marks on the ground and scrapes on the walls, as though huge claws had traced deep grooves into the stonework.

“I have seen some strange things while doing my rounds, but never anything like this before,” said Rhys. “We’ll take a look, but I don’t think that Mr Schicklegruber is here anymore. Something has taken him.”

As the pair walked back to the House at Poo Corner, Winston asked,

“Do you ever get used to these things?”

 “Not really,” said Rhys, “This one wasn’t so bad, though.  There was nothing gory to see.”

“It was still disturbing,” said Winston.

“They all are,” agreed Rhys.

“I’ll log it in the journal,” he added. “What’s the date?”

“December the fifth,” said Winston.

Rhys froze in his tracks. The date December the fifth rang distant bells… in fact Christmas Bells, and not pleasant ones.

Suddenly it came to him.

“Krampusnacht!” 

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

About Time

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Philomena Bucket and Reggie Upton were ransacking the attics of The Squid and Teapot, in an effort to find some fresh reading material for the hermit, Neville Moore. Neville, as you may remember, lives with his pet raven, Lenore, in a decrepit old mansion on a part of the island known as Ghastly Green.

“There are plenty of books,” declared Reggie, “but not a lot of what you might describe as light reading matter. There seems to be an endless supply of encyclopaedias, dictionaries and suchlike – even the odd grimoire or two – but very little that would entertain Neville for very long on a winter’s evening.”

“How about this one?” said Philomena. “It looks quite old… ah, but maybe not. It’s written in German, I think.”

“Let me see,” said Reggie, his curiosity whetted.

Philomena handed the old soldier the tome, heavy and dusty in its dark leather binding.

Reggie stared at the cover, then gently opened the book to view its first few pages.

For a brief moment a deep silence fell upon the room, until Reggie exclaimed,

“Good Lord.”

“Is there something amiss?” asked Philomena, worriedly.

“Good Lord,” said Reggie again.

“You have said that twice, now. Is there any chance that you might tell me what’s wrong?” Philomena insisted.

“Nothing wrong, m’dear. Just the contrary, in fact. This book, dear lady, is virtually priceless. It would realise a fortune at Sotheby’s.”

“And totally worthless on Hopeless,” reflected Philomena, drily. “But go on, anyway.”

“It is no less than a first edition of The Chemical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz, by Johann Valentin Andreae, published in 1616. How the devil did it get here?”

Reggie’s excitement was palpable, unlike that of Philomena.

“Oh, is that all,” she said, a little disappointedly. “So, who did this Christian fella marry, and what was chemical about it? Perhaps they meant to say that it was a comical wedding. I’ve been to a few of those.”

“No, Christian Rosenkreutz was a guest, not the bridegroom, but anyway, the book is an allegory. It isn’t about a marriage between people at all. It is all about alchemy.”

“Ah, like my old friend Doctor John Dee practiced,” she said, feeling on firmer ground now. “I wonder if he ever read the book, back in his study in England?”

“Sadly not,” said Reggie. “John Dee had been long dead when this book was published. In fact, it’s likely that some of his teachings inspired the work.”

Philomena’s face fell.

“It is weird to think that Doctor Dee has been dead for centuries,” she said. “It was only a few months ago that he was here with us.”

“Strange things seem to happen on Hopeless,” said Reggie. “I feel, sometimes, that this island defies all natural laws.”

Philomena fell silent, then said, hesitantly,

“On that subject, there is something I need to say, and you might find it a bit of a shock.”

“I doubt it m’dear,” replied Reggie, in avuncular tones.

“How old do you think I am?” she asked. “Go on, be honest. I won’t be offended.”

Reggie shuffled uncomfortably.

“Twenty-five, twenty-six…” he ventured, crossing his fingers behind his back.

“Not bad,” she grinned. “I’ll be thirty on my next birthday. So, in your opinion, in which year was I born?”

“One doesn’t have to be a genius to work it out,” smiled Reggie. “Eighteen-eighty-two, or three at the latest.”

“Not quite,” said Philomena. “Try seventeen-ninety-five.”

“Oh, come on,” said Reggie, suddenly a little afraid. “That is impossible. It would make you old enough to be my grandmother.”

Philomena said nothing, but took him by the arm and led him to a pile of encyclopaedias lying in a corner. She selected one, thumbed through the index and opened the book for Reggie to read the entry.

“Gosh,” he said with delight, “why, there is a photograph of The Titanic. I was supposed to board her, just before I was whisked off to this island. It looks as though it was taken before she docked in New York. Let me see, now…”

As he read the article in the encyclopaedia, Reggie’s face became paler and paler, and his jaw dropped open.

“She sank? But this cannot be…” he started to say, then Philomena handed him another encyclopaedia.

He scanned the page she had offered him, and his incredulity grew.

“I’ve missed a war,” he spluttered.

“At least one,” murmured Philomena.

“So what year is this, exactly?” Reggie asked, his voice trembling.

“I do not know, and besides, it doesn’t matter,” said Philomena. “Hopeless and Time seem to have a complicated relationship.”

Reggie flopped down on to a conveniently placed chair.

“I don’t know if I can cope with this, I need a drink,” he moaned.

“You always need a drink – and of course you can cope,” said Philomena. “Just look upon it as another of your adventures. One of the more unusual variety.”

Reggie puffed out his cheeks in exasperation.

“It is a lot to ask, m’dear, but it seems that you and I – and I suppose everyone else on this island – are stuck with this. As far as I can see, the whole issue appears to be about time.”

“Speaking of that, it’s about time we found some suitable reading matter for Neville,” said Philomena brightly, helping him to his feet. “Come on, we haven’t got all day.”

It was much later, when a pale moon was peering through the mist, that Reggie strode out to meet Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man. Having lost his sense of smell years earlier, he had no problem associating with Rhys.

“I have a package to deliver to Neville at Ghastly Green,” said Reggie. “We eventually managed to unearth a few books for him this afternoon.”

“That will cheer him up,” said Rhys, adding, “and I have a letter for you to deliver for me, please. Don’t worry, it won’t take you out of way; it’s for Philomena at The Squid.”

“I’d be delighted to,” said Reggie with a knowing wink.

The delivery to Neville went remarkably easily, with the raven, Lenore, displaying only the tiniest amount of malevolence, and hardly any violence, which made a refreshing change.

Having accompanied Rhys on his rounds, it was not until the very early part of the following morning that Reggie wandered wearily back to The Squid and Teapot, where he took care to leave the letter to Philomena on the kitchen table.

When he came downstairs a few hours later, he was surprised to see the barmaid sitting in the otherwise deserted snuggery, and staring into space as though stunned. In fact, the look on her face was not so different to the one that Reggie had worn when he had discovered how Time was playing tricks with the island.

“Are you quite well, m’dear?” he asked, concernedly.

“I think so,” said Philomena.

“And…?”

“It seems that Rhys has been training a new apprentice, and had decided not to tell me.”

“Is that so very bad?” asked Reggie, puzzled.

“Not really,” she replied. “But, on the strength of that, he is giving up Night-Soil work. He has asked me to marry him – again –  and promised that nothing can possibly go wrong.”

“And what is your response?”

Philomena looked at Reggie for what felt like an age, the faintest blush colouring her pale features.

Then she smiled.

“It’s about time!” she laughed.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Best Wood For Burning

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By Martin Pearson, illo by Nimue Brown

It was another of those bitterly cold November nights on the island of Hopeless, Maine; its only saving grace was that the cruel, blustery wind that had been raging for days was keeping the rain at bay.

The ferocity of the wind had even kept the regular patrons of The Squid and Teapot away from the inn, leaving only those who lived within its walls to enjoy the quiet camaraderie of the snuggery. There, Bartholomew Middlestreet and his wife, Ariadne, sat enjoying some slightly tipsy conversation with Philomena Bucket and Reggie Upton. Drury, the skeletal hound, slumbered contentedly before a flickering log fire that bathed the room in a rich chiaroscuro wash, rendering the little gathering into a study by Caravaggio.

“Dashed weather,” complained Reggie. “Is this blasted wind ever going to stop? I haven’t been out for a stroll for ages.”

“Moan all you will, but it’s an improvement on last November, “said Philomena. “Do you remember, Ariadne?”

The landlord’s wife nodded.

“We had so much rain that it flooded one of the privies at the orphanage, and brought down the wall,” she said. “It couldn’t be mended until the rain stopped. I remember Reverend Davies commenting that it was hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain.”

Philomena scowled.

“The miserable old so-and-so had the gall to blame me for the weather. He said it was divine retribution for bringing Dr Dee to the island.”

Reggie nearly dropped his tankard of Old Colonel.

“So you were responsible for bringing the alchemist, John Dee, here?” he said. “I know that this island is rum beyond words, but how on earth did you…?”

“It’s a long story,” interrupted Philomena. “Remind me to tell you sometime.”

(Author’s note: For those – and there must be many – who have no idea to what Philomena and Ariadne were referring, they could do worse than look at the tale ‘November Rain’, and any one of several tales in which John Dee has featured, beginning with ‘The Visions of Doctor Dee’)

“Well, let’s be thankful that the bad weather is outside, and we are in here, snug and warm,” said Bartholomew. “I think I’ll put another log on the fire.”

“It’s a jolly good blaze,” observed Reggie.

“So it should be; it’s seasoned ash wood, and burns well,” said Bartholomew. “Seth Washwell lets me have all of the ash off-cuts from the sawmill.”

“Oh yes… now you mention it, I remember hearing that some types of wood make better fires than others,” said Reggie.

“Oh yes,” said Bartholomew, “I’ve learned, over the years that you have to be careful what you’re burning.”

“When I was a girl, Granny Bucket taught me a rhyme about the various types of wood, and what they’re good for.” said Philomena, wistfully.

“Do you remember any of it?” asked Ariadne, more out of politeness than anything else.

“As a matter of fact I do,” said Philomena and, assuming that Ariadne’s question meant that everyone was keen to hear the rhyme, cleared her throat, and began:

“Oak logs will warm you well,
If they’re old and dry.
Larch logs of pine will smell,
But the sparks will fly.

Beech logs for Christmas time,
Yew logs heat you well.
‘Scotch’ logs it is a crime,
For anyone to sell.

Birch logs will burn too fast,
Chestnut scarce at all.
Hawthorn logs are good to last,
But cut them in the fall.

Holly logs will burn like wax,
You should burn them green,
Elm logs like smouldering flax,
No flame to be seen.

Pear logs and apple logs,
They will scent your room,
Cherry logs across the dogs,
Smell like flowers in bloom

But ash logs, all smooth and grey,
Burn them green or old;
Buy up all that come your way,
They’re worth their weight in gold.”

“Well remembered m’dear,” said Reggie, applauding. “And dashed useful to know, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“But what’s all that about cherry logs on the dogs,” asked Ariadne. “I don’t think Drury would be too pleased about that.”

“It’s the fire-dogs,” said Bartholomew, pointing to where the logs were blazing in the hearth. “Like those iron brackets supporting the grate; they’ve been sitting there since before my grandfather’s time.

“I notice that your rhyme didn’t mention elder wood,” said Reggie. “I have heard that there are lots of superstitions surrounding it.”

“And well founded, too,” said Bartholomew, settling himself down to tell a tale. “Back in the early 1800s, old Corwen Nailsworthy was the community’s apothecary, vintner, distiller and guardian of a little copse of elder trees that grew on the edge of the common. These trees were the source of many of Corwen’s remedies and were hardy enough to put up with the climate. The blossom alone would provide folks with elderflower wine, cordial, tea and when flour was available, fritters. When the flowers were applied to the skin they could help with joint pain, and elderflower water soothed sore eyes. Of course, the ripe berries could be made into elderberry wine, port and syrup for all to enjoy. In one way or another the elder is the most miraculous of all trees, given what it provides.”

“Then why the poor reputation?” asked Reggie, puzzled

“Well, superstitious folks would say that it’s to do with witches, and suchlike,” replied Bartholomew, giving Philomena an awkward sideways look. “There’s more to it than that, though, as Corwen found out.”

Confident now that he had their full attention, Bartholomew took a swig of ale, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and began:

“There was a shipwreck one winter, and half-a-dozen sailors survived and made their way ashore. They were ruffians to a man, and took over a deserted cottage near the common. It wasn’t long before they started stealing and bullying without a second thought. Things came to a head when they cut down one of Corwen’s elders to use as firewood. He begged them not to, told them it didn’t burn well and warned that anyone who tried would find themselves cursed. Of course, they laughed at him and said that they would be back the next day for more. As you can imagine, Corwen was terrified; what could he do against men like that? The next day came and went, and they didn’t return. After a week Corwen plucked up the courage to go to their cottage, hoping that they had left. When he arrived there he found that the doors and windows were sealed in ice, and he could just make out, through the glass, six dead bodies sprawled all around, their faces horribly contorted and discoloured. It seemed as though the curse had taken them, after all.”

“There must be an explanation,” said Reggie uncertainly. He had seen enough strange sights in his army career in India and Africa to know that this was not always the case.

“Oh, there is,” said Bartholomew, then paused for dramatic effect.

“Tell us then,” said Philomena, impatiently.

“Cyanide,” said Bartholomew. “When elder burns it gives off cyanide poison. In their sealed up cottage those sailors signed their death warrants as soon as they decided to set the wood alight.”

“I’ll wager that’s caught many a poor peasant out in days gone by,” said Reggie. “All the superstition that grew up around it at least deterred people from burning it.”

  “But don’t write superstitions off,” warned Philomena. “After all, this is Hopeless.”

As she spoke, the ghost of Father Stamage drifted through the room, on his way to meet Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless Lady, who haunted the flushing privy.

 The others could only nod in silent agreement.

Author’s note: The full story of Corwen Nailsworthy and his trees can be found in the tale ‘The Elders’.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Scrabble

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By Martin Pearson

Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, could not help but smile to himself as he watched a flickering light dance gracefully along the pathway towards The Squid and Teapot. Even if the church clock had not chimed the hour, he would have known that it was 3a.m. on a Tuesday morning, the time when Miss Calder, the ghostly matriarch of the Pallid Rock Orphanage, made it her business to call upon Lady Margaret D’Avening and Father Ignatius Stamage. With her head tucked underneath her arm, Lady Margaret haunts the stonework of the inn’s flushing privy, and Father Stamage haunts his hat, which usually hangs on a hook nearby. As such, the pair are considered to be The Squid’s resident ghosts. Miss Calder, on the other hand, is free to wander wherever she wants, and feels it her duty to keep the island’s other, less mobile, ghosts up to date with the current gossip. Come Hell or high water (and this is meant literally when speaking of Hopeless, Maine), The Squid and Teapot’s allotted hour for her to visit is carefully diarised for 3a.m. on a Tuesday morning.

“Being a ghost takes some getting used to,” complained Father Stamage.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” said Miss Calder. “There are a lot of advantages. Being able to walk through walls, not needing to sleep, or eat… “

“But I enjoyed eating and sleeping,” replied the priest, testily. “I also enjoyed being with people and playing games.”

“You really played games?” broke in Lady Margaret, nearly dropping her head in surprise. “Football and tennis, and suchlike?”

“When I was younger,” Stamage admitted. “But I’m thinking of things a little more sedentary, like chess and Scrabble.”

“Whatever is Scrabble?” asked Miss Calder. “It sounds to be a very disorganised sort of game.”

“Not at all. Let me show you a Scrabble board,” he said, screwing his face up in concentration.

As you may be aware, ghosts have a natural gift of telepathy, and are able to project their thoughts to other ghosts.

Instantly the two ladies were seeing a rectangular board divided into a grid pattern. Miss Calder counted fifteen rows of fifteen squares. Although most squares were grey, for reasons as yet beyond her understanding, others were shaded pink, blue and red.  

“Then we have little tiles with letters,” said the priest, “and we take turns to make words.”

“Well, this all sounds fairly simple,” said Miss Calder, reassuringly. “I am sure that we could arrange for someone to make you a set.”

“Which would be just fine, if I could only pick the tiles up,” said the priest irritably, passing his hand through the wash basin to prove his point.

“Then you need someone to do it for you, silly,” said Lady Margaret. “Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezey.”

Ignatius Stamage and Miss Calder looked at each other in dismay. Where on earth did Lady Margaret pick up these irritating sayings? 

It was just a few days later that Philomena Bucket presented Father Stamage with his Scrabble game. Following Miss Calder’s instructions, she had painted a very credible likeness of a board on to a folding card-table, and Seth Washwell, proprietor of Washwell & Sons Foundry and Sawmills, had been persuaded to make one hundred little square tiles, upon which Philomena had inscribed the letters of the alphabet, leaving two blank.

“That’s amazing,” said Father Stamage. “Why you’ve even got the letter values and distribution right; twelve As, 6 Ns, three Gs and so forth.”

“It’s written on the side of the board,” said Philomena. “You remembered it well.”

“So I should. I have played the game often enough,” he replied. “But who will be playing on my behalf?”

“Septimus said that he would place the tiles for you, if you tell him what letters to put down. I’ll play for Miss Calder, and Reggie Upton is intrigued by the whole thing, and said that he had never seen anything like it, and would like to take part.”

It is one of those interesting quirks of time that exists on Hopeless that, although Father Stamage came to the island some months before Reggie, his era was somewhat later. You may recall that Reggie – or Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton, as he was then known, was waiting to board the RMS Titanic when he found himself whisked away to Hopeless, fortunately with a well-stocked travelling trunk to keep him company. That would have been in 1912, over twenty years before Scrabble was invented.

All was going well, until the inevitable disputes arose regarding the authenticity of various words. Miss Calder had instructed Philomena to put down the letters ‘NON’. Reggie immediately challenged the word saying that it was not valid and certainly not included in the only dictionary that was immediately available. Philomena pointed out that the book was ancient and intended for use in schools, but Reggie would have none of it. Then Septimus, surprisingly, came to Miss Calder’s defence.

“It is one of Mirielle’s favourite words,” he said, ruefully. “It is definitely something that is said a lot on Hopeless, especially in our house, so it ought to be included.”

After a certain amount of harrumphing from Reggie it was decided to allow NON.  After all, he reflected, it only gave Miss Calder and Philomena a miserly three points, so where was the harm?

Reggie’s next move was to put the word IBEX in the top corner. The letter I was already in place, so the triple word score had gone. However, the X fell upon a double word score, giving him a moderately satisfying twenty points.

By now the game was almost over and, although the scores were close together, Reggie looked certain to romp home to victory.

“I think we’re just about done,” said Septimus. “Me and the Father have only got vowels left to play.”

The ghost of Father Stamage winced at Septimus’ bad grammar, then smiled, raised a finger and said,

“We are not finished yet, lad. Put these letters down…”

Following the Jesuit’s instructions, Septimus put an E between the X of IBEX and the word NON, which was immediately below.

“XENON. Very good,” conceded Reggie, with a twinkle in his eye, “but a score of twelve won’t be quite enough to beat me.”

“Hold on,” said Septimus, “there is more to come – and then we’ll be out.”

He proceeded to follow the first E with UOUAE.

“EUOUAE? What on earth is that supposed to be?” asked Reggie.

“You-wah-wee,” enunciated Father Stamage, “It is a perfectly legitimate word, old chap.” 

“Absolute balderdash!” exclaimed Reggie. “You have just made it up.”

“How dare you,” said Father Stamage, angrily. “I am – or was- a man of the cloth. I would never…”

“Then what does it mean? Go on, tell me.” Reggie’s face was becoming flushed.

Philomena and Miss Calder wisely stayed out of the altercation.

“It is a musical mnemonic used in Latin psalters,” said Father Stamage, adding triumphantly, “and I should know!”

“But.. but..” spluttered Reggie, but before he could say another word, the door burst open and Drury raced in, dragging a sheet that he had found hanging a little too low on the washing line. As the skeletal hound charged by he knocked over the table and the Scrabble pieces flew across the room.

Strangely, no one seemed too upset that Drury had ruined their game. Indeed, his intervention had diffused the situation.

“Ah well, that can’t be helped,” said Reggie, his face going back to its natural pallor. “Shall we call it a draw?”

“A draw it is,” said Father Stamage, receding into his hat, and the quiet of the hallowed corridors of his old Alma Mater, Campion Hall.

“A draw? Definitely,” said Philomena, adding, under her breath, “Good old Drury!”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Strange Visitor

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Story by Martin Pearson, ghost of Lady Margaret D’Avening by Cliff Cumber

The snuggery of The Squid and Teapot glowed in the cosy warmth of a blazing log fire. It was the end of a long and tiring day, and the landlord, Bartholomew Middlestreet, was glad to take the weight off his feet. He was sitting with his wife, Ariadne, and their friends, Philomena Bucket and Reggie Upton, who both lived at the inn. Drury, the skeletal hound, had invited himself in, and was snuffling and snoring on the fireside rug. Bartholomew could not have felt happier. In such cordial company, generously lubricated by a few tankards of ‘Old Colonel’, even the miserable climate of the island and its attendant horrors could be forgotten for a few hours.

“Gosh!” exclaimed Reggie Upton, “it is the end of October already. Do the islanders usually celebrate Halloween?”

Ariadne laughed derisively.

“What would be the point?” she asked. “It’s Halloween every day on Hopeless.”

“Yes, but you know what I mean,” said Reggie. “People have always liked to sit around a roaring fire and tell scary stories at this time of year.”

“I saw the makings of a good scary story yesterday,” broke in Philomena. Her voice was a little slurred. “Father Stamage climbed out of his hat, yawned, scratched his arse, then went back to bed.”

It was not particularly funny, but everyone laughed. Even Drury managed to emerge from his slumbers sufficiently to wag his bony old tail.

“Steady on,” said a voice. “I might be dead but I am certainly not deaf.”

An annoyed Father Stamage had thrust his ghostly head through the wall.

“And for your information,” he added, crossly, “I have never knowingly scratched my… scratched myself in front of a lady.”

“Ah, go on with you, Father,” said Philomena, ignoring the priest’s displeasure. “Aren’t you ghosts supposed to be celebrating, or something, this evening?”

“The only celebrating I will be doing,” said Stamage, imperiously, “is Mass, with Lady Margaret.  It’s All Hallows Day tomorrow and it’s only a pity that we have to mark the occasion in the privy.”

Lady Margaret D’Avening, also known as the Headless White Lady, famously haunted the stones that had been used to build the inn’s flushing privy, and was not able to venture very far from them.

“I could prise out a block for her to haunt, and put it somewhere more appropriate,” offered Bartholomew.

“It is not worth your trouble,” said the ghostly Jesuit, the landlord’s generosity driving all annoyance from his voice. “Besides, I think Lady Margaret feels at home in the privy. She doesn’t enjoy travel very much.”

With that Father Stamage disappeared, probably to return to the comfort of his hat – his beloved Capello Romano – and once more wander the hallowed corridors of his old alma mater, Campion Hall, in Oxford.

“Well, as far as I am concerned Halloween wouldn’t be the same without a ghostly story or two. Does anyone know any? – and I mean real stories this time,” said Reggie markedly, eyeing Philomena.

The barmaid smiled mischievously and said,

“Well, I do… but it’s more of a poem really, I suppose, called The Strange Visitor. Granny Bucket taught it to me years ago.”

“Let’s hear it, then” urged Ariadne.

Philomena settled herself into her seat, and began, her Irish lilt becoming broader and more pronounced with each word. She spoke slowly, and as the verse progressed, the fire seemed to die down a little, and shadows gathered around her.

“A woman was sitting at her reel one night;
And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.

In came a pair of broad, broad feet, and sat down at the fireside;
And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.

In came a pair of small, small legs, and sat down on the broad, broad feet;
And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.

In came a pair of thick, thick knees, and sat down on the small, small legs;
And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.

In came a pair of thin, thin thighs, and sat down on the thick, thick knees;
And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.

In came a pair of huge, huge hips, and sat down on the thin, thin thighs;
And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.

In came a wee, wee waist, and sat down on the huge, huge hips;
And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.

In came a pair of broad, broad shoulders, and sat down on the wee, wee waist;
And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.

In came a pair of small, small arms, and sat down on the broad, broad shoulders;
And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.

In came a pair of huge, huge hands, and sat down on the small, small arms;
And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.

In came a small, small neck, and sat down on the broad, broad shoulders;
And still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.

In came a huge, huge head, and sat down on the small, small neck.

‘How did you get such broad, broad feet?’ quoth the woman.
‘Much tramping, much tramping’.

‘How did you get such small,  small legs?’
‘Aih-h-h!–late–and wee-e-e—moul’.

‘How did you get such thick, thick knees?’
‘Much praying, much praying’.

‘How did you get such thin, thin thighs?’
‘Aih-h-h!–late–and wee-e-e–moul’.

‘How did you get such big, big hips?’
‘Much sitting, much sitting’.

‘How did you get such a wee, wee waist?’
‘Aih-h-h!–late–and wee-e-e–moul’.

‘How did you get such broad, broad shoulders?’
‘With carrying broom, with carrying broom’.

‘How did you get such small, small arms?’
‘Aih-h-h!–late–and we-e-e–moul’.

‘How did you get such huge, huge hands?’
‘Threshing with an iron flail, threshing with an iron flail’.

‘How did you get such a small, small neck?’
‘Aih-h-h!–late–wee-e-e–moul’.

‘How did you get such a huge, huge head?’
‘Much knowledge, much knowledge’.

‘What do you come for?’

Before Philomena was able to deliver the last line, a wailing banshee emerged from the chimney, burst into the snuggery and screamed at the top of her voice,

“I HAVE COME FOR YOU!”

Everyone quailed visibly and drew back; even Drury yelped in alarm and slunk into the corner.

“For goodness sake Granny,” shouted Philomena, “that is not funny.”

“Oh, I think it is” cackled the ghost of Granny Bucket. “You should see your faces.”

“My dear Mistress Bucket,” said Reggie, regaining his composure and straightening his regimental tie. “Another shock like that and I’ll be a ghost myself.”

“Then I think you all need another drink,” laughed Granny. “I only wish that I could have one meself. Happy Halloween, everybody.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Charlatan!

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By Martin Pearson

Had this latest half-dozen ‘Tales from the Squid and Teapot’ been a Netflix mini-series, not only would I be extremely rich, but each episode would have been prefaced with the words ‘Previously on…’, based upon the assumption that even the most dogged follower might have lost the thread (and indeed, the will to live) after such a long and rambling plot. So…

In previous tales it was revealed that the sorcerer, Durosimi O’Stoat, using a mixture of drugged ale and magic, had enslaved six young men in order to shift enough rocks to re-open the route to The Underland. Only Septimus Washwell had escaped, due mainly to the fact that he had, as a gesture of solidarity with his wife, given up alcohol for the duration of Mirielle’s pregnancy. While the other slaves toiled, zombie-like beneath the earth, Septimus returned to his family and friends, having no idea as to where he had been.

It was fortunate – albeit temporarily –  for the five remaining slaves that Trickster, in the guise of a huge, demonic toad, decided to seriously upset his old sparring-partner, Durosimi. That was how The Lost Boys, as we will now call them, escaped Durosimi’s power, to be hospitalized at the Orphanage until they recovered what was left of their wits.

Durosimi, fearing the consequences of the islanders of Hopeless learning the full extent of his treachery, decided to put an end to his erstwhile slaves. When the Lost Boys were walking along the beach, returning to the dubious comforts of ‘The Crow’, he conjured a thick and mysterious fog that seeped into their very souls, and served to lure them into the arms, not to say teeth, of some particularly vicious, but vocally pleasing, sirens.

Septimus, meanwhile, had found an unlikely ally in Trickster, who by now had possessed the body of one Erasmus Cam, the son of a wealthy merchant who lived in Newhaven, Connecticut. Make no mistake, Trickster’s apparent altruism had little to do with Septimus’ welfare, and everything to do with the long-running cat-and-mouse game that he was playing with Durosimi. Posing as a stage hypnotist, Trickster/Erasmus agreed to hypnotize Septimus and bring his memory back… and now you are up to date.

Septimus gazed into the mesmeric eyes of Erasmus Cam and thought to himself,

“This is definitely not going to work.”

“Yes it is,” said Trickster, quite forgetting that the owner of his current meat-suit was not supposed to be telepathic.

Suddenly panic-stricken that the elegant young man standing in front of him was able to dredge the darkest depths of his psyche, Septimus immediately resolved to try and not think of anything remotely embarrassing or intimate. As most will realise, such a resolution is worse than useless, and his mind was suddenly awash with a plethora of words and images that would have made a sailor blush. As it happened, these things meant nothing to Trickster, who had been present at the fall of Sodom and Gomorrah, witnessed the worst excesses of the Roman Empire, slyly drifted through the caverns of the Hell-Fire Club, and attended several clandestine parties in Number 10, Downing Street.

Trickster was sure that it would be something of a fait accompli that Septimus would succumb to his hypnotism. After all, he had been around for eternity in various forms, and had confounded thousands, from the legendary Herakles to England’s King George lll. But something was not right. Either Septimus was unusually resistant to his powers, or this latest form he had taken, the meat-suit called Erasmus Cam, was beginning to falter already. So much for good looks and elegance! It was suddenly apparent that Erasmus was much weaker than Trickster had expected. He was even frailer than Mozart had been! Trickster had to get this hypnotism thing over and done with as quickly as possible, before the wretched creature fell to pieces entirely, which would be embarrassing, to say the least.

“You are getting sleepy… listen to my voice,” croaked Erasmus, in increasingly weakened tones.

“Nothing is happening yet,” said Septimus.

“Pah! I think that you are no more than a charlatan,” chirped in Mirielle, who had been standing in the shadows.

In his haste to get the job completed while Erasmus was still able to stand, Trickster had quite forgotten that Septimus had brought his wife along for moral support.

“No, no, it won’t be long now,” Trickster gave what he imagined to be a reassuring smile through Erasmus Cam’s rapidly sagging face muscles. “Nearly there… Septimus, you are getting sleepy…”

“No, sorry. I don’t think I am,” declared Septimus.

“Oh, for goodness sake!” snapped Trickster, losing his temper.

“Charlatan!” repeated Mirielle, “Come on Septimus, we have wasted far too much time here,” and with that, bundled her husband out through the door.

Trickster could only look on helplessly as the last few vestiges of strength left his meat-suit and, falling to the ground, Erasmus Cam was no more.

A moment later an opportunistic crow flew down, aiming to assess how many meals the human might provide before it was taken away.

Seizing his chance, Trickster evacuated the corpse of Erasmus and slipped into the crow. It would not provide a feathery meat-suit for very long, but would, at least, give him the opportunity to fly to some other part of the island, where he could find a new host.

“That poor young man,” said Philomena Bucket. “He survived a shipwreck, only to die unexpectedly a few days later. I wonder what the cause was.”

“We shall never know,” said Reggie Upton. “In the midst of life we are in death, and all that.”

Philomena nodded.

“It seems that Mirielle and Septimus were talking to him just a short while before he died,” she said. “They both said that he was acting strangely.”

“If everyone who acted strangely on Hopeless keeled over and died, the island would be empty in a week,” observed Reggie with a wry smile.

“It is a mystery what happened to those five lads,” said Doc Willoughby, eyeing his empty glass. “They were walking the coast path to The Crow one minute, and gone the next.”

“I imagine that they were probably swept away by a freak wave,” said Durosimi unconcernedly, pouring the Doc another generous glug of single-malt. “These things happen. And what of young Washwell? Is he still suffering from amnesia?”

“It seems so,” said the Doc, “He even tried using a hypnotist, but the poor fellow died half-way through the procedure, or so I’m told.”

“How sad,” drawled Durosimi.

“Speaking as a medical man,” declared the Doc importantly, “I think that Washwell’s memory is gone for good.”

 “I sincerely hope so,” thought Durosimi, “for his sake and mine.”

It was the very end of October, and a bitter wind raged through the city of Newhaven, Connecticut. Jeremiah Cam sat at his desk in Hillhouse Avenue and re-read the letter for the hundredth time. It was creased and, in several places, fresh tear stains blotched the ink, but it did not matter. Jeremiah knew the words by heart.

My Dear Father,

It is, with a heavy heart, that I have to inform you that my physicians in Switzerland have confirmed that there is no known cure for my affliction, and that I should put my affairs in order with all haste.

In view of this, I have resolved to return home for the last time, and spend my remaining few months with you in Connecticut. At my demise I wish to be buried in the family plot, next to my darling mother.

I have contacted your employee, Captain Nathaniel Stonehouse, and he has promised me a berth in the schooner ‘Rosie’, which will be, I understand, carrying a cargo of barrels of English cider. The vessel is due to dock in Newhaven no later than mid-September.

Do not be despondent father, for I will have the compensation of sharing my final days in your company, which is worth more to me than a hundred years spent here in Europe.

September will soon be with us, and I look forward to our meeting, once more.

With fondest regards,

 Your loving son,

Erasmus.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Prestidigitator

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By Martin Pearson

“That young fellow,” declared Reggie Upton, “must have the luck of the devil himself.”

Philomena Bucket nodded in agreement.

“At least he survived the shipwreck, which no one else managed to do,” she said.

“And without a scratch,” said Reggie. “Why, even his clothes look as though they had been bought only yesterday.”

No one approved of good tailoring more than Reggie, but the well-dressed young man who had presented himself at the door of The Squid and Teapot, claiming to be the sole survivor of the recent catastrophe at Scilly Point, seemed almost too good to be true.

“Well, maybe he was just born lucky,” said Philomena. “Let’s just be thankful that things have turned out well for him.”

As related in the tale ‘Sea Fever’, the shipwreck, and the subsequent survival of the vessel’s only passenger, had been the handiwork of Trickster, and was all part of a plot to make Durosimi O’Stoat’s life totally miserable. While Durosimi would never win any prizes in a popularity poll, and had more than his fair share of dark secrets, the reason why Trickster was conducting a vendetta against him in particular is anybody’s guess. Trickster, of course, does not need a reason, and rarely has one. He would not be Trickster otherwise.

The well-dressed young man had introduced himself to all and sundry at The Squid and Teapot as one Erasmus Cam, prestidigitator and stage-hypnotist extraordinaire. As might be expected, this caused a small flurry of excitement among the patrons of the inn. While most had absolutely no idea what a prestidigitator is or does, the words ‘Stage-Hypnotist’ happily suggested the possibility of some distracting entertainment on the immediate horizon.  It would be an excuse to roll out the Edison Bell phonograph again, get Les Demoiselles Can-Canning, and persuade Bartholomew Middlestreet to crack open a fresh barrel of Old Colonel for the common good. This last matter usually involved a certain amount of negotiation, which invariably led to Bartholomew’s agreeing only on the condition that he and his wife, Ariadne, be allowed to perform their deathless, (and drastically cleaned-up for polite society) rendition of ‘Barnacle Bill the Sailor’.

Erasmus – who, of course, was Trickster, draped in his meat-suit – took little persuasion to take part in the event. This fitted his plans perfectly.

“It is, at times like this,” he mused, “that I really love the people of Hopeless, Maine.”

Whatever you may think of the strange ways of the islanders, there is no denying that these days they can arrange a concert at the drop of a hat. This, however, has not always been the case. It was the arrival of the Edison Bell phonograph, replete with a collection of wax discs, that gave them a glimpse of a world that few scarcely knew existed. Evenings of music, interspersed with poetry and monologues, soon formed a popular distraction from the horrors that abounded, and ‘Molly Malone’ became the unofficial anthem of the island, with its rousing refrain of ‘Alive, alive-o’. Later, when Les Demoiselles de le Moulin Rouge turned up on Hopeless, the entertainment stakes moved up a notch.  Their Can-Can, to the strains of Offenbach’s ‘Infernal Gallop’, inspired many to take up dancing themselves, and Les Demoiselles opened their famous dance studio to accommodate the growing demand. And now this latest arrival, a young man who claimed to be both a hypnotist and a prestidigitator (whatever that was supposed to be), promised to bring a real frisson of excitement to the proceedings in the town-hall.

The evening was not a disappointment. After the obligatory chorus of ‘Molly Malone’, Les Demoiselles changed the mood entirely, giving their usual spirited performance, even though their heavily pregnant leader, Mirielle, had been replaced by the unfortunately named Hilda Shambles. Hilda was an ex-orphanage girl who had been trained at the dance studio, and exhibited a rare talent for this particular variety of the Terpsichorean arts. Most anticipated, however, was the mysterious Erasmus Cam – or The Great Erasmus, as he styled himself that particular evening.

To the great relief of Philomena Bucket, Erasmus really seemed to be no more than a run-of-the-mill, second-rate illusionist, performing tricks with playing cards and silk scarves, which he drew from a borrowed top-hat. Given his miraculous escape from the shipwreck, Philomena’s fear had been that the young man possessed supernatural powers and had come to the island for nefarious purposes. Besides that, Drury, the skeletal hound, had taken an instant dislike to the magician and, unusually, had not come to the concert. Of course, the barmaid should have trusted Drury’s instincts,

Had it suited Trickster, Elephants could have materialised from thin air, dragons would have flown through the town-hall doors and angels and demons might have danced, hand in hand, to the strains of ‘Come Landlord Fill the Flowing Bowl’.  All that, however, would have been too much, and given the game away completely, for Trickster was not called Trickster for no reason. The biggest illusion that he pulled off that evening was to convince the audience that he was charming, good-natured and a very, very ordinary young man.

For the last part of his act, The Great Erasmus invited a member of the audience on to the stage, promising that he or she would be placed in a hypnotic trance. A grinning Norbert Gannicox swaggered up, confident that he was incapable of being hypnotised.

“I promise that I am not going to make you look foolish,” said Erasmus. “Instead I will regress you, and together we will dredge up memories from your very earliest childhood.”

Some of the audience looked crestfallen. They had hoped that Norbert might have been hypnotised into believing that he was a ballerina, or something equally undignified, and be forced to break into a pirouette or plie whenever he heard the word ‘rhubarb’.

The Great Erasmus was as good as his word, and before long the sceptical Norbert was reliving the events of fifty years earlier. This was so convincing that his elderly mother, who was sitting in the front row, was reduced to tears.

The evening ended, as usual, with another blast of the strangulated Irish tenor singing ‘Molly Malone’, via the miracle of the Edison Bell phonograph, and all that remained was to pack up, and for the audience to go home to their beds.

The Great Erasmus was stowing his playing cards and silk scarves safely in his borrowed top-hat when Septimus Washwell, nudged forward by his wife Mirielle, wandered up to him and shyly said,

“Erasmus, I wonder if you can help me, please?  I seem to have lost a couple of weeks of my life. Do you think that you would be able to help me get them back?”

Septimus was referring, of course, to the time not long ago, when he had been a slave, spell-bound and drugged, and in thrall to Durosimi O’Stoat.

Trickster shivered with delight in his meat-suit. That had been even quicker than he had hoped.

“Of course I will,” he smiled. “It would be a pleasure.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Sea Fever

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By Martin Pearson

Sea Fever

“I must go down to the sea again,

To the lonely sea and the sky.

And all I ask is a tall ship,

And a star to steer her by.”

Philomena Bucket looked at Reggie Upton in surprise.

“Did you make that one up yourself?” she asked, admiringly. “It’s very good.”

“Good Lord, no” laughed Reggie. “It’s by a young chap named Masefield. He’s a bit of a poet who once persuaded me to buy a copy of one of his books. It was called ‘Salt Water Ballads’, and was full of that sort of thing. That particular poem came to mind after I saw the sailing ship that had floundered on the rocks, down by Scilly Point, yesterday.”

“Oh yes, I heard about that,” said Philomena. “Do you know if there were any survivors?”

“None that I have heard about,” replied Reggie, sadly. “I am fairly sure they would have made themselves known by now.”

It was true. Most newcomers to the island of Hopeless, Maine, seemed to turn up at the door of The Squid and Teapot eventually.  

Trickster looked down at his new meat-suit with approval. It had taken little effort to persuade the drunken sea captain to drive his ship on to the fog-bound rocks. Trickster was an old hand at things like that. More difficult was the task of ensuring that the well-dressed young man, who appeared to be the schooner’s solitary passenger, survived the catastrophe unscathed.  Trickster did not know, or indeed care, that the owner of the merchantman was, even then, waiting anxiously for his son to arrive on the quayside at Newhaven, Connecticut. All that the lad meant to Trickster was the means to a very desirable meat-suit; one that no one on the island had seen before.

“That chair has got four legs,” scolded Mrs Ephemery.  “Break it, and you’ll be sorry.”

The well-dressed young man flashed the landlady a charming smile and dutifully eased his weight forward, allowing the chair to sit squarely, once more, upon the floor of the inn.

It was such a pity that he had to frequent The Crow in order to conclude his business. Unfortunately, it would be to here, and not to the far more hospitable environs of The Squid and Teapot, that those lads, whom the islanders insisted on calling ‘The Famous Five’, would be returned, now that they had almost recovered from their ordeal at the hands of Durosimi O’Stoat. There was still the issue of their amnesia, of course, and that was something that Trickster wanted to put right. Naturally, this was not out of any sense of altruism, or wishing to help the Famous Five. It was purely a means of making Durosimi’s life a little more uncomfortable, for if the truth of their captivity was to get out, Durosimi would become even less popular than he was at present; it might even lead to violent retribution. One could but hope.

Trickster had no wish to physically harm Durosimi; he was perfectly content to do no more than create the circumstances which would provide the sorcerer with an occasional, but generous, helping of misery. If, on the other hand, a series of events should lead to Durosimi’s downfall, then so be it. In the meantime, he would linger here in The Crow, eat their lousy food, and wait to restore the memories that those five young men had so inconveniently mislaid. Like the best laid plans of mice and men, however, Trickster’s schemes do not always come to the pleasing conclusion that he has envisaged.

The Famous Five were, by now, deemed eligible for discharge from the Pallid Rock Orphanage, where they had been hospitalised for a week or so. It was with light hearts and optimism that they set off that morning, bound for their local inn, The Crow, where a welcome-home party had been arranged. To begin with all seemed fairly normal, or as normal as could reasonably be expected on Hopeless. It was after little more than a few hundred yards into their journey, however, that they noticed how the perennial fog, which wraps itself coldly around the island, seemed to be growing unusually thick, and stealthily creeping in from the sea with all the subtlety of a well-worn Gothic cliché. Despite this, the young men wandered into its chilly embrace with good spirits, laughing and singing with all of the exuberance of youth. It was only when other voices joined theirs that they paused to listen. These new songsters sweetened the air with pure and melodious harmonies, intoxicating and irresistible to those young ears. As one, the five turned and walked through the unrelenting fog to where the voices called them, totally bewitched and besotted. They stumbled over rocks, through soft sand and sucking mud, until the cold Atlantic lapped around their feet, but still they did not stop, drawn ever onward by the seductive siren-song. Not until the water had reached their chests, and insistent, unseen hands drew them beneath the waves with preternatural strength, did they realise, too late, their awful fate. It was only then that they beheld, with horror, the hideous creatures who had serenaded them.

A solitary figure stood in the already thinning fog. He knew that summoning the sirens would have its cost. There was always a price to be paid. He really hoped that the five fresh victims would be payment enough, but he had his doubts.

 Durosimi sighed, and wrapped his cloak tightly around him.

“It was necessary to do this,” he told himself. “That only leaves young Septimus Washwell to attend to now.”

As the day wore on, Trickster became more and more convinced that something was amiss, and that Durosimi was at the bottom of it. The Famous Five should have been back hours ago. Even Mr and Mrs Ephemery, who managed the inn, had given up on them, and was taking down the crude bunting that proclaimed “Welkum Home Famus 5”

With an angry kick, Trickster sent his chair spinning across the room, where it shattered into matchwood against the far wall. Freezing Mrs Ephemery’s spluttered protestations in mid-sentence with a wave of his hand, he strode out of The Crow in a rage, slamming the big oak door behind him.

“It is time to go to The Squid and Teapot,” he muttered. “At least there I can plot my revenge on O’Stoat in something resembling civilized comfort.”