If you’ve been paying close attention to the blog, you may have found yourself wondering, when is Hopeless?
You may have noticed that our guest writers don’t all operate in the same timeframe. Nils Visser brought a story to us that connected with his Wyrd Woods. Martin Pearson’s Squid and Teapot stories relate directly to history as we know it. Keith Errington’s Oddatsea places Hopeless in a steampunk sort of history.
Is it all just chaos? You might reasonably ask.
Well, yes and no.
I have an entire other novel (Spells for the Second Sister) that turned out to hold the key to all of this. I’ll be self pubbing that one in the foreseeable future, for anyone who gets the urge. One of the central concepts in that book is of a tidal reality. Places move in relation to each other, and many places exist that are versions of the same place. When the tide is out, they’re all distinct and separate places, but as the tide comes in they merge, overlap and sometimes crash messily into each other.
Hopeless exists in that tidal reality. People who have read New England Gothic will already know that Hopeless has layers, and that its many different places all in the same place. As a consequence, it’s a relatively stable point in a constantly shifting universe.
This is also part of why it’s so hard to leave. It’s not just a case of getting out, but of getting out to wherever specifically you want to go. The tides of the universe are just as likely to throw you back at the island as the local sea currents are.
Sixteen can be a difficult age. For Naboth Scarhill things had escalated from being somewhat difficult to becoming annoyingly complicated when he discovered that he was dead. It was not the business of not being alive that concerned him particularly. To begin with he had tried to look on the bright side. At least there was no more work to do, his days and nights unhindered by the niggly little inconveniences that bother the rest of us, smug in the knowledge that our mortal coils are as yet unshuffled. There was no one to berate him for leaving his clothes on the bedroom floor, or neglecting to put the toilet seat down, or forgetting to wash behind his ears, all things that the average sixteen-year old boy might be forgiven for not doing. He found that there was no great joy to be had, even if he decided to revel in this new-found freedom. It would have meant nothing, for Naboth was now a ghost, an apparition as insubstantial as the grey mist that lingered sullenly over the island of Hopeless, Maine.
Being murdered is not at all pleasant. There is more to it than simply having one’s life taken away; there is the sense of being targeted and knowing that someone, somewhere has gone to the trouble of singling you out for a particularly unpleasant method of extermination. It is, indeed, a dreadful thing. More dreadful still, however, is when your violent death has been brought about by a case of mistaken identity. Can you imagine it? Oh, the injustice of it all, especially when you are, or, more correctly, were, just sixteen with the exciting promise of life sitting before you like a map, waiting to be unfolded. This left the shade that was Naboth raging and howling through the night, intent on revenge but having no idea how to exact it.
He had learned from Marigold Burleigh – whom, regular readers may have gathered, had been possessed by the recently returned Trickster – that his death had been caused by a vicious thought form, conjured by Durosimi O’Stoat. In the dim chaos of its mind the thought form only knew that it was to kill the Night-Soil Man, a post that Naboth had held for just one day. You can see why he was not best pleased. Now the angry spirit of Naboth Scarhill desired nothing more than vengeance, and to see Durosimi suffer horribly. The drawback to this plan was that, while Naboth had both a voice and ghostly presence, he had no power to inflict physical harm upon anyone. When he burst into Durosimi’s home and tried to frighten the sorcerer, the only reaction was scorn.
“You cannot frighten me, you deluded fool,” scoffed Durosimi, derisively. “I have consorted with dæmons, ghouls and foul creatures of the pit, each more hideous than you can imagine. Do you think some stunted phantom muck-shoveller is likely to concern me? Now clear off, go and haunt one of your vile cess-pools. That’s all you’re good for!”
To say that Naboth was taken aback by this response would be an understatement. It had always been his understanding that almost everyone is frightened by ghosts, and even those who aren’t would not be so dismissive of an obviously angry spirit. He needed to go away and think of what to do.
It was a few nights later when he next appeared in Durosimi’s parlour, screeching, wailing and banging his bucket lid up and down.
“Go away, little man,” said Durosimi languidly. “Did you not hear me the first time? I am not scared one iota by you.”
“Fair enough,” replied Naboth, between wails. “But I ain’t going nowhere. I’m going to haunt you every night. You’ll get no rest from me…Oooooooooooooooh.”
And so, for night after night, over the next two weeks, Naboth made Durosimi’s life a misery, until, out of the blue, the sorcerer said,
“Alright, I give up. I apologise for killing you. Now please go away.”
“No chance,” said Naboth, “you’re stuck with me. Dusk until dawn for the rest of your days… oooooooooooweeeeeeeeeee.”
A few more nights passed by in this way, until it seemed that Durosimi had really had enough. Clapping his hands over his ears he ran like someone possessed, out into the darkness.
“I cannot stand this anymore,” he wailed, “I’ve got get away from this awful noise before it drives me mad.”
Delighted, Naboth chased after him, through the trees and out into the folds of the Gydynaps, banging his bucket lid for all he was worth and screeching like a banshee. This was more like it!
Durosimi ran frantically into a dark, yawning cavern etched into the side of the hill. Enjoying his new-found power, Naboth followed.
“Enough, I beg you stop,” cried Durosimi, holding out his hands, as if in supplication.
“Never!” laughed Naboth, “I’ll never give you any peace… ooooooooaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrggggghhhh”
‘His wailings are becoming ridiculously theatrical,’ mused Durosimi to himself, then, quite unexpectedly, washed the cavern in a ghastly green light, and smiled unpleasantly at Naboth.
“This is one I made earlier,” he said, sprinkling a handful of salt on to the floor, and completing the circle into which the spectral Night-Soil Man had drifted.
“Try and get out, by all means, but I can assure you that you won’t, not as long as the salt circle is unbroken. This is something that every ghost should know. Oh, and by the way, just in case that bony mutt, Drury, comes looking for you, I’m going to block up the entrance when I leave. Goodnight dear boy. Enjoy Eternity.”
And with that Durosimi was gone and the cavern was plunged once more into darkness, save for the faint luminesce that hung about Naboth, eerily reflecting on the ring of salt that encircled him.
In the distance he heard the tumble of rocks, rigged earlier that day to block the cavern’s mouth.
Philomena Bucket laid a basket on the doorstep of The House at Poo Corner. As usual she had brought Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, his supper of starry-grabby pie and two bottles of Old Colonel, courtesy of The Squid and Teapot. Rhys would always consume this half-way through his round, often giving a scrap or two to Drury, whose attempts at eating always ended with the chewed food dropping through his skeletal frame on to the ground, later to be enjoyed once more, but this time by the crows.
Tonight Philomena discovered that Rhys had left her a letter. Intrigued, she picked it up to peruse later, in flickering candlelight, back in her room at The Squid and Teapot.
“My Dear Philly, I hope you are well. I am just letting you know that the troubled spirit of poor Naboth seems to have disappeared. I have not seen him for some time now. I think, maybe, he has come to terms with his dreadful fate and has found some peace at last… “
There were some loving words following this, but these are for Rhys and Philomena’s eyes only.
The barmaid read the note once more. Had Naboth really found peace? The old magic that resided deep within Philomena stirred restlessly.
This year’s Ominous Folk Show starts with a chap called Michael, who is not entirely sure who he has killed.
Folk enthusiasts familiar with the song Crazy Man Michael may see where we are going with all of this.
We included the song Crazy Man Michael the first time we tried using folk music as a way of getting a graphic novel onto a stage. I’ve been singing it for more than 20 years and it really is the perfect song for Hopeless – death, madness, crows, magic, murder on a beach…
We’ve now got an image of The Ominous Folk for this show. It’s good to have something that makes an explicit visual link between the performance wing and the comics.
While Helltopiary is a particular risk in the woodlands, it also turns up around ruined properties and will invade lonely, isolated buildings. When not in motion, the Helltopiary looks a lot like shrubbery. You may chance upon it in a wood and find yourself wondering who on earth would have come out here to sculpt such a thing. It is best to run away at first sighting.
The method of attack favoured by the Helltopiary will be informed by its shape. More abstract looking entities tend to favour crushing, smothering moves. Helltopiaries who have grown into creature-like forms will likely pounce and bite. Once the prey is subdued, the Helltopiary inserts thorns into the flesh of the victim – so many thorns – and then slowly takes all of the blood from the prey’s body. A hurried attempt at saving someone from a Helltopiary may result in considerable thorn damage. Helltopiary is less likely to attack people who are wearing a lot of metal, so it is as well to go in with a colander on your head and a washboard strapped to your chest, at the very least. Vulnerable to fire, wary of axes.
Normally, Shambling Stacks are scavengers, feeding on whatever happens to be dead, or dying, on a beach. However, they are also highly territorial and likely to attack anyone they find beachcombing on their turf. They will also attack when hungry, and in times of extreme hunger will leave the beach and head inland to seek a meal. The Shambling Stack is well camouflaged on the beach – if it lies down it will blend in perfectly with other detritus. When it stands still it is hard to spot – especially at a distance. Stacks can be small and easily overlooked, but can grow to six or seven feet in height, at which point they are hard to miss! The Shambling Stack prefers to attack by creeping up behind people and falling down on them, digging in all of its many pointy parts before starting to feed. If provoked, ravenous or annoyed it may risk a more visible attack. It depends mostly on its scale and weight, and tends to be solitary – although the smaller ones will attack in groups. Hates fire. Oblivious to blades – best dealt with using heavy, blunt objects.
Here for your delight and delectation is a little bit of dustcat footage, shot by Martin Hayward Harris – maker of this puppet. Tom is working the puppet.
Try singing about ‘dustcats’ to the tune of ‘Loveshack’. dustcats baby, dustcats baby…funky little cat.
If you would like to meet this puppet in person, and get a photo of you with it, then come along to our Stroud event!
Those of you who follow us on Facebook may have noticed that we’re talking a lot there about the last graphic novel. This is Survivors, and we’re getting close to finishing it. Survivors is the last graphic novel in the story arc, and it’s the last Tom/Nimue graphic novel you are going to see. They’re just too time consuming, and we need more time to actually have a life and do other things.
However, that’s not the final instalment for Hopeless, Maine, and a number of things come next.
We’re still working on making a film. We’ve been set back by the plague era, but not totally thwarted. Expect to see news on that as and when we have any.
We’re going out with live shows. You can find The Ominous Folk of Hopeless Maine at events in the UK. We want to do more events, which will be easier when we’re not also trying to make graphic novels. We’ve got some big ambitions for the performance side in 2023, big enough that we have to start working on that this summer. Please do suggest events we might throw ourselves at – we can go out as folk, steampunk and theatre. We’ve been to a Goblin Masquerade. We’re open to suggestions.
Otherwise, we’re moving into illustrated fiction. Both Sloth Comics and Outland Entertainment have already expressed a willingness to publish books that have more words in them. We’ve got a new story for you, set after the graphic novel series. It’s called Mirage, and Dr Abbey has been our co-creator for this. It’s a standalone novel, (we’ve tested it on the innocent) but it will probably be more amusing for people who already know the story to this point.
So long as we have ideas for stories, we’ll keep doing illustrated novels. We’ll likely have each of these stand alone, because that’s much less stressful for everyone. It’s also really important to us to only bring you new things if we feel like we have something worth sharing. We are not fans of things that are stretched out forever, recycling what few ideas they had in the hopes of milking every last drop from the cash cow!
There are also some not-Hopeless plans being explored, and we’ll point at those from here now and then when it makes sense to do so.
Survivors should be with you in 2023. Mirage should follow that in a smooth sort of way. Meanwhile we try and figure out a happily ever after for the creative team.
