When people who have never knowingly seen a goblin think of goblins, they think of Renunciation Jones.
Renunciation is not a goblin, this much we know about because island goblins are funny little energy beings who like to possess inanimate objects in order to mess about. In this regard they are much like demons. Whether there is any real difference between demons and goblins is at present uncertain. Renunciation certainly isn’t a demon.
If you ask Renunciation about any of this – as politely and circumspectly as you can – they will point out that living to a hundred and twenty seven years of age will do this sort of thing to anyone and that it is a small price to pay for immortality.
If you ask Condolences Jones – one of the three Jones grandmothers who might be the eldest living grandmother on the island – she disputes this. “I remember how Renunciation looked seventy years ago, and it was exactly the same as they are now. T’aint age. It’s on account of working with them night potatoes. Does things to your skin. Anyway Renunciation ain’t a day over eighty six, being a few years younger than me.”
The trouble with the elders of the Jones family is that none of them really seem to know how old they are, or how old anyone else is. This too can perhaps be attributed to long term night potato exposure.
It is possible to live to a considerable age on this island, although whether that counts as a blessing or some form of karmic punishment, is another question entirely.
“I know that it’s none of my business,” declared Father Ignatius Stamage, the ghostly Jesuit who haunts The Squid and Teapot. “ But Caitlin’s surname should ideally be Bucket-Middlestreet. Middlestreet-Bucket sounds too much like a municipal privy.”
Lady Margaret D’Avening lifted her disembodied head from under her arm and nodded in agreement.
“It makes sense,” she murmured, “but I fear that in common with all of the female line of that particular family, the girl will be known simply as Caitlin Bucket.”
“And will be unbaptised as well,” said Stamage with a shudder.
The subject of their discussion was blissfully unaware of the concerns raised by The Squid’s resident phantoms, and was currently enjoying a game of catch with Drury, the skeletal hound. From an onlookers point of view this was not a particularly successful pastime; on the rare occasions that Caitlin’s aim and Drury’s co-ordination synchronised, the ball would rattle around the dog’s ribcage and drop to the floor. Fortunately this seemed not to matter to either participant, given the fits of giggling and excited barks.
Prior to Caitlin’s arrival, mornings in The Squid and Teapot had traditionally marked a generally peaceful oasis of calm in the busy, and often chaotic, life of the inn. Not that anyone was complaining; Caitlin had won the hearts of all who met her, including the island’s most recent resident, the Buddhist monk, Tenzin, who was quietly sitting cross-legged in a corner of the bar.
“What’s he up to?” enquired Septimus Washwell. Trading on the fact that he had been responsible for bringing Tenzin to The Squid, Septimus felt it to be only right and proper that he should spend every free moment ensuring that his new-found friend was being suitably catered for, in exchange for no more than the occasional tankard of ‘Old Colonel’.
“He’s meditating,” replied Reggie Upton. “I’ve seen holy men in India doing it. Apparently the aim is to become one with the universe.”
“I’m surprised he can hear himself think, with all of the noise that Caitlin and Drury are making,” said Septimus.
“That’s the point,” said Reggie. “He isn’t thinking “
Regular readers will recall that Septimus and his wife, Mirielle (leader of the dance troupe ‘Les Demoiselles de Hopeless Maine’) had twin daughters, Germaine and Pauline, who had been born on the previous Christmas day. Named after two heroines of the French revolution, the girls were the apple of their father’s eye. At the moment, unfortunately, they were both teething, and life in the Washwell – D’Illlay household was currently far from placid. Being able to close his mind to all outside noise sounded idyllic to Septimus. He would have to ask Tenzin to show him how to meditate. How the fiery Mirielle would react to her husband attaining a state of bliss, while she looked after two fractious children, however, was another matter.
Just a mile or so away from The Squid and Teapot, Durosimi O’Stoat was also thinking of Tenzin. It occurred to him that he had been far too hasty in throwing the young man out of his home. Durosimi had done this in a fit of pique, having learned that, without enlisting the help of the Sasquatch, Mr Squash, or one of the Himalayan Yetis, the monk was incapable of getting back to Tibet. It was only now that the realisation dawned upon the sorcerer that the lad had spent the last ten or twelve years being taught by some of the finest practitioners of the occult arts that the world had ever known. Some of what they had told him must have rubbed off, Durosimi reasoned. He decided that he would have to find a way to lure Tenzin back, and out of the clutches of ‘That Bucket Woman’. Maybe he could persuade Doc Willoughby to help. After all, the Doc had been known to frequent The Squid from time to time. Yes, Durosimi was all too aware that he had given the Doc short shrift lately, on those occasions when the old quack had knocked on his door, but that was all in the past, and it was amazing what could be achieved when there was the promise of some well-aged single malt whisky in the offing.
It is best not to mess with SpoonWalkers. Nathaniel Bowbridge (self styled gentleman scientist) had a theory that SpoonWalkers could and would use forks if these were the only utensils available to them.
Accordingly he trapped several SpoonWalkers and isolated them in a cage with only forks available. They did indeed hobble about unhappily on forks but before Nathaniel could write up his findings his housekeeper arrived one morning to find the lock of the cage expertly picked by a fork, the SpoonWalkers gone, all the spoons missing from the kitchen and Nathaniel Bowbridge dead, repeatedly stabbed.
He was, in the words of Detective Inspector Edgeworth, “completely forked!”
Back when the first few graphic novels came out, a number of reviewers made the same observation: The island is full of strange entities, but the islanders seem entirely oblivious to them. It creates a somewhat creepy effect. That part of the storytelling was not my decision.
It could be assumed that islanders used to protect themselves by trying not to know what was going on around them. Perhaps they didn’t care, and felt no interest in the eyes in the dark. Fear, or complacency, apathy or despair – there are many reasons not to bother with what’s around you.
The life of the island has changed as we’ve gone along. The Hopeless, Maine Scientific Society first turned up as a two page spread in one of the books – it was my idea, as I wanted to dig in more with islander life. I went on to use the Scientific Society repeatedly in the aftermath of the kickstarter where I had to kill one hundred people.
Since then, the Scientific Society has taken on a life of its own, including those splitters who are now in the Horticultural Society instead. Islanders have started paying a lot more attention to the flora and fauna around them.
There is a kind of horror in weird obliviousness, and people who do not care enough to engage with the world they live in. Frankly, I think there’s enough of that kind of horror out in the ‘real’ world. Better then, to have the kinds of horrors you can find by gazing back at the weird things, gazing into the void, gazing into the bushes and so forth.
“Ah, so you’re awake at last.” Durosimi O’Stoat fondly imagined that the ghastly rictus currently adorning his face would be regarded by his visitor as being a warm and avuncular smile.
Tenzin, the young monk who had been recently deposited upon the island of Hopeless, Maine gazed up in terror. “Who are you? he whimpered, or at least he would have done, had he realised that he was not in Tibet. What he actually said was, “ ཁྱེད་སུ་ཡིན”
Despite having recently spent several weeks in a monastery, high in the Himalayan Mountains, Durosimi had not managed to pick up a single word of the language. “Come on lad, less of that,” he said, the awful smile fading. “You’re in America now, so speak English.”
“America?” said Tenzin, his fear subsiding as he recognised the sorcerer. “How did I get there?”
“That’s what I was about to ask you,” said Durosimi. “What can you remember?”
Tenzin screwed up his face, trying to recall exactly what had happened. “Very little,” he admitted. “There was something to do with Dawasandup…” then added, “but I can’t remember what.”
This was disappointing, but at least, hearing the name of Dawasandup (the powerful anchorite who was reputed to be able to fly, have dominion over demons and kill from a distance) was reassuring. Durosimi would have felt somewhat less assured had Tenzin remembered that Dawasandup had plotted to sacrifice him to the tiger-demon, Tagsan.
“Not to worry, it’s early days yet. I am sure that your memory will return soon,” said Durosimi.
Durosimi desperately wanted to return to Tibet and – blissfully unaware of Dawasandup’s murderous plans – learn all that he could from the anchorite. Believing that Tenzin had found a way to travel unaided through Mr Squash’s mysterious portal, he was prepared to wait until the young monk’s memory had returned. In the meantime, it seemed sensible to keep Tenzin safely away from the influence of other people on the island, especially Philomena Bucket, who might be inclined to give his guest a less than favourable assessment of Durosimi’s. character.
“The island is not a particularly safe place for an unwary stranger like yourself,” Durosimi told Tenzin. “I think it best that you remain here until you have recovered completely. In fact, you could help me, if you wanted. You could become my apprentice.”
“Thank you,” said Tenzin, gratefully, placing his hands in prayer position in front of his chest, and bowing his head slightly. “I would like that.”
“Splendid!” exclaimed Durosimi.
*
“He’s up to something,” said Doc Willoughby.
It was rare for the Doc to confide in anyone else on the island, but Reggie Upton seemed less likely to gossip than most.
“In what way?” asked Reggie.
They were sitting in the snuggery of The Squid and Teapot, sharing a few glasses of the Gannicox Distillery’s best spirits.
“Durosimi is being elusive… even more so than usual,” said the Doc. “I have called upon him three times in the past week and he has made sure that I didn’t get through the front door. He’s hiding something, I’m sure.”
“Everyone thinks that he’s a changed character since going to Tibet,” said Reggie. “Less abrasive,”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Doc. “He’ll only let you see as much of what is going on as he wants you to see.”
“I always thought that you two were friends,” said Reggie, surprised as Doc’s candour.
“No, not friends,” admitted the Doc. “I keep him on-side, and he finds me useful occasionally. Durosimi doesn’t have friends.”
“Well, whatever it is that he is keeping hidden,” said Reggie, “I’m sure that all will be revealed – for good or ill – before very long.”
Two weeks had passed since Tenzin’s arrival on the island. During that time he had made sure that Durosimi’s home was spick and span from top to bottom. He was beginning to wonder when his apprenticeship was going to start. He was not so much the sorcerer’s apprentice as the sorcerer’s domestic help. Every day Durosimi would ask him if his memory had returned, and every day he had to shake his head and say “no, sorry.”
Then one morning everything came flooding back. His escape from Dawasandup; the flight into the mountains; his meeting with one of the Spirits of the Glaciers, and the way in which he was brought to Hopeless. This was exciting. He could not wait to tell Durosimi.
As he told his tale, Tenzin failed to notice the sorcerer’s face growing darker and darker.
When he had finished he was conscious of a long and ominous silence.
Then Durosimi spoke. “So you got here, not by your own efforts, but the same as the rest of us. Dragged through by some blasted Yeti.”
Tenzin nodded, not sure where this conversation was going.
“And I have wasted precious weeks waiting for some grand revelation that was never going to arrive.”
“But I couldn’t remember…” stammered Tenzin.
“That’s no good to me, and come to that, neither are you,” growled Durosimi. “You need to go before I do something that you will regret.”
“Go? But where,” said Tenzin, helplessly.
“Go where every misfit on this god-forsaken place goes,” said Durosimi. “To The Squid and Teapot – now clear off.”
Tenzin had no idea where, or indeed what, The Squid and Teapot might be. He wandered through the fog for hours until he bumped into a bemused Septimus Washwell. Sensing a moment of glory, Septimus was happy to escort the exotic stranger to the inn, where he led him through the impressive oak doors and into the oasis of light and cheer that was the bar of The Squid and Teapot.
To Septimus’ dismay the room fell to silence. Everyone stared suspiciously at the young man with the shaven head and sandalled feet. His burgundy robes were splattered with mud.
“Look who I found wandering about,” said Septimus.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie Upton. “He’s a monk of some description. You had better leave this to me.”
He strode up to the newcomer and did what any Englishman would do in like circumstances.
“DO YOU SPEAK ANY ENGLISH?” he shouted. His words came out slowly and deliberately.
To everyone’s surprise the monk quietly replied,
“Yes, perfectly, thank you. I am Tenzin,” and he gave a small bow.
Reggie smiled uncomfortably, a little embarrassed by the way he had addressed Tenzin, but things now began to make sense.
If this chap wasn’t the reason that Doc Willoughby had been excluded from Durosimi’s company, then he would eat his hat.
“It’s The Turnip Man,” she says, holding up her needlework for my inspection.
I say nothing. I have seen The Turnip Man too many times in my dreams of late, his rooty fingers reaching for me.
“He lives underground,” she tells me. Her voice is strangely neutral, as though this information is of great indifference to her.
“Have you seen him?” I ask, more afraid of the answer than I care to admit.
“I see him all the time,” she says, as though this is perfectly normal. “Don’t you see him?”
“Only in dreams.”
“He wants you to see him, but you have to let him in through your eyes,” she explains.
I do not want to let him in.
“He is cross with you,” my child continues.
“What must I do?” I ask in a frightened whisper.
My child considers this question carefully. Almost as though she is listening for the answer. I have never heard The Turnip Man speak. When he opens his mouth in my nightmares, I hear only the sound of my own screaming.
“He wants you to feed him,” she says. Then she smiles up at me. Her eyes are black holes, her skin the leathery texture of dried turnip skin. Her mouth opens slowly, revealing the rows of tiny, sharp teeth.
I wake up screaming, to find my child standing over the bed, holding a piece of cloth depicting The Turnip Man.
I remember that I do not have a child.
(Text by Nimue Brown, Turnip Man image and concept by Allison Kotzig.)
The shed is a wonderful place to make new friends. Here a wizened root, there a broken fork, a rake, some bit of metal and wood that makes no sense on its own, but calls out to become something new. There is always string in a shed, and sometimes wire – magical sources of joints and attachments, uniting disparate things into new shapes. And so you sit down, and ask of the shed what in it wants to be new, and exciting, and you work with what you get. Your new friend takes form under your hands, moving into the world as you find eyes and toes, limbs and a body.
When you start, you know nothing about the new friend. They may well turn out to be an old friend who has been obliged to hover about, insubstantial and lost. You make the form, invite the spark and wait to see who shows up.
(Text by Nimue, art by Tracie Tink Voice, who we’re delighted to have as a new member of the Hopeless, Maine team!)
“At least, with Mr Squash out of the picture,” said Rhys Cranham, ”there won’t be any more to-ing and fro-ing through his portal to Tibet.”
“Yes, it will certainly put the brakes on Durosimi’s current obsession,” agreed his wife, Philomena Bucket. “I’ll miss Mr Squash being around, though. The island won’t be the same without him. But until he returns, life goes on, and we will be needing another barrel of ‘Old Colonel’ brought up.”
Being the landlord of The Squid and Teapot meant that there was always some job or other to be done. With a sigh, Rhys made his way down the steps to the cellar.
With the exception of Durosimi O’Stoat, the islanders of Hopeless, Maine were convinced that they had heard the last of life in the distant Himalayan mountains. There was, however, at least one person in Tibet who had not forgotten the name of O’Stoat.
The anchorite, Dawasandup, was as angry as any Tibetan lama ever gets (and, contrary to popular belief, they have been known to get more than a little hot under the Shen* when sufficiently provoked). This was a man who was reputed to have dominion over demons, could fly through the air and be able to kill an enemy at a distance. In short, he was not someone to be trifled with.
“This wretch, called O’Stoat, has cheated me,” he raged. “I owe a tribute to Tagsan, the tiger demon, and he was the unwitting fool who was chosen for that honour. Now he has fled, and it is all your fault.”
The recipient of Dawasandup’s ire was a young monk named Tenzin, who cowered, terrified, beneath the icy gaze of the anchorite. Tenzin, you may recall, had found himself in the unhappy position of being the reluctant translator in Durosimi’s dealings with Dawasandup.
“I explicitly told him to tie himself to a tree and wait for the demon to appear,” raged the anchorite, “and I expected you to ensure that this happened. Now you leave me no choice; I need to find a sacrifice, and so it will be you who must feel the claws and teeth of the demon Tagsan.”
Although Dawasandup was indeed powerful, despite his terror, Tenzin trumped this by being youthfully nimble. Before he could be grabbed, the young monk slipped out of reach, and dashed blindly away, following whatever direction his sandalled feet chose to bear him.
“There can be no escape, ” roared Dawasandup fiercely. ”I will find you and Tagsan will have his tribute.”
Tenzin ran until there was no more breath left in his body. At last he fell exhausted to the hard earth, allowing the shadows of night to wash over him, and bathe the surrounding rocks and boulders in deep darkness.
When his breathing finally steadied and his senses grew accustomed to his surroundings, Tenzin felt more at ease, but then a figure shambled from between the rocks and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
Could it be Dawasandup? Or the demon, Tagsan, himself, maybe?
But no, it was certainly not any human; the shape was not right. Besides that, whoever or whatever this newcomer was, everything about it was too big; much too big, even for Tagsan, unless the demon walked on his hind legs.
Suddenly the creature was standing before him, blotting out the stars, and Tenzin gasped in awe.
“You must move, little monk, this is no place for you to rest.”
The voice, although deep and sonorous, sounded strange to his ear. While It was known that the Spirits of the Glaciers were fluent in his language, he never dreamt that one would ever choose to speak to him.
“I have nowhere to go,” said Tenzin, timidly, and to his own surprise, he poured out the story of how he came to be in this predicament.
“Then you are in great danger,” said the Yeti (whom, I trust, will forgive me for referring to him by his not-particularly complimentary nickname).
“I know of this Dawasandup,” he continued, “and he has allowed great darkness into his soul. There is no doubt that he will pursue you, and your death will not be pleasant.”
“Then where can I go to escape him?” wailed Tenzin, a cold sweat breaking out all over his body.
The Yeti said nothing for what seemed to be an age. Then he spoke.
“I know of a place, and although the journey will be brief, it will be hard on your body. You will escape, but most probably, never be able to return to Tibet.”
“That is fine by me,” said Tenzin. “How do I get there?”
“Do you trust me?”
“More than I do Dawasandup,” was the reply, and with that the Yeti scooped the surprised Tenzin up into arms and strode towards a cleft in the rocks.
Two weeks had passed since Billy (or possibly Willy) the Yeti had rescued Durosimi from the clutches of the demon Tagsan, and dragged him through Mr Squash’s mysterious portal. Durosimi had no idea of the danger in which he had placed himself, and decided that his recent indisposition had been caused by no more than having to spend time under a Yeti’s armpit. By now he felt sufficiently recovered to contemplate indulging in a spot of rough magic, in the hopes of once more getting back to Tibet and learning all that he could from Dawasandup.
For the past few days he had been in the habit of wandering to the portal, which was formed by two innocuous looking ash trees learning drunkenly into each other’s branches. There he tried every opening spell that he could remember, in the forlorn hope that one of them might provide the key that unlocked the entrance. So far, unsurprisingly, his success rate had been precisely nil.
“I’ll give it one more go,” he muttered to himself as he made his way through the early morning fog.
Not many islanders were inclined to venture abroad at this hour, and Durosimi could feel confident that his persistent failure to penetrate the portal would not have been witnessed. Today, however, he found himself to have company. While the realisation came as something of a shock, the fact that the aforementioned company was lying on the ground was a comfort. This person was obviously either dead or drunk, and therefore unlikely to trouble him.
Durosimi, being Durosimi, could not help himself taking a look as to who his prostrated companion might be.
“I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed.”That’s young Tenzin, my translator, and he has somehow managed to get himself through the Sasquatch’s portal. I need to know how he managed to do that, although, by the looks of things, I don’t think that he’ll be in any condition to talk to me just yet.”
Elated by this recent turn of events, a tumble of thoughts flashed through Durosimi’s mind.
“Except for Doc Willoughby, I am the only person on the island who he will have met. He will need a friend, and somewhere to stay. Certainly not at The Squid and Teapot – I’ll keep him well away from the influence of that witch, the Bucket woman. No… he can live in my outhouse and teach me how to get back through the portal without the help of that blasted Sasquatch, or his relatives.”
With no more ado, the sorcerer hooked his hands beneath the young monk’s armpits and dragged him unceremoniously across the rough ground, all the way back to Chez Durosimi.
*Author’s note: A Shen is the shoulder wrap worn by a Tibetan Buddhist monk, under which, in the absence of a collar, an irate lama might get hot.
It has been three weeks now and nothing has happened. There have been no strange unexplainable events in the night. Nothing has been tapping at my window. No strange footsteps have been heard beyond the door to my room. I have felt no chilling presence nearby. I have not turned to find a shrouded figure in the mist, watching me and raising a finger to point towards me. I have heard no scratching and snuffling creatures in the walls, nor the whispered words indistinctly heard in the night when no one is there.
I found the book, I read the book, and nothing has happened. No one has tried to kill me, I have not been accosted by cultists, or hunted by werewolves. No vampire has tried to charm me in order to sink their teeth in my neck. The ghost of an orphan has not wandered across my path. Doctor Willoughby has not looked at me strangely. The fog has not seemed to thicken around me. No food has slivered on the spoon and tried to choke me as I struggle to swallow. As for spoons, none of them have gone missing.
I found the book, I read the book, I read the words out loud and nothing has happened.
No beautiful jelly fish creature from the sea has tried to tempt me into the depths. No cat of dust has blown down the street and danced around me. The crows have not begun to follow me. Nor do they croak my name. The night potatoes have not moved nor glowed. The townsfolk have not started looking at me strangely and whispering as I pass by. No one has fed me poison, no strange flora has sprouted from the walls, no strange fungi is growing in the garden. The slugs have all remained the same size.
I found the book, I read the book, I read the words out loud, I made the markings upon the floor and nothing has happened.
The face in the mirror is my own, it does not laugh at me. The shadows dissipate with light and the sun almost shines through the cloud. The shore does not call to me and the things in the sea care not for my passing. The bread of yesterday was not full of maggots. There are no more bottles on the bridge than there were the day before. I have seen no words of warning made of fish. Nor scrawled in blood, or other fluids on the walls of my room. Nothing sinister has happened at all.
I found the book, I read the book, I read the words out loud, I made the markings upon the floor, I inked the symbols upon my flesh and nothing has happened.
This is Asahi Sasagawa reading as Annamarie Nightshade in Kyoto recently. Hopeless, Maine in Japan – thanks to Dr Abbey!
Takeshi Ohbayashi is the narrator for Hopeless, Maine in Japanese –
This was for a public performance based on the opening of Personal Demons. Dr Abbey has adapted the graphic novel script into something that can be performed to a Japanese audience – which is pretty wild. He’s sorted the casting and no doubt directed it as well. The original plan was to have Mari Shimizu reading young Salamandra. Mari Shimizu was the original voice of Astro Boy, but sadly she’s not been well lately.
If you want to take the project out into the world, we have a history of performance and welcome more of it. Quite some years ago, Keith Errington put together a Hopeless Home Companion radio show, based on Garrison Keillor’s Prairie Home Companion, which has been out a few times. The Ominous Folk used to do musical tales from the island. If you want to play with the setting you certainly don’t need to be faithful to the graphic novels.
