On Good Friday, 2017, which happened to fall on April 14th, I was asked if I might be interested in contributing a little something to ‘The Hopeless Vendetta’. At the time I was enjoying a pub lunch, so I can only imagine that it was the heady combination of warm beer and Stilton cheese that prompted me to agree, saying that I would produce a few words in time for the next edition.
Appropriately for the island of Hopeless, Maine, my first effort was to write an obituary for an elderly actor manager of the Henry Irving variety, named Sir Fromebridge Whitminster. This proved to be an historic moment in the annals of Hopeless, bringing to public attention for the very first time an inn called ‘The Squid and Teapot’, Sir Fromebridge’s favourite watering hole. I think it was generally acknowledged that ‘The Squid’ would somehow take on a life of its own, and so the following week saw my scribblings appear under the banner ‘Tales from the Squid and Teapot’, and featured no less than W.S. Gilbert, of Gilbert & Sullivan fame (in ‘The Sound of the Cutlery Moving’). Gilbert was the first of several well known people to visit, including the blues musician Robert Leroy Johnson and his friend, Johnny Shines (ln ‘Spoonwalker Blues’) – after all, where better than Hopeless to meet the devil on the crossroads? Other guest appearances came from the ocean-going saints, Brendan and Malo (in ‘No Country for Old Mendicants); Captain Edward Smith of the R.M.S. Titanic (in ‘Scilly Point’); the Elizabethen alchemist Doctor John Dee (in ‘The Visions of Doctor Dee’ plus several other tales), along with his friend Edward Kelley and a brief appearance by a young Will Shakespeare (in ‘The Little Ship of Horrors, part 2’). The latest, and less obvious, famous face to be on the island is Adolf Hitler, who had turned up on Hopeless at some point, and had quite forgotten his past, reverting to the family name of Schicklgruber, which his father had changed to ‘Hitler’ in the 1870s. In the tale ‘Krampusnacht,’ Herr Schicklgruber is violently spirited away by the Christmas bogey-man Krampus, so, albeit belatedly, justice was seen to be done.
Occasionally, real-life events have inspired the tales, such as the Centralia mine fire, in Pennsylvania, which has been burning for over sixty years (in ‘Hell’s Mouth’); The legend of the Dutchman’s Gold, which was cited in the tale of that name. In ‘The Persian Runner’, a businessman named Garfield Lawnside attempts to buy Hopeless, not unlike the way in which Donald Trump had designs on purchasing Greenland in 2019.
Several characters have arrived on the island, only to perish fairly soon afterwards. With this being Hopeless, of course, death is rarely the end and not always a disadvantage. Although disappointed and a little perplexed that things did not turn out as expected, the Jesuit priest, Father Ignatius Stamage, seems quite happy to haunt anywhere his hat is hung. When an attempt was made to bring Sir Fromebridge Whitminster back to haunt his scarf, however, he had to decline as he had taken up a position as the ghostly Man in Grey, the spirit who famously haunts London’s Lyceum Theatre (in ‘The Man in Grey’).
Hopeless has experienced its share of fantastic beasts in the tales. Besides the ubiquitous ghouls, vampires and werewolves, the island has seen the terrifying Aboo-dom-k’n, who apparently consumed Sir Fromebridge; the Kraken, on numerous occasions; various Selkies (In ‘People from the sea’ and other tales); the charming, but hideous Argentinian monster, Manchachicoj (in ‘The Stowaway’); the native-American bird-god, Pamola (who my spell-check, annoyingly, insisted on amending to Pamela); the demon, Buer, straight from the 16th-century grimoire, Pseudomonarchia Daemonum, with his lion’s head, from which five legs radiated like the spokes of a wheel (in ‘Bog Oak and Brass’ among other tales) and, most recently, Mr Squash, the eloquent Sasquatch, or Bigfoot, who is visiting Hopeless.
Part of the pleasure, and indeed the pain, in creating these tales is the research – honestly, some of them do require quite a lot of research. Before writing for The Vendetta I knew little or nothing about the people of the Passaquamoddy tribe; Selkies; The workings of the Edison-Bell phonograph; The procedure required for distilling absinthe and other spirits; The Brendan Voyage; Francis Younghusband and the British invasion of Tibet; The Quest for the fabled North-West Passage; Night-Soil Men (yes, they really did exist); Downeasters; Balloonists; The Pseudomonarchia Daemonum; The haunted Salamanca caves of Argentina; The Danse Apache and the Can-Can – which, you may imagine, obviously took a great deal of YouTube research! (incidentally, some of you may have noticed that the name of the Can-can troupe who are shipwrecked on the island, Les Demoiselles de Moulin Rouge, is a direct steal from Picasso’s painting, Les Demoiselles D’Avignon). I could go on, but after seven years the list seems endless.
I was fortunate in inheriting, from Tom and Nimue’s original vision, a wealth of marvellous characters, whom they kindly allowed me to use and abuse as I pleased. Best, of all of these for me, is Drury, the skeletal hound. Drury is a gift for any dog-lover to write. He has also given me what I consider to be my best tale-title so far, being ‘The Curious Case of the Dog in the Nightdress,’ which describes his first meeting with Philomena Bucket. No one on the island knows anything of Drury’s origins, but I did attempt to suggest how things might have been in the tale ‘A Dog’s Life,’ which, I confess, reduced me to tears in the writing.
So, I am writing this on the fourteenth of April 2024, exactly seven years after being first approached to contribute ‘a little something’ to The Vendetta. There have been a couple of short breaks during that period, but I reckon there must be about three hundred tales told in the series, so far. Occasionally, in the vague hope of continuity, I dig an early one out and have no recollection whatsoever of having written it. For all I know it could be a true account of events that have occurred, or may yet occur. As a believer in the possibility of a multiverse, therefore, I like to think that somewhere out there Durosimi, Doc Willoughby, Philomena , Reggie and all the rest – especially Drury – are wandering about in the fog, just an arm’s reach away on the island of Hopeless Maine.
There are many possible early signs that a person may be turning into a Crow Queen. Cawing, and scavenging on the beach are especially suspicious when both occur at the same time. Sprouting feathers is highly indicative.
Sprouting remains a complex business affecting many of us in different ways. What emerges through the skin may turn into tendrils, feathery leaves or seaweed rather than actual feathers. We’ve all seen that happen enough times. People are very much like plants in that you cannot trust what happens in the early sprouting phase to indicate what will later appear.
We can now be confident that Jennifer is indeed sprouting feathers, and that she is therefore well under way to becoming a crow queen. The degree to which this process will drive her mad remains to be seen, but at present she remains very much in her wits, and only caws at other crows.
Should you see her while you are out and about, I strongly recommend giving her something shiny. Giving gifts to crow queens is said to bring good fortune. As I hope we now all understand after last summer’s events, happy crow queens make for happy islanders. Well, if not happy, at least possessed of their usual number of eyeballs.
Uncle Petunia Jones exists largely as a skull, occasionally making pronouncements from the mantlepiece. Uncle Petunia has identified as a skull for some years now.
Aunt Petunia Jones continues much as ever, dishing out wisdom and judgement alike in a much more mobile sort of way.
You will of course never see them in the same place at the same time, but according to Aunt Petunia, it’s always been that way, apparently even as children you would only ever encounter one of them. They prefer to take it in turns, she says, and he was always on the antisocial side anyway.
(Cosplay by Cat Strauss, story concept by James Weaslegrease, actual writing bit by Nimue.)
It was a dismal April afternoon, even by the standards of Hopeless, Maine.
A cruel wind roared in from the Atlantic, bringing with it driving rain and freezing temperatures.
Reggie Upton had planned to do a spot of flaneuring that afternoon, but it would clearly be out of the question now; in order to flaneur properly one would need clement weather, preferably with a spot of sunshine.
“You definitely won’t be flanneling anywhere today,” stated Philomena Bucket, as if reading Reggie’s mind.
The old soldier had long ago given up correcting Philomena’s pronunciation.
“But if you’re at a loose end, I could do with someone tidying up in the top attic,” she added.
Reggie sighed. While he was always happy to rummage in any of The Squid and Teapot’s several attics, tidying up sounded like too much of a chore.
“What is up there that so desperately needs tidying?” he asked, imagining piles of clothing, curtains and bedding, all unwanted, even by the less than affluent residents of Hopeless.
“Books, mainly,” she replied.
Reggie brightened. He liked books.
“Very well, m’dear, I’m always happy to help,” he said.
Philomena Bucket is no fool. It was obvious to her that Reggie was going to mope around all day, getting underfoot and feeling generally sorry for himself. A few hours surrounded by a small mountain of books would do him the world of good.
From the earliest days of the Founding Families, successive landlords of the inn had salvaged every shipwrecked item that they could lay their hands on, simply on the basis that, one day, these things would eventually ‘come in handy’. By and large the policy worked well, but the number of unwanted books grew and grew each year. It is sad to relate that, with one or two exceptions, the islanders of Hopeless are not great bibliophiles.
Reggie was sitting on a pile of slightly mildewed volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, happily thumbing through an anthology of Victorian poetry. He smiled to himself at the familiarity of some of these verses, many of which he had been required to learn by heart as a schoolboy. His eye fell upon Robert Browning’s ‘Home Thoughts from Abroad”.
“Oh to be in England, now that April’s here…’
He spoke the words aloud, and as he did so, looked out through the tiny attic window, rain-lashed and grimy, on to a cheerless vista.
“Oh to be in England, now that April’s here,” he repeated to himself, “I wonder if I shall ever see England again?”
By the following morning the storm had blown itself out. Taking advantage of the change in the weather, Reggie decked himself out in his best three-piece tweed suit, put a shine on his shoes, set his Homburg hat at a rakish angle and went off flaneuring, sword stick in hand. The true flaneur has no definite destination in mind, only a desire to watch the world go by as they meander on their way. Reggie adhered to this philosophy to a degree, but making sure that his aimless wandering would cross the path of Mr Squash, the Sasquatch who was temporarily visiting the island. In recent weeks the two had become firm friends, close enough, in Reggie’s estimation, that it would not be too impertinent to ask Mr Squash for a small favour.
“England? No, I have not been there.” said the Sasquatch. “I hear that there are no great forests anymore in England.”
“My dear chap,” said Reggie, “there is the New Forest, the Forest of Dean, Sherwood Forest, Epping Forest…”
“These are little more than copses, compared with the vast forests of North America,” said Mr Squash, “and far too small for someone like me to live in.”
“But, even so, is there a chance that you would take me there?” asked Reggie.
“Sorry,” said Mr Squash. “Taking a human through one of my portals is perilous beyond belief – Winston was close to death, so I took a chance with him. And anyway, any portal I might have had to your homeland is long disused and dangerous. Besides, the country has probably changed a lot since you were last there. You may find that the England of today is far removed from the one you left in nineteen-twelve.”
“Nonsense,” said Reggie, emphatically. “England will never change!”
Reggie had known for a long time that Philomena was the last of a long line of powerful witches. It did not surprise or bother him. He had seen enough of the world to know that there was far more to it than that which is visible to mortal eyes. The love of his life, the Theosophist, Annie Besant, had taught him that much in India. Maybe Philomena had some means to let him see his beloved England again.
Philomena shook her head.
*I am sorry Reggie,” she said. “If I had the ability to help people to leave Hopeless, the island would be empty by now.”
“Is there nothing you can do?” Reggie was almost begging. “I would love to see the place where I grew up, just one more time.”
Philomena thought for a moment, then held out her hands. “Take my hands, close your eyes and visualise where it is that you wish to visit.”
Reggie did as he was told, and to his surprise a wonderfully vivid picture immediately came into his mind. He could clearly see the meadow where he played as a child, with the little stream running through it. It was springtime, and the grass was starred with daisies and scatterings of soft yellow primroses. A blackthorn hedge separated the meadow from an ancient, majestic beech wood, which looked dark and cool in the light of an early April morning.
A tear escaped from Reggie’s closed eyes, then he gasped.
The picture was changing.
Little by little the meadow and woodland disappeared beneath a sprawl of streets and brick-built houses; the little stream was lost forever.
Reggie could take no more, and opened his eyes.
“Is that really..?” he could not complete his sentence.
Philomena nodded and squeezed his hand. “We need to get back to The Squid and Teapot,” she said. “It’s time to go home.”
Being an anti-establishment figure is probably a lot easier when you have an establishment to rail against. Here on Hopeless, we have long prided ourselves in our absolute refusal to have a town council, put anyone in charge or accept anyone’s authority. Obviously if you want to accept someone’s authority you are totally at liberty to do so. Reverend Davies and Durosimi O’Stoat have reliably offered themselves as people willing to tell other people what to do.
It is true that life on Hopeless is grim, and our lack or organisation probably contributes to that. And so it is that the strife between rugged individualism and community-mindedness will likely continue forever, or at least until we are all eaten by monstrous beings.
When Martin first landed here, he was quickly found in the pub talking about the need to unite against our oppressors. Fine, and rousing speeches were made, and we all enjoyed the novelty of that. Organising against our actual oppressors remains difficult – the hard and uncaring land on which we dwell, the cruel weather, the relentless sea, and the ravenous eldritch horrors.
What Martin has taught us is that we don’t really want to organise at all. Fighting the horrors is futile. What we want to do is go down the pub now and then to sing rousing songs about overcoming oppression, uniting as workers and demanding better conditions. It’s all rather jolly, so long as no one imagines actually doing anything.
Arthur Foot III, one half of the famous music hall act The Cogkneys (available for concerts, weddings, bar mitzvahs, the opening of fetes, and possibly even the opening of an envelope), was knelt down next to an old wooden tea crate in the attic of the meagre, but sufficient dwelling they resided in. “Tilly”, he called, “I’ve got something to show you.”
Tilly Maydme, the other half of the famous music hall act The Cogkneys (available for etc.), shouted up from somewhere below. “Arthur, I am NOT falling for that one again.”
“No, Tilly,” Arthur sighed, “Come up and have a look at these old books.”
“All right, but I’m warning you, Arthur.” She ascended into the roof space to join her partner in crime – the crime in question being music hall entertainment.
“Do you remember old Uncle Gan?’ Asked Arthur.
“The one who wore a big hooded cloak, carried a long mystical staff with a glowing orb on its top and who kept going on about his bus pass?” Replied Tilly.
“Yes, although I don’t think he said bus pass. Anyway, he left behind a whole ton of stuff, most of which I got rid of, but this box of books looked valuable. Look at this one.” He handed Tilly a dusty tome bound in leather.
“Cor, Arthur, that’s heavy. Is it a good story?”
“I don’t think these are stories, Tilly. Look, this small one is some sort of notebook; I think it might have poems in it.”
“Ooh, we can make poems into songs – we could do with some new material.”
“Oh, Tilly, you shouldn’t believe the critics; the old material is still good; we’ve been performing it for years.”
“Arthur, these are dead peculiar sorts of poems. ‘Ere, listen to this one…” And Tilly started reading from the notebook, reciting a strange set of words that seemed to overlap and form a complex rhyme. Her voice was starting to sound very strange. She seemed to be chanting the words now, and her body stiffened. She was entering a trance-like state.
“Er, Tilly. I don’t think that’s a poem. I think, maybe you should stop now. Tilly? TILLY!!” Arthur shook his companion, but as he did so, everything changed, the room faded away and floorboards gave way to grass, the roof became sky, and the darkness of the attic was replaced with daylight.
Without wasting a second, Arthur grabbed the notebook from Tilly’s hands and stuffed it in a pocket for safekeeping. “We’d better not read from that notebook again.”
“Oooh-err, I feel all funny,” said Tilly.
“Save it for the act!” Responded Arthur without thinking.
“No, I feel right peculiar.” She looked around and took note of their surroundings. “’Ere, where are we? What happened?”
“It appears your accidental oration of a powerful incantation invoked a transference conjuncture, relocating our corporal essences to another locus in the space-time continuum.” Arthur elucidated.
“Wot?”
“We’re somewhere else”.
“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so! Sometimes Arthur you can be so inscrotable.”
“Hmm, let’s look around. Maybe we can find some clues as to where we are, or possibly even when we are.” Arthur surveyed the immediate area.
“’Ere, what’s that, Arthur?” Tilly pointed. Arthur followed her finger and saw a strange creature lurking under a bush. There was a quick flash of silver as the light caught something wrapped in the creature’s legs. “Are they spoons?” Asked Tilly.
“And look over there” This time it was Arthur who was pointing. “Those birds over there have translucent bellies and long sharp beaks. You know what this means Tilly?”
“They’re not chickens?” she replied.
“No, it means that we are on a mythical island, full of dangerous creatures and dangerous plants and shrubs, peopled by dangerous characters – smugglers, drunkards and neer-do-wells.”
“Well, it don’t look like the Isle of Wight to me. Honestly, Arthur, you’ve no idea where we are, Arthur, have you? No idea. This is hopeless.”
“Yes, Tilly, yes, it is.”
“What a bloomin’ mess. And us with no idea where we are.”
“No, don’t you see, we are on the island of Hopeless, Maine. I’ve read stories about this. In fact, there was a particularly good one called “The Oddatsea.” I can highly recommend that one. Anyway, we best get to somewhere safer, maybe there’s a town over there – see the smoke?”
So, the music hall pair made their way down a well-worn dirt track towards the distant buildings.
–◊–
After a few minutes walking along the track, it started to narrow. The forest, which had gradually been getting denser, closed in on both sides. Suddenly, there was a shout and a number of oddly dressed men and women armed with knives and makeshift clubs jumped out onto the road. Within seconds, they were surrounded.
“Arthur, we’re surrounded!” exclaimed Tilly.
They were grabbed, and strange-smelling cloths were placed roughly over their mouths. Then it all went black. When they awoke, they were in some sort of warehouse. All their personal effects were gone. They were both tied to chairs facing a small, rough stage on which a man dressed in wispy clothes was standing. He looked down and addressed them.
“We are the Worshippers of The Fog, and you have been chosen!” He shouted at them.
“Oh, in’t that nice Arthur? We must’ve won a competition or somefink.” Tilly looked at Arthur excitedly.
“You have been chosen… to be sacrificed!” announced the fog cultist imperiously.
“Oh dear,” said Arthur.
“What, both of them? We’ve only ever tried to sacrifice one victim before,” came a questioning voice from the throng.
“Silence! Drastic times call for drastic measures. Now that The Fog is gone, we must make a special effort to summon it from beyond. Clearly, The Fog demands a powerful offering! An exceptional sacrifice of extraordinary portent! Unfortunately, these two are all we’ve got, so they will have to do,” Replied the cult leader.
“Ere, whadya mean we will do? I’ll have you know we are The Cogkneys. Music Hall artistes supreme, the toast of London, well, Walthamstow anyway, (available for etc.).” Tilly proclaimed.
“Tilly, we had toast in Walthamstow; it’s not the same thing.” Said Arthur. “And I don’t think this lot really care about music hall; they seem terribly uncultured to me.”
“Uncultured? How dare you! Responded the cult leader angrily. “We appreciate the finer things in life. We are all intelligent, art-loving, refined fanatical cultists!” The milling crowd murmured and nodded in agreement.
“Oh really?” Asked Arthur. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely, and we are big fans of the music hall, you know.” Assured the head cultist.
“Right, well, in that case, how about we perform for you, and if you like us, you let us go, proving once and for all you are cultured intellectual high-brow zealots, and if you don’t like what we do, then you can sacrifice us.” Arthur offered.
“Arthur!” Tilly worriedly exclaimed.
“It’s alright, I have a plan.” Whispered Arthur.
“It better be better than all your other plans. Do you remember that time we went to Margate…”
“Shh, Tilly.”
The lead cultist seemed to consider for a moment. “You want to perform for us? And if you entertain us to our satisfaction, we let you go? I don’t know; we still need sacrifices, you know.”
“Look,” countered Arthur, “Are you enlightened, discerning, erudite, intellectual, devotees…”
“What?” interrupted the cultist with a look of incomprehension.
“…Or just stupid yokels fixated on water vapour?” continued Arthur.
“We are not yokels, we represent the finest Hopeless has to offer!” Exclaimed the lead cultist. “Pillars of our society! And we know what’s best for the good of the Island. We accept your challenge. Roger, I mean Fogman Sergeant, untie these two and get them onto the stage.”
“How are we going to perform without our instruments and music? “Asked Tilly of Arthur.
“We will have to do it acapella.” Replied Arthur.
“Bloomin’ ‘eck Arthur, I’m never, not taking my clothes off for nobody,” Tilly said firmly.
“No, Tilly, acapella means… Look, never mind. We will just have to sing unaccompanied.”
“Oh, well, I suppose we could manage.”
“Now, do you still have the notebook?” Arthur asked.
“Nah, them’s took it off me when we were rudely waylaid.” Tilly paused, then giggled.
“What?”
“Waylaid – sounds rude, don’t it? Heh, heh.”
“Tilly, concentrate, for goodness’ sake. Which one took it?”
“I dunno, I was out cold. Look, is that it over there on the table with our other stuff?” Tilly pointed to the back of the room.
“Yes, you’re right. Hmm, this does make it a little more difficult.” Arthur pondered for a moment.
“Wot yer thinkin’ Arthur?”
“Well, Tilly, it was the notebook that transported us here. Maybe there is some verse within it that can take us back home.”
“Oh, that’s just ridiculous, Arthur.” Scoffed Tilly.
“I know, but it’s all the author’s got.” Arthur replied.
“Perform for us, Cockneys!” Demanded the lead cultist.
“It’s COG-kneys, actually.” Said Tilly petulantly.
“NOW”, emphasised the fogman.
Arthur and Tilly went into their well-rehearsed routine and as usual started off with their instrumental theme tune, which they had to perform by going “la, la, la,” and then they introduced themselves with some well-worn, comedic banter.
After a few songs and their usual ribald patter in between, Arthur sensed it wasn’t going particularly well. The audience was sitting down politely listening, but they weren’t laughing much or applauding.
“Tilly, it’s now or never. We are going to have to put my plan into action. I need you to distract them whilst I sneak back and get the notebook. I need you to go all out.”
“Whaddya mean? I told you I ain’t doing burly-esk”
“No Tilly, I need two magnificent big…”
“Arthur!”
“Songs, Tilly, songs. I need you to beguile them, to entrance them, to captivate them with your performance. Two showstoppers!”
“Ah! Well, I’ll does me best. Here goes…”
As Tilly burst into song and belted out a proper soulful ballad, Arthur sneaked off the stage. He had to admit, when Tilly went for it, she was an incredible performer. The cultists appeared enraptured with her voice and her graceful movements on the stage. Arthur knew he had to make good on this excellent distraction. Sidling around the darkened edges of the warehouse, he made it to the table at the back. Pocketing their personal items, he grabbed the notebook and carefully made his way back to the stage.
The audience was so taken with Tilly that they hadn’t noticed his absence, and they burst into spontaneous and sustained applause as she finished the song.
“Now,” announced Arthur, “We’d like to perform a short poem.” He produced the notebook and passed it to Tilly, whispering, “Read – quickly!”
“Which one?” Tilly asked as the cultists shifted nervously in their seats.
“Any one!” Answered Arthur desperately.
Tilly opened the book and started reading. As she did so, the cultists exchanged glances; what was going on?
“Hey, isn’t that the notebook we took off them earlier?” One shouted.
So far, nothing was happening on the stage, ”Quick, try another” urged Arthur.
Tilly flipped to a different page and started reading. The words came out as a chant. Almost at once, a glow appeared in the centre of the warehouse. All the cultists turned to look as a large yellow sofa materialised. The glow stopped.
“But not that one!” Arthur bellowed above the cultists’ shouts. The fog fanatics had been momentarily distracted by the sofa’s appearance, but apart from one or two who were now plumping its cushions and sitting on it, the rest were approaching the stage, menacingly brandishing their clubs and knives.
Tilly flipped another page and once more began reading. Meanwhile the cultists were edging towards them, mounting the steps on each side of the stage.
Then Tilly’s voice became a chant, the words she uttered were mysterious and strange; they passed over one another in a way that unsettled the mind. The cultists stopped – they seemed scared, perhaps because, for the first time in their lives, they had actually encountered something genuinely otherworldly.
“Is it The Fog returning?” asked one with an air of wonder in her voice.
“No, you idiots, they are trying to get away – stop them!” Commanded the lead cultist.
But it was too late. Whatever incantation Tilly had found was working. Their surroundings were getting fainter like a mist had sprung up between them. As the noise of the cultists’ shouts faded away, our valiant music hall duo departed that fateful place.
To the cultists, it was as if a swirling cloud had taken them.
“It’s The Fog!” A man proclaimed.
“The Fog has taken them. It’s a miracle!” said another.
“No” protested the lead cultist, but he was drowned out by a dozen voices shouting, “The Fog! The Fog has claimed them; praise be to THE FOG!”
–◊–
“Cor blimey, thank Victoria that’s over!” Said Tilly, dusting herself off.
“Yes, that was a close one and no mistake. Bit of a scrape eh?” Remarked Arthur.
“Yeah, a proper escape!” Replied Tilly. “But where are we now? Are we home?”
“Hmm, let’s have a look around.”
“Oh, look, it’s all right, we’re a little way from home, but at least we are in England. It’s the Blackpool Tower, Arthur.” Tilly pointed to a large metal construction.
“Erm, Tilly…”
“Yes, Arthur?”
“Unfortunately, that’s the wrong erection.”
“Arthur – you are always being so rude.” Then she smiled at him, ”But I’ll forgive you after what we’ve been through. But just the once, mind.”
“No, Tilly. This is the tower designed and built by Monsieur Eiffel. It’s the the Eiffel Tower. We are in Paris, France.”
Since re-visiting the fog-bound island of Hopeless, Maine, following an absence of several years, Mr Squash, the Sasquatch, had spent his nights assisting Winston Oldspot, the young Night-Soil Man. During daylight hours he delighted in looking up old friends and making new acquaintances. It is fair to say that Mr Squash is, and always has been, a sociable sort of fellow, despite his fearsome appearance. This is not his fault; being nine feet tall and weighing-in at eight hundred pounds is enough to make even the most belligerent aggressor feel somewhat threatened.
“It’s good to have you back on Hopeless,” said Bartholomew Middlestreet with a warm smile.
“It is only temporary,” replied Mr Squash. “In fact, if your Night-Soil Man had not got himself lost, I wouldn’t be here at all.”
“We would ask you in,” said Bartholomew’s wife, Ariadne, apologetically. “But our new home is a bit on the small side.”
“Well, it is certainly a lot smaller than The Squid and Teapot,” said Mr Squash with a laugh. “You must miss the old place, sometimes.”
“Oh, we do,” replied Bartholomew, “but it was high time that I retired. It’s a comfort to know that The Squid is in good hands, with Rhys and Philomena running it.”
“And they’ve got some very modern ideas,” added Ariadne, approvingly. “They even have baby-changing facilities.”
Mr Squash frowned, then said in puzzled tones, “Oh well, I guess that there must be some folks who aren’t happy with the one that they’ve got.”
It was later that day that Reggie Upton suggested that the Sasquatch should go with him to meet Septimus Washwell and his wife, Mirielle. After the birth of their twin daughters at Christmas, the new family had moved into what had long been known as the Blomqvist cottage, a comfortable but quite tiny home, out at Scilly Point. In order to meet Mr Squash, it was arranged that Ariadne would look after the children, and Septimus and Mirielle go to the Dance Studio, where Mirielle’s Can-Can troupe, Les Demoiselles de Hopeless, Maine, taught, rehearsed and, in the case of the unmarried girls, lived. This establishment was formerly known as Madame Evadne’s Lodging House for Discerning Gentlemen and, like The Squid and Teapot, is one of the larger buildings on the island, and easily able to accommodate Mr Squash’s impressive bulk.
Mirielle viewed Mr Squash with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. It must be said that this was inclined to be her default position when it came to meeting anyone, but she had, over the years, heard several stories regarding the creatures generally referred to as Bigfoot, and they did not soothe her. She was glad that the children were safely at home with Ariadne.
Meanwhile, Septimus, sitting with his fingers crossed, reflected that, all things considered, the meeting was going exceptionally well and, so far, Mirielle had not said anything remotely insulting or insensitive, as she was often inclined to do.
Then things changed.
“Monsieur Squash, one thing puzzles me…”
“And what might that be, my dear?” asked Mr Squash, half suspecting what might be the cause of the dancer’s puzzlement.
She waved vaguely in the area of the Sasquatch’s groin and said, “You appear to have no… what is the word…?
No one rushed to supply her with the word that had mercifully eluded her.
You will have noticed that any pictorial depictions of a Yeti, Bigfoot, or whatever you wish to call the creature, have always appeared to be coy in this respect. When confronted by Mr Squash in the flesh (or fur, to be more correct), however, it quickly becomes obvious that coyness has played no part in the matter. Mr Squash, and presumably others of his species, appear to be completely devoid of any obvious sexual characteristics. This feature – or the lack thereof – had been the ‘Elephant in the Room’ on more than one occasion. Certainly no one on Hopeless had felt moved to mention the matter; that is, until now.
“Oh, I certainly do,” said Mr Squash, without a hint of embarrassment. “Would you like to see?”
Mirielle’s face lit up with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “Mais oui…” she began.
“May we spare you the inconvenience,” broke in Reggie hurriedly. “I am sure everyone here is perfectly happy to take your word on this, old chap, though it is no one else’s business, of course.” He gave Mirielle his best parade-ground frown, but she disregarded him.
“But where…?” she insisted.
“You know how a kangaroo has a pouch..?” began Mr Squash.
“What’s a kangaroo?” asked Septimus.
The others ignored him.
“Well,” continued Mr Squash, “we Sasquatches have a similar arrangement, but we don’t carry our young in our pouch. It has another function altogether, a little gift from nature, allowing us to safely convey and protect our…”
“Fascinating, fascinating,” broke-in Reggie, once more. “Thank goodness that’s cleared that puzzle up. Now, maybe we should go to…”
“A pouch is a most useful, not to say versatile, thing to possess,” reflected Mr Squash. “You humans have to wear clothes with pockets, or carry bags, whereas we Sasquatches have a built-in safe place to store all sorts of useful things. Oh, that reminds me…”
His hand disappeared into a hitherto unnoticed fold in his fur and, after a certain amount of rummaging, extracted a large slice of starry-grabby-pie. “Philomena gave me this earlier,” he explained, “I don’t really like it. Does anyone want a bite?”
Reggie, Septimus and Mirielle hurriedly thanked him, politely pointing out that they had just eaten and could not possibly manage another thing.
Those you who know the tales told at The Squid and Teapot. will be aware of the legend of the little drummer boy. He’s often appeared as a harbinger of death, or perhaps trying to warn islanders away from dangers hidden in the fog. If you hear his drumming, then you should either follow him to safety, or haste away to safety. None of us know which choice is more likely to prove fatal as reports are awkwardly mixed.
If you hear drums at night, we can now report that you might not be hearing the little drummer boy at all. It might possibly be Steven, who is of perfectly average height and could not, even in a bad light, be mistaken for a child. He does however have a drum. According to Steven, he is using the drum to ‘stop them coming out of the trees.’ He has refused to elaborate on this statement.
The best advice this reporter can offer you is to stay away from the woods at night – which you were almost certainly doing anyway. There is a plentiful supply of eldritch horrors in the trees. Whether any of them are inclined to emerge, or are attracted or repelled by drumming has yet to be established.
Lead research botanist and chemist of the Hopeless Horticultural Society
Notes on The ‘Phallus Flacidious’ or Hopeless Stinkhorn
The common Stinkhorn is well known beyond these shores as a fungi best described with care in the compony of ladies. Indeed, a gentleman taking a young lady with an interest in botany out into the woods does well to avoid any patching of Stinkhorns he may recall. If, however the gentleman botanist is unfortunate enough to come across a common stinkhorn while escorting a young lady on a woodland excursion it is recommended in several journals on the subject of stinkhorns he attack the fungi with his cudgel.*
One notes, no gentleman of the Hopeless Horticultural Society should ever enter perambulate the woods without a robust cudgel of some description or at the very least a sturdy walking cane.
Quite apart from anything else they are useful for incentivising research orphans, the idle wastrels, by means of swift percussion. There are also of course ‘things’ in the woods of Hopeless of more danger to both the botanist and any young lady he may be escorting than fungi of an immoral nature and whilst it is the duty of research orphans to throw themselves between danger and the botanist, they prove cowardly in such endeavours as oft as not. Scampering away at the first sign on danger.
There is however, a note of warning, while there are many verities of the common stinkhorn on the island, standing proudly in defiance of decency. The Botanist should beware of cudgelling the increasingly common ‘Phallus Flacidious’ or Hopeless Stinkhorn. A variety of stinkhorn considered unique to the island which in defiance of its more erect relatives tends to grow a little then collapse under its own weight and slump to the ground. While this is of course less of a threat to the innocence minds of young ladies, I have come to believe the Hopeless stinkhorn lets out spores that affect the mind of gentlemen as this is the only reasonable explanation of why the sight of it incites strange feelings of inadequacy in this botanist.
While the dangers of escorting young impressionable ladies on naturalist excursions should be obvious, one also notes that the use of the word ‘naturalist’ in this context can easily be misconstrued. As Mrs Beaton took great pains to explain to us while wielding a wooden spoon. One advises the botanist does not use the word in her vicinity, and also that he makes it very clear when inviting young ladies to take a stroll through the verdant splendour of the wild arboretums of Hopeless he is doing so in order to invest in her his knowledge of nature’s wonders and not in order to gain knowledge of the wonders of the young lady in the garb of nature…
Additional note: Unfortunately, while this botanist has on occasion requested the company of several young ladies of the island on his woodland excursions, they seem reluctant to venture out with him. Even when it is made plain that the research organ will be accompanying them into the woods.
Nevertheless one does ones best to cudgel any common stinkhorns one comes across for sake of public decency.
*This is all true, Victorian gentlemen did indeed take cudgels to stinkhorns all the time according to the Woodland Trust and I am not about to argue with botanists. They know exactly which fungi are poisonous.
(Text and logo by Mark Hayes, realistic illustration of stinkhorn toadstools by Nimue)
“Well, I must say, you smell a darn sight better than when I saw you last.”
Rhys Cranham, who had been sweeping the courtyard of The Squid and Teapot, stopped abruptly in his tracks. He recognised those deep, velvety tones at once, despite it being a voice that he had not heard for years.
He turned slowly on his heels, hardly daring to believe that it could really be…
“Mr Squash, as I live and breathe,” he said, his face wreathed in smiles. “What brings you to Hopeless again? I thought that you hated the place.”
“Oh, just he usual,” said the Sasquatch, a twinkle in his dark brown eyes. “Getting young Night-Soil Men out of trouble.”
Rhys grinned, remembering how Mr Squash had extracted him from a most unpleasant encounter with a ghoul, many years earlier. But he was young and green then, not much older than Winston Oldspot is now…
“Winston!” he exclaimed, worriedly realising what the Sasquatch had said. “Is he okay?”
“He is fine,” said Mr Squash. “He just wandered into somewhere where he shouldn’t.”
“I had no idea that you two knew each other,” said Reggie Upton. ”I brought Mr S over, thinking that he might like to meet Philomena.”
Rhys had been so taken with meeting his old friend again that he had not noticed Reggie. This was understandable, for even Reggie’s military bearing was completely overshadowed beside the Sasquatch’s nine foot height and eight-hundred pound bulk.
“Yes… of course,” said Rhys, uncertainly. “I’ll go and fetch her.”
Philomena had seen all sorts since coming to Hopeless, but maybe she ought to be assured, before seeing Mr Squash, that he was friendly.
Before anyone could move there was a clatter on the cobbles that sounded not dissimilar to a dinner-service falling out of a cupboard, onto concrete. Then Drury, the skeletal hound, burst around the corner, an array of freshly washed underwear in his mouth.
On seeing Mr Squash he drew up noisily, did a double-take, then bounded joyfully towards him, hurling himself at the mountainous bulk of the Sasquatch with a force that would have knocked a lesser body on its back. If anyone had doubted their friendship before, Drury’s frantically wagging tail would have put them right.
“Drury, you old rascal,” laughed Mr Squash, scratching the dog’s bony skull in the place where his ears would have been. “Are you still here? You must be almost as old as I am.”
Just then a flustered-looking Philomena Bucket appeared, brandishing a broom.
“Drury, you no good bag of bones…” she cried, then, seeing the strange tableau in front of her, drew to an abrupt halt.
“What the devil…” she began.
“Um… Philomena, meet my old friend, Mr Squash,” said Rhys.
The heavy oak door of The Squid and Teapot is usually large enough to accommodate most of the inn’s patrons, but the Sasquatch had to bend almost double to get through it. Once in, however, he could comfortably stand. The oldest part of The Squid was once a church, possibly the earliest structure built on the island. Since then, through its various incarnations, the building had been added to, both outwards, upwards and even downwards. Happily for Mr Squash the original high ceilings of the church, where the bar is now located, remain as lofty and impressive as ever.
Mr Squash lowered himself down onto the stout wooden settle that runs along one wall of the bar. The others looked on in trepidation, mentally crossing fingers that the seat was sufficient to the task. Luck, and the joints of the settle, held and all was well.
Despite his bulk and appearance, Philomena found their guest to be as well-mannered and charming as any whom she had met, and soon felt at ease in his company.
“That’s an unusual name you have there,” she said, ignoring Rhys’ disapproving gaze.
“It is,” agreed Mr Squash, “though it’s one that I have had for quite a few years now.”
“Go on then,” said Philomena. “Spill the beans.”
Rhys glared at her again, but she pretended not to notice.
“I used to ramble all over the country, back when there were more trees and fewer roads,” began Mr Squash. “One day a young fellow, not more than a boy, took a pot-shot at me with some pea-shooter of a fire-stick… I don’t know what you call them.”
“Rifle, I imagine,” volunteered Reggie.
“Whatever it was, I admit it stung a bit and it got me riled up enough to pick him up by his neck and shake him. Then I saw the fear in his eyes, and I dropped the lad, badly twisting his ankle. I felt awful about that, and to cut a long story short, I picked him up and carried him back to the settlement where he lived. After that he would seek me out, and we became friends. I showed him the secrets of the forest and he taught me to speak English. I watched him grow into a strapping young man, who eventually married and raised a fine family. He had a daughter named Jemima, and she was the one who first called me Mr Squash.”
“But why did she call you that?” insisted Philomena.
Rhys could see that she was not going to let this go, so he gave up trying to catch her eye.
“Well, one day, after we had known each other for a while, this young fellow asks me my name. Until then a name was nothing that I had any need for, so I told him what the people in the North-West used to call me, when I lived among them.
“Sasquatch will do fine,” I said. “ So what’s your name?”
“Daniel Boone,” he replied. “But you can call me Dan.”
Mr Squash had a dreamy, distant look in his eyes.
“That was a long time ago,” he said. “But like I told you, it was little Jemima Boone who started calling me Mr Squash, because Sasquatch was too darned tricky for her to say. And it caught on, as simple as that!”
It was later that evening, and the Sasquatch had left to forage for some food.
“There is nothing suitable for me to eat on this island,” he had declared, “but I’ll be back in an hour or so to help Winston.”
“Where does he go to eat?” asked Philomena.
“Through one of his portals to somewhere far away,” said Rhys. “And don’t get excited. You couldn’t pass through even if you knew where it is.”
“He’s a strange one, for sure,” said Philomena. “And he’s really old, as well.”
“So are you,“ said Rhys.
“No I’m not. I was just born a long time ago,” she retorted. “And Daniel Boone was around years before that.”
“Those must have been the days when people had manners, and didn’t pry into other folk’s business,” said Rhys, expertly ducking to avoid the broom aimed for the back of his head.
Author’s note: In the tale ‘About Time’, Philomena revealed to Reggie that, despite being only thirty, she was born in the year 1795. As has been previously mentioned on several occasions, Hopeless Maine has a complicated relationship with time and space.
