We’ve had a lot of shifts here on the island in the last year. With the final graphic novel out, island life has changed in terms of what might happen – and you’re seeing some of that reflected in stories here on the blog.
We’ve had a lovely influx of islanders – thank you to everyone who has contributed themselves, that’s been wonderful.
Both Steven C Davis and Mark Hayes have become regular contributors, and we’re seeing frequent tales from both Keith Errington and Roz White – a huge thanks to them for getting more involved.
Martin Pearson has been doing a top job keeping The Squid and Teapot going, and I’ve been in the weird position of being the illustrator regularly as well as writing. I am what we’ve got, and I am very open to getting more visual artists involved.
This summer, James Weaslegrease has taken on some of the social media work, covering me for patches I can’t do due to my gallivanting about. You can find Hopeless on Facebook, Twitter and Bluesky. The aim going forwards is to have Weaslegrease Wednesdays where James is unleashed upon these sites to do whatever strange things he feels compelled to do. Although I note with interest that he’s been tone-matching so well that it might not have been obvious when it was him, and when it was me.
Hopeless continues to exist because it’s a community, and because enough people care about it to want to keep it going. If you’re ever tempted to have a go, please do get in touch and jump in. The water is cold, but the tentacles are lovely.
The perigret is also known as the sea sausage, or the stinky sea sausage. These creatures are not native to Hopeless, Maine, but are regularly sighted from boats around the coast. Either they spend all of their time at sea, or they come ashore somewhere nearby.
Most of us only encounter the stinky sea sausage after heavy storms, when you may find a few of them wheezing out their final breaths upon the beach, or being eaten by crows. Crows are notoriously not put off by the smell and are therefore the only entities willing to eat sea sausages.
However, the perigret has dense fur that is very waterproof indeed. Their distinctive red skins are often taken as hats, and worn by fisher folk. If you are out in a boat, the smell of the perigret dissipates, or is lost amidst the smell of the catch. The consensus is that no one in their right mind would wear perigret fur indoors, aside from Judge Joe.
Helpfully, a deceased sea sausage is easy enough to peel. A neat slice from chin to tail is all you need, and the outer layer can simply be removed from the rest of the creature. This is an exceptionally stinky job, but the crows will thank you for it. It is usual to just deploy the whole skin rather than going to the effort of removing the face and feet, and many people feel the shiny noses add a pleasing, jaunty quality to a hat.
“Far be it from me to gossip, but he definitely isn’t the same these days,” said Doc Willoughby.
Reverend Davies sniffed. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he muttered.
Doc had imparted the news that a complete change of character had come over Durosimi O’Stoat, following his recent stay in a Tibetan monastery.
“You will believe it, I promise you,” replied Doc. “He is wandering around like a man in a trance, gabbling something incomprehensible, and beaming at everyone.”
“Beaming, you say? That is odd. Maybe the experience of being dragged through that Squash fellow’s portal twice has finally sent him over the edge,” mused the Reverend. “I always said that these occult things that he seems to be obsessed with would be his downfall one day.”
Doc Willoughby was not the only person who had registered a change in Durosimi’s behaviour; he had become the talk of The Squid and Teapot.
“It sounds as though he’s gone quite insane,” said Philomena Bucket.
“Not at all,” replied Reggie Upton. “I would guess that a couple of weeks in a Buddhist monastery up in the Himalayas has revealed more to him than just yak-butter tea and chilblains.”
“Such as?” asked Philomena, who found the prospect of Durosimi’s conversion to Buddhism hard to swallow.
“He has doubtless seen what those monks can achieve through harsh discipline and untold hours of meditation,” said Reggie. “I have never been to Tibet, but I know what those yogi chaps in India can do.”
Reggie paused, and stared into his drink.
“And I also know what I achieved myself, with the help of my dear friend, Annie,” he added.
Benjamin Bencombe opened his mouth to ask what that might be, but a glare from Philomena changed his mind. She knew that Reggie, and the love of his life, Annie Besant, had lost contact since he left India for Africa, and the Boer War. She also knew that Annie, a Theosophist, had taught him how to make a thought-form, a tulpa, in her likeness. More than thirty years had passed since then, and the tulpa – who would always be a young version of Annie – still haunted him.
“So what is that gibberish I’ve heard him spouting?” grinned Septimus Washwell. “Sounds like Oh Mammy something something…”
“That would be Sanskrit, not gibberish,” corrected Reggie. He had not liked the way in which Septimus was making light of this, and there was disapproval in his voice. “And it is a well-known mantra, Om Mani Padme Hum.”
Philomena raised an eyebrow. “And I bet that you’re now going to tell us what that means.”
“Of course,” agreed Reggie. “It translates as something like Behold the Jewel in the Lotus.”
“Speaking as a botanist,” piped up Benjamin Bencombe, at last allowed to speak, “I find it most unlikely that this Durosimi fellow is going to have much luck beholding lotuses on Hopeless, bejewelled or no.”
“There are no lotus flowers to speak of,” laughed Philomena, “but we do have plenty of skunk cabbage.”
“Ah, Symlocarpus foetidus, if I’m not mistaken,” said Benjamin, then added in a low voice, “and I rarely am.”
The speculation regarding Durosimi and his apparent transformation was not completely unfounded, but a changed character he definitely was not – at least, not on the inside. He had seen enough during his sojourn in Tibet to convince him that his own form of sorcery was crude compared with the natural magic of the monks, the result of very many years of discipline and study. Although keen to replicate their feats, Durosimi had no intention of investing any more time into the venture than was strictly necessary. He knew his own strengths, and was convinced that he could master, in just a few weeks, powers that some lamas claimed to have devoted several lifetimes to achieve. Besides, Durosimi was not at all sure that he had several lifetimes at his disposal.
Mr Squash, the Sasquatch, was all too aware of the most recent topic of conversation on the island, and was not happy. He had known Durosimi since the sorcerer was in diapers, and he had never trusted the man. He could only imagine what might happen if Durosimi became proficient in Buddhist magic, which Mr Squash had witnessed with his own eyes, and some of it had terrified even him. He felt responsible, and believed that it was up to him to put things right. He would have to take Durosimi through a portal again, somewhere far away, where he could do no harm… and make sure that the sorcerer never came back.
Weavers are subtle, magical creatures. In theory you can find weavers anywhere that there is some sort of life. In practice they can be sadly rare.
Here on the island we have our agents of change – small but powerful entities who like to rearrange things. Often their intentions are mysterious to the point of seeming entirely random. To encounter them is to be altered.
If you encounter Rebecca Adams you are likely to experience change, although she does not seem to be an agent of change herself. The transformations she brings about are so subtle that it has taken a while for anyone to really notice what she’s been doing. People who spend a lot of time with her, especially people who sit with her when she is making cloth, are altered.
At the moment we’re seeing a considerable rise in magical ability on the island. This has happened since the fog became less oppressive. Rebecca seems to be a particular node for new magic, with those who come into close contact with her becoming more obviously magical themselves.
That Rebecca makes weavings out of fibres of course makes it tempting to think she might also be the other sort of weaver. Having spoken at length with occultists and folklorists on the island, I am not much the wiser. Of course all such magically inclined residents are aware of the stories about weavers, but none admit to having knowingly encountered one. Still, it is a delightful thing to watch Rebecca at work, and to feel the soft rhythms of her creating wash gently over your soul, and stir parts of you that previously you had not even been aware of.
The rap sounded through the hut. Not quite driftwood-constructed, but a rap like that hinted at an arm, a physique, that could break the door down without too much effort.
They rapped again.
Salt spray drenched the cabin, rendering the host blind to any other smell. Apart from the potential strength, he had no images, no feelings, about the visitor, other than the vaguest impression that a third strike might be heavier, might even cleave the door in two before he was ready.
‘Coming,’ he called out, ‘don’t mind me, old bones aren’t what they used to be.’
He took a clumping step, setting the rocking chair in motion.
Another clumping step, silently lifting an item from the old, moss-covered table.
‘Almost there, lad,’ he called out, though he doubted the visitor was a young lad.
He shuffled towards the door, trying not to grin. He could hear, now he was closer, the visitor’s breathing.
Angry.
Short.
Petulant.
He reached for the handle of the door, trying not to grin.
‘Open up –’
Benedictus Cucumberpatch opened up the door to the visitor, gently easing his finger tighter on the crossbow trigger.
The bolt pinged and there was a muffled, wet, thump.
Benedictus chortled. ‘Visitors, eh. Who’d ‘av ‘em.’
Written as a free-writing exercise as part of a short story workshop, run by Laura Jane Round on 14.05.2024.
Reggie Upton was out flanneuring (or flanneling, as Philomena Bucket referred to it). Or, at least, he would have been, had he not decided to pay a call on the Middlestreets, for in order to flaneur properly there should be no definite destination in mind. Since leaving The Squid and Teapot, Bartholomew and Ariadne had moved into the old Blomqvist house, a residence that came complete with its own guardian, a Tomte, who attended to all of the mundane, daily jobs that any self-respecting tenant would eschew – or at least, that was the idea. It seems that the Tomte had taken exception to the fact that neither Bartholomew, nor his wife, had a drop of Swedish blood in their veins, and had decided to go into retirement, in protest. That was why, when reaching the front door, Reggie found Bartholomew busily painting both it, and himself, in the process. He didn’t seemed too bothered, however, as he splashed the paint about liberally, singing to himself as he did so.
“Goodbye Hopeless I must leave you,
For it’s time for me to go. I won’t miss your dismal sea-views, And the cold Atlantic blow.
No more trudging over headland In the fog and driving rain.
So farewell, Hopeless I must leave you,
Goodbye Hopeless, Maine.”
“Why, that tune takes me back,” said Reggie, waving his sword stick like a conductor’s baton. “I haven’t heard it sung for years, though the words have changed.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so,” said Bartholomew. “That song was composed here on Hopeless by one of the few people to escape from the island. My grandfather taught it to me and he learned it from the man who wrote it – a fellow called Colonel Ruscombe-Green.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie. “Not Mad Jack Ruscombe-Green? I knew the chap in Africa, during the Boer War. He was a lowly lieutenant in those days… he made colonel, eh? How the devil did he get here?”
“Well, it might not be the same man – although it’s not a common name, so you might be right. But I can promise you that he definitely wrote the song,” insisted Bartholomew.
“Ruscombe-Green was a splendid chap, but always a bit of a rogue,” smiled Reggie. “I wouldn’t put it past him to pass that tune off as his own. The words must be his, though. There aren’t too many songs knocking around about Hopeless, Maine.”
“Then what are the words?” asked Ariadne, walking through the doorway and narrowly avoiding getting paint on her apron. “Come on, Brigadier, give us a song.”
Reggie beamed. He had a fine baritone voice, and he knew it. The old soldier never missed a chance to give his tonsils an airing. “The true title is ‘Goodbye Dolly Gray,” he said, “and there is a short verse that precedes the chorus that Mad Jack so casually borrowed… ” And then he closed his eyes and began to sing.
“I have come to say goodbye, Dolly Gray.
It’s no use to ask me why, Dolly Gray.
There’s a murmur in the air, you can hear it everywhere,
It’s time to do and dare, Dolly Gray – so
Goodbye Dolly I must leave you,
Though it breaks my heart to go.
Something tells me I am needed At the front to fight the foe.
See, the soldier boys are marching
And I can no longer stay.
Hark, I hear the bugle calling,
Goodbye Dolly Gray.”
The account of Colonel Ruscombe-Green leaving the island is recounted in the tale entitled ‘Goodbye Hopeless‘. Should you wish to hear the full, and original, version of ‘Goodbye Dolly Gray’, below is a link to a splendid rendition by Mr Edward Woodward.
This year, the volunteering committee has decided that henceforth, lots should be drawn publicly rather than the usual, private procedure favoured in previous years. This comes after a mistake that resulted in Dominic Wolfgang Wallace being unable to carry out his volunteer duties at the last full moon.
This may have been a genuine error, but somehow Dominic’s lot was drawn for three separate extremely hazardous volunteering jobs, and his attendance of the underwater breathing apparatus test meeting got in the way of his being able to go on vampire patrol, and also left him bereft of an opportunity to attend a recent cliff-top cultist meeting.
Obviously no enterprising young islander would want to have their options so sorely limited. Who knows how long it might be before the cultists next seek a ‘volunteer’?
So, rather than having to wait for that knock at the door, or the letter of summons, we’re all going to meet on the village green every Friday to draw lots in public. Some of you may be surprised to learn that we even have a village green. Apparently it used to be so foggy that you could hardly see it, but it is quite visible in the swirling mist that now fills it.
Meanwhile, Dominic has been volunteered to make sure everyone knows about the change to the system.
(Wolfgang was volunteered for this post by Jennifer Lewis-Auger)
(Story by Keith Errington, illustration by Nimue Brown, lurid green aura of stench added by Keith.)
Law was scarce in Hopeless, Maine. Mostly, it was unwritten. General principles, like don’t steal from your immediate neighbours, don’t murder anyone with friends, leave the children alone, and don’t summon demons between the hours of two and three on a Sunday, were well understood by all.
What justice there was, tended to be delivered by a few good men – or sometimes a few bad men – and occasionally by the mob. Although, the mob tended to get bogged down in endless committee meetings and paperwork. Deciding what to wear for a lynching was one of the more debated topics on the agenda, for example.
Given the lack of alternatives, Islanders tended to resolve minor disputes amongst themselves. Some tried calling upon public figures such as the Reverend Davies or Doc Willoughby to adjudicate. In the case of the Reverend, they quickly lived to regret their choice, as he would often take it as an opportunity to sermonise to both parties and berate them for their lack of church attendance. (Not that the Reverend actually spent much time in the church himself, of course.)
Those turning to Doc Willoughby for a decision often found him too busy to help them. And if he wasn’t, then he might just arbitrarily toss a coin to decide on the case, or favour the person whose surname came first alphabetically. More often than not, they found him drunk.
Hopeless, Maine tended to throw up its solutions to problems, so there was one other recourse for disputants: Judge Joe.
Joe would be the first to admit he was an ordinary chap, possessed of no great intellect or force of mind, but he had seen a gap in the market and jumped straight in. Inspired by a whole batch of legal books that had washed up on the shore of Hopeless, Joe decided he would set up in business as a judge. Making himself a red robe trimmed with perigret fur, he turned his front room into a makeshift courtroom.
He wasn’t wrong about the need for such a service, and he was soon inundated with islanders who wanted to resolve their disputes without bloodshed or death. Potential litigants would have to agree that any decision Joe made was binding, and both pay a modest sum into the court’s coffers.
Judge Joe was popular, effectively being the only game in town, but he became known for his common sense, his fair play and the noxious smell of his robes. Many a long-running dispute was resolved in mere minutes within the small confines of Joe’s front room. Participants would emerge gasping for breath, safe in the knowledge that any penalties handed out by the court could not possibly be as bad as spending another minute in Judge Joe’s courtroom.
Of course, there were those who would object to Judge Joe’s pronouncements and would refuse the resolution offered. And it was here that Joe had played his masterstroke. All participants in the process also had to pledge to uphold the court’s decisions across all cases. So, they would put pressure on individuals to conform, and almost none held out under community pressure. And, of course, the more cases Judge Joe sat in judgment on, the more people there became to enforce any judgment.
Judge Joe always refused the more serious cases—murder, armed robbery, violent assault, and literary plagiarism. He stuck to more domestic themes—the late return of borrowed books, boundary disputes, overgrown hedges, and the wearing of loud ties in public in a provocative manner.
One fellow, Findus McGuigan, defied a straightforward judgement of the court, a minor fine. But Findus reckoned he’d been hard done by and kicked off about it. Everybody told him to put up with it and pay the fine, but he was convinced he’d been in the right. It was pointed out to him that he had agreed to accept the outcome and that whether it was fair, just or even rational was not the issue – he still had to abide by Joe’s decision. He wouldn’t listen. He became more and more demonstrative, even a little paranoid. He decided Joe must have been bribed. Then he told people that it wasn’t Joe he saw at all, but a friend of his opponent in disguise. When nobody listened, he started going around the town, telling people that Joe was clearly possessed by a demon. Finally, he sat in the central square screaming at people, day and night, some gibberish that aliens had come to Hopeless and impersonated Joe just to make his life hell.
Unfortunately for McGuigan, one of the residents of the Square was Gubbins Dreadson, a notorious blue squid merchant. With an evil temper and built like a Gnii factory, Gubbins was a dangerous thug who took a dim view of his sleep being disturbed by one such as Findus McGuigan. Now, it is not for this author to say precisely what happened, particularly as Gubbins is, of course, totally innocent, wouldn’t hurt a fly and is certainly not threatening my person with extreme violence. However, Findus McGuigan was found one morning slumped over and not breathing. Doc Willoughby suggested it was trauma brought on by “paranoic incidents of fantasy” and internal bleeding due to “harmful inconsistencies in his narrative”. Now, I’m not a medical man, so I guess I have to accept what the Doc says, but it’s safe to say that the majority of islanders simply thought it was natural justice. The kind of fate that would befall anyone who went against Judge Joe’s decisions.
Being a good man at heart, Judge Joe was terribly upset for a while after learning of Findus McGuigan’s death, but not for too long.
Funnily enough, no one ever went against Judge Joe’s rulings after that, and Judge Joe became more popular than ever.
The number, and variety, of people turning up unannounced, to the island of Hopeless, Maine, never ceases to amaze me. As I have often mentioned, the relationship that Hopeless enjoys with Time and Space is, to say the very least, complicated. This becomes apparent when you notice that the majority of those deposited by shipwrecks seem to be restricted to arriving from an age when sailing ships breasted the seas, and steam was still something of a novelty.
Others, like Reggie Upton and the late Marjorie Toadsmoor, came to the island in vastly more mysterious circumstances; one minute they were minding their own business, then, with no warning whatsoever, found themselves suddenly gazing out over the foggy Atlantic, thousands of miles away from home. This sort of thing seems to be a fairly recent phenomenon, as I have found no reference to it in early editions of The Vendetta.
You will have noticed that there has been a lot of talk in these pages, lately, about portals, and one can only assume that such accidental visitors to the island must have inadvertently stumbled through one of these mysterious doorways. This theory, however, begs several questions:
(1) Are portals becoming more common? (2) Are they some sort of terrestrial black hole? (3) Why do most of them lead to Hopeless? and (4) the most important, and worrying of all: Are any of us safe? Any lapse in concentration could mean that a hundred-yard trip down to the corner shop, for a newspaper and bottle of milk, could, in the blink of an eye, find you wandering around Scilly Point, Ghastly Green, Creepy Hollow or, heaven forbid, 40 Second Street, where the restless ghost of Clarissa Cockadilly dances her victims to death (see the tale ‘Dancing on a Sunday’).
The only reason that I bring this subject up is the recent appearance on the island of one Benjamin Bencombe, an apparently eccentric, middle-aged man who gives the impression of being permanently stooped, like a question mark; this is the unfortunate result of his life-long habit of examining tiny flowers at close-quarters.
It was Philomena Bucket who first came across him, high on the Gydynap Hills. When asked, he politely informed her that he was looking for Early Gentians. Such had been Benjamin’s concentration on the task in hand that he had no idea that he had somehow managed to leave the gentian-friendly and wonderfully chalky Wiltshire Downs, to accidentally stray into the decidedly gentian-unfriendly environment of the Gydynaps.
“Well, good luck with that,” said Philomena hurriedly, “and if I should be spotting one of them early genitals, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Benjamin gave Philomena an odd, somewhat worried smile, doffed his straw hat and handed her a small business card, which she quickly pocketed before leaving him to his search.
It was later that day, when the first of the evening customers were trailing into The Squid and Teapot, that Philomena related to Septimus Washwell and Reggie Upton her strange conversation with the middle-aged man on the Gydynaps.
“He told me that he was searching for early genitals. I was happy to get away from him; I can tell you.”
Reggie raised a quizzical eyebrow at this, but said nothing.
“He sounds like a strange one,” said Septimus. “What was his name?”
“Sorry, I’ve forgotten,” said Philomena, then she suddenly remembered the business card in her pocket.
“Ah… it says here Benjamin Bencombe, BSc, Botanist… I wonder what BSc stands for?”
“Bat-shit crazy?” suggested Septimus, hopefully.
“Hmm, it would fit,” said Philomena, “but I don’t think ‘bat-shit crazy’ is the sort of thing that people tend to advertise on their calling cards.”
“He is a Bachelor of Science,” said Reggie. There was a world-weary tone to his voice. “And I imagine that he was looking for specimens, not of genitals, but of Early Gentians, the Gentianella anglica, if I am not mistaken, which only grows on British chalk downs.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth before a dishevelled, stooped figure rushed into the bar, slamming the door behind him. His straw hat was battered, his shirt was hanging out, and his bow-tie dangled loose.
“Thank goodness,” he gasped. “Civilization at last!”
“By Jove, you must be Bencombe,” said Reggie, proffering a hand. “Sit down old chap. You look as though you need a drink.”
“What are those evil looking things scuttling about out there on cutlery?” asked Benjamin, terror-stricken. The wild look in the newcomer’s eye suggested to Septimus that his own interpretation of BSc might not have been too far off the mark.
“Spoonwalkers,” said Reggie. “Take it from me, they’re absolutely harmless… just as long as you don’t let them corner you or catch you with their gaze, you’ll be fine.”
“They chased me all the way here,” Benjamin wailed. “Oh gosh, I need to get home. Does anyone know what time the next bus to Marlborough arrives? My wife will be worried.”
“I thought you said that he was a bachelor,” said Philomena to Reggie.
“There might be a slight problem with that, old chap,” said Reggie gently, ignoring Philomena. “Have another drink, my friend, and I will endeavour to explain.”.
Benjamin opened his mouth to say something, but was rendered speechless by the sight of Mr Squash, the Sasquatch, who burst spectacularly through the door and filled up more than his fair-share of the available space.
“Good evening all,” he boomed. “I’ve just brought Durosimi back from the Himalayas. He’s just about survived the journey, but don’t expect to see him around for a week or two, he’s out for the count.”
“Is that..? Is he a..?” Benjamin gulped, unable to finish his sentence.
“I think you will find that he is,” confirmed Reggie.
With a pallor that would not have disgraced a week-old corpse, Benjamin looked at Reggie, and then at Philomena, and said, with a tremor in his voice.
“There won’t be a bus going to Marlborough any time soon, will there?”
While most dogs, given half a chance, will dig up bones, Edward does not. This turns out to be an exceptionally useful skill that islanders will enjoy making use of.
Dead people have been our major import for longer than I care to think about. We have a long and noble tradition of taking the victims of the sea and giving them decent burials. Admittedly that’s always after we’ve carefully gone through their pockets, for evidence of their identities and anything else they might have no further use for.
As a consequence of having so many people to bury, the island graveyards are packed. The thin soil in the graveyards means previous burials are never that far beneath the surface. No one wants to use decent, farmable soil for planting the dead, while much of the island is either far too lightly soiled, or far too boggy.
This has resulted in many unpleasant incidents of accidentally digging someone up while trying to bury a new arrival. Some of our deceased islanders strenuously object to being unearthed, while others are simply unpleasant.
Edward, for reasons best known to himself, has a deep aversion to digging up bones. He does however, very much enjoy digging. Take him into a cemetery and he will cheerfully dig a hole that you can count on not to have any bones in it. By this means, usable grave sites can be identified.
It’s quite possible that Edward is looking for something. We have no idea what, except that it isn’t human bones, and he thinks it might be in one of our many graveyards. This will probably be fine. Probably. There’s no reason for alarm about the idea of a dog on a mission, driven by motives we cannot begin to imagine.
(Thanks to Russel Allison-Hinton for the photo. Story by Nimue.)
