Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Yeti

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Reggie Upton, as you may recall, has no sense of smell, a relic of his days as an army officer in the India of the British Raj. As a result of this, and unlike others, he is able to happily enjoy the company of Winston Oldspot, the young Night-Soil Man, without fainting, gagging or throwing up.

There had been a recent occasion when Winston had gone missing for the best part of a week. Reggie had been terribly worried, and made a promise to himself that he would, in future, keep an eye on the lad, and make sure that he stayed safe. For a short while there seemed to be no threats to Winston’s well-being, then, one evening, to his horror, he discovered the young man apparently entertaining what appeared to be a Yeti. Although Reggie felt immediate panic, the old soldier that he was came swiftly to the fore, and he chose not to betray his feelings. Instead, he set his homburg firmly on his head, and prepared himself to join the pair with a jaunty air, a welcoming smile, and his trusty sword-stick at the ready.

You may ask why Reggie believed Winston’s companion – whom we know as Mr Squash – to be a Yeti, or indeed, how he had even heard of such beings. This is no great mystery; it was simply because the creature bore a marked resemblance to a sketch he had once been shown by a certain Lieutenant Colonel Francis Younghusband, a fellow officer who had led a British expedition to Tibet in the early 1900s. Reminiscing on his adventures a year or two later, Younghusband claimed, over a few drinks in the mess one evening, to have encountered a family of very large, ape-like animals, high in the Himalayas. As if to prove his point, he produced a sketch of the group, which he had purportedly drawn from life.

“Our Sherpa guides called them ‘Metoh Kangmi’ which translates as ‘The Scruffy Snowman’,” he explained. “It’s not a very complimentary moniker, is it, chaps? To my eyes they seem quite noble, in their own way. I prefer the other name by which they’re known, which is ‘The Bear of the Rock-Strewn Places.’ That’s a bit of a mouthful in English, but in Tibetan it sounds something like ‘Yeti.’

Until now, Reggie had taken Frankie Younghusband’s account with a large pinch of salt. It had become evident to all that, since returning from Tibet, the fellow had taken onboard quite a few rum ideas which he had picked up on his travels. However, seeing Mr Squash in the flesh, as it were, certainly forced Reggie to reconsider his opinion; Younghusband might have been on to something, after all. This ‘Metoh Kangmi’ with Winston, however, was far from scruffy and bore not the remotest resemblance to a snowman. As for being a ‘Bear of the Rock-Strewn Places,’ the impressive pelt of dark brown hair was somewhat bear-like, but there the similarity ended.

 “Reggie, meet my very good friend, Mr Squash,” said Winston, proudly.

Although Winston was obviously comfortable in the Yeti’s company, Reggie remained wary, but good manners dictated that he should be polite, at least until he knew more.

“How do you do,” said Reggie, instinctively offering a handshake, then immediately feeling foolish for having done so. He was surprised, therefore, to find that Mr Squash extended his own, huge leathery hand in response, and caught him in a firm, but gentle, grip.

“It is very good to meet you,” said Mr Squash in dark, velvety tones.

Despite his previous concerns, Reggie felt immediately at ease. Very few things fazed him anymore, and the fact that Mr Squash could engage in intelligent conversation seemed to be the most natural thing in the world. Dash it, this chap was considerably more civilised than most of the people who lived on the island of Hopeless, Maine.

Winston looked on with approval as his two best friends conversed amicably; it was almost as though they had known each other for years.

 “Yeti?” said Mr Squash. “Is that what the humans call my relatives who live in The Land of Snow? Unfortunately, I don’t get to visit them very often these days – once every fifty years or so at best, I suppose. Oh, it isn’t about distance. These doorways we use – portals, you could say – mean that we’re only ever a few steps away from anywhere, but honestly, it’s too darned cold up there in those high, snowy mountains for me. Give me forests any day. Why, even this island is a better option.”

 “I hate to interrupt,” said Winston, “but I need to get to work, and time is getting on. You two carry on talking, I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Nonsense,” said Reggie.“Go and get your bucket, and put your boots on, lad. I’m sure that Mr Squash will be happy to walk with us.”

The Sasquatch nodded in agreement and, for the first time that evening, rose to his feet. Reggie gasped audibly and looking up, nearly lost his hat. He had not fully appreciated how incredibly huge the fellow was.

“With an army of chaps like him you could conquer the world,” he mused to himself. “It is a jolly good job that we’re on the same side,”

A thought crossed his mind and he caught Mr Squash’s eye.

“I must introduce you to a very dear friend of mine,” he said, with a mischievous grin. “Her name is Philomena Bucket…”

Flora and fauna

Poor Man’s Kidneys

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Culinary insights from Mrs Ephemery.

Poor man’s kidneys can be eaten any time after they emerge. However, the best time to harvest them is when they’ve grown a good network of blue veins and the stalks have gone properly lurid. If they actually glow in the dark then they are going over, but you can still eat them even when a bit mushy.

Take your poor man’s kidneys and cut them into rough chunks. This will allow you to spot and remove any worms – you really don’t want to eat the worms even if they have stopped moving. Once properly prepared, poor man’s kidneys can be fried, boiled or added to dishes. They don’t taste much like proper kidneys but do have a slightly meaty flavour.

Edit: Just to clarify, it’s been pointed out to me that people might think I’m talking about a poor man’s kidneys rather than the toadstool. Much the same preparations apply to non-mushrooms, but if it’s a real kidney you have to wash it thoroughly so that it doesn’t taste too much like a decomposing shark. Don’t eat the worms.

(Image and text by Nimue)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Watcher

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“Five days?” Winston Oldspot looked aghast. “That can’t be right, surely.”

“Five days,” confirmed Reggie Upton. “You were absent without leave for fully five days, m’boy. If it hadn’t been for the ghostly wisdom of Granny Bucket, who knows about such things, we would have assumed that you were dead.”

“I don’t understand it,” said Winston. “I went into a cave to shelter from a storm. I remember dropping off to sleep, and when I woke up the storm had passed. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than a couple of hours.”

“I can promise you, you were gone for more than a couple of hours,” said Reggie. “It was as much as any of us could do to stop Rhys Cranham from getting back into his Night-Soil togs. It’s only for the fact that you’d taken the bucket with you that made him change his mind.”

Winston shook his head, bemused.

“And nothing at all strange happened, as far as you know?” enquired Reggie.

“Only a few weird dreams, which I’ve forgotten,” replied the young Night-Soil Man.

“Although… but no, that’s me being silly.”

“Go on, “ said Reggie. “There is no harm in saying it.”

“Well… ever since I’ve been back, I feel as though someone is watching me. That’s all.”

 A huge and hairy creature known as Mr Squash had, indeed, been watching Winston.

Upon discovering the boy unconscious, and apparently close to death, high on the Appalachian Trail, the Sasquatch carried him gently back to Hopeless, via one of the many hidden portals that only certain gifted beings, such as himself, can see. Mr Squash had used this portal to visit Hopeless on several occasions previously, and had cultivated no great love for the island. He especially disliked its perpetual fog and lamentable lack of anything resembling a primal forest. He had, however, developed something of an affection for Winston, and felt duty-bound to protect the lad. Unlike most others (not including Reggie Upton, who had long ago lost his sense of smell) he had no problem with the all-pervading reek of the Night-Soil Man.

 (This may be a good point to speak about the species to which Mr Squash belongs. From Siberia to Australia, via Asia and North America, tales are told of huge, hair-covered man-like creatures. Depending upon the location, they may be known as Sasquatch, Bigfoot, Skunk Ape, Yeti, Abominable Snowman, Elmasti, Mansi, Yowie, Almas… the list goes on. While many deny their very existence, there are others who insist that they have crossed paths with them, for good or ill. The one common trait linking all of these cryptids, as they may be described, is their elusiveness. They leave few traces, and seem to have the ability to disappear at will. In view of this, I can only assume that they all share Mr Squash’s gift for being able to swiftly dive into hidden portals and transport themselves to some distant spot.)

 Meanwhile, back in the tale… within a day or two of returning to Hopeless, Maine, Winston fell back into his old routine of sleeping during the day, and traversing the island at night to service the privies, thunder-boxes and, occasionally, cesspools, of an often less than grateful public. To all intents and purposes, little had changed in his life, except this creepy feeling of being constantly observed. It was only when he visited Ghastly Green, and the hermit, Neville Moore, did he have any clue as to who or what might be watching him.

Neville tended to keep late hours, mainly because his pet raven, Lenore, refused to come in before midnight, and spent her time gently rapping, rapping at his chamber door; only that, and nothing more.

“Good evening, Winston,” called Neville, a dozen yards away and safely upwind of the Night-Soil Man. He was standing on his porch, which, as porches go, was grander than most, its fluted columns lending the hermit’s cottage a look that would not disgrace a mausoleum. The overall effect was somewhat spoiled, however, by the many unsightly streaks of raven guano, but no one was going to mention that to Lenore.

 Winston waved back in greeting.

“I see that you have Mr Squash helping you these days,” shouted Neville. “It must be nice to have some company.”

“Mister who? Sorry I don’t understand…”

“Mr Squash. I haven’t seen him about for a year or two. It’s good to have him back.”

Winston was nonplussed. He had no idea as to what, or whom, Neville was referring.

The hermit, who rarely spoke more than he needed to, retired indoors, Lenore flapping noisily after him, fiercely intent on reaching the bust of Pallas, where she frequently liked to perch.

 Gathering all of his courage, Winston turned and spoke quietly into the dark, foggy stillness of the night.

“Will you come out to where I can see you, please, whoever you are?”

There was a rustling in the darkness, and Winston froze, suddenly confronted by nine feet and eight hundred pounds of hair and muscle.

For a long moment the night was wreathed in utter silence, then Winston said,

“I saw you… you were in my dream the other day.”

“That was not a dream,” said Mr Squash. His voice was as deep and dark as you might expect.

“You can speak!” exclaimed Winston in surprise.

“Of course I can speak,” said Mr Squash, sounding slightly offended. “What do you think I am, a sock-puppet?”

“No… no of course not,” stammered Winston.

“That’s alright, then,” said Mr Squash, amiably. “Come on, let’s get these privies emptied, and then you can fill me in with everything that’s been happening on the island since I was last here. Is Durosimi O’Stoat still alive?”

Winston’s heart dropped. If Mr Squash was a friend of Durosimi, that could not be good.

“Yes… well he was last week,” he said cautiously.

Mr Squash sighed.

“That’s a shame,” he said. “Still, you can’t have everything.”

Hopeless inhabitants

Keeping the lights on

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Image by Dr Abbey, story by Nimue Brown

Keeping the lights on at night is important for islander safety. Generating the energy to keep the lights on remains problematic. This latest invention purports to use the souls of the damned to provide illumination. 

Dr Lyssa assures us that there are a lot of damned souls floating about on the island, taking up far too much space in the ether. “Diverting their energy into light might do more than illuminate the town. It might even serve to reduce the miasma,” she told The Vendetta.

When asked how exactly the device worked to trap the souls of the damned and extract energy from them, Dr Lyssa said, “Very nicely, thank you.”

Several of our island’s psychics, who did not wish to be named (but you know who they are, it’s the usual suspects) have confirmed that they can see ghosts attached to the street lamps. There is consensus to that point, but not beyond it, which is probably why none of them wants to admit who exactly said what. I am reliably informed that

  1. The damned are suffering dreadfully to create light and this is just.
  2. That damned are using the lights to steal energy from everyone else and it is a conspiracy and a trap.
  3. It isn’t the damned at all, but the ghosts of things that glowed when they were alive. You can see the glow, you just can’t see the ghost making it.

Doc Willoughby wants to reassure people that street lights cannot hurt you unless they fall on you, or a massive splinter of ice drops off and stabs you to death, or you walk into one in the fog, or something thin and awful is hiding behind one.

I hope everyone is reassured by this.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Mr Squash

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Having secretly followed Durosimi O’Stoat into the Underland, Winston Oldspot, Hopeless Maine’s newest Night-Soil Man, found himself in the mysterious Crystal Cave. While Durosimi had mastered some of the secrets of the cave, and could use it as a portal to Elizabethan England, Winston had no such skill, and was, instead, deposited onto a seemingly never ending woodland path. Eventually he came upon a sign informing him that he was walking along something called the Appalachian Trail, and heading for Mount Katahadin, in Maine. This, at least, was good news. Winston knew that he lived on an island in the state of Maine, and reasoned to himself that, in that case, he could not be too far away from Hopeless.

How wrong could he be? The Night-Soil Man had been walking for hours, without food or water. What he had hoped would be a short stroll home had become a gruelling, endless torment. Night had fallen and Winston felt afraid, vulnerable, and – more than anything else – exhausted. He dragged himself into a natural shelf scooped out beneath some tree roots, and fell into a deep, bone-weary, sleep.

Mr Squash had been patrolling parts of the Appalachian Trail pretty much since the very first sections were opened, back in nineteen twenty-three. He had, over the years, walked its entire length at least a hundred times, he reckoned. During that time he had made it his business to look out for the welfare of the trail’s many hikers, and keep them safe from bears, cougars and anything else that might threaten them. Not that everyone was grateful, but that didn’t stop Mr Squash. He had learned that he could be anonymous, keep back in the trees, and still help the folks who walked along the trail. Not all were hikers, though. There were some who came out here to do no more than whoop, bang sticks on the trunks of trees and generally try to raise Cain. Sometimes he had the distinct feeling that they were making all that fuss just to grab his attention. Heck, one or two fools had even been known to pour some sort of white muck into his footprints. Much as he was happy to help anyone, he wasn’t in the business of making friends with them. No sir! He had seen the sort of mess that friendships like that can make too many times.

It was the stink that first grabbed his attention. It reminded Mr Squash of some of the less thoughtful hikers who left their scat uncovered too close to the trail. It was a smell which was pretty much like that, but a hundred times stronger. Not that it bothered him. Smells – natural smells, at any rate – were a fact of life. Why, he had even heard himself described as being smelly. That was rubbish, of course, but this fellow sleeping under the tree roots was more than a little ripe.

I ought to mention that Mr Squash was fully nine feet tall and covered in thick, chestnut-brown hair. His face was neither human, nor ape, but somewhere in between. You could understand why his appearance might cause fear, but it is never wise to judge by outward appearances. Mr Squash had hidden abilities. When he put a huge, leathery hand on Winston’s brow, the young Night-Soil Man’s history was revealed to Mr Squash as easily as if it had been in a book (in fact, as Mr Squash was somewhat less than literate, Winston’s life, revealed in book-form, would have remained a total mystery to him). The Sasquatch, Skunk Ape, Bigfoot, call him what you will (but always Mr Squash to his face, of course) hefted the sleeping Winston into his arms as easily as if he were a feather, and carried him away from the trail to a place where two big old trees had fallen into each other’s branches, like reunited lovers. Their trunks formed an archway, through which Mr Squash carried Winston, and immediately disappeared.

The Night-Soil Man yawned, stretched and lay, for a few moments, with his eyes closed. The soft earth of the cave was beneath him, and he realised, with some relief, that he must have nodded off to sleep when the storm was raging outside. He recalled how he had been plunged into some very strange dreams; dreams that were now quickly fading. With a sigh, he picked up his bucket, secured the lid, and made his way to the cleft in the rocks, which had led him into the cavern. It was still not daylight outside, so he couldn’t have been there for too long.

Mr Squash had been around for too many years not to know where the secret portals lay. How many times had he wandered into a cave, or through some other natural gateway, to find himself far away from his intended destination? This morning, however, he was exactly where he needed to be, looking out onto the island of Hopeless, Maine. He had visited the place a few times before and, quite honestly, was not too fond of it. There were not enough trees here for his liking. But it seemed to be the place where the stinky kid called home, though. Standing in deep shadow he watched Winston make his way along the headland. He felt almost fatherly to the boy. Maybe he would stick around for a while and keep an eye out for him. He knew how hazardous the island could be. But not hazardous for him, of course. Nothing much ever troubled Mr Squash.

Author’s note: As you may know, the Appalachian Trail is about two thousand two hundred miles long. It runs from Georgia to Maine, passing through no less than fourteen states.

Flora and fauna

Delicious Sea Eggs

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Culinary tips from Mrs Ephemery

My top tip is that if you boil anything for long enough it is less likely to kill you. Boil hard and you won’t catch weird worms from the sea eggs, and they won’t hatch inside you! Boil anything for five minutes or more and you can be fairly confident that it won’t be able to eat you or infest you in any way. It might still be able to poison you, and whether it’s poisonous or not it may still taste awful.

Avoid: Anything that puts up a serious fight. Anything you can’t bear to look at as this will undermine your prepping process. 

Some sea eggs are much more delicious when eaten raw. Unfortunately they can feel the same way about you! Are delicious sea eggs worth dying for? Only you can decide.

At The Crow we always have soup that has been properly boiled to death, we take customer safety seriously. However, sometimes we offer exciting specials where you can take your life into your own hands and try more exotic things.

Please always mention your food allergies, it saves Doc Willoughby a lot of time if he doesn’t have to do an autopsy.

(Story and image by Nimue)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Way Through the Woods

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While sheltering from a storm, Winston Oldspot, Hopeless Maine’s new Night-Soil Man, had been surprised to see the sorcerer, Durosimi O’Stoat, appear at the entrance to the cave in which he had sought refuge. Intent on his mission, Durosimi, with his lantern held aloft, hurried upon his way, disappearing into the darkness. It was obvious from the confident manner in which he moved that the sorcerer had trodden these pathways many times before.

His curiosity whetted, Winston decided to follow. While staying well back, he made sure to keep the glim of the lantern in view, until eventually finding himself at the mouth of the mysterious Crystal Cave. Regular readers will be aware that the Crystal Cave is strange and liminal, providing a portal to anywhere that it wishes to send you in time and space. Winston was totally ignorant of this. Durosimi, on the other hand, had mastered many of its secrets. His very first visit had deposited him in the study of the Elizabethan alchemist, Doctor John Dee. Fortunately, Dee had been in Poland at the time with his friend and associate, Edward Kelley, leaving Durosimi free to peruse the Doctor’s library and notebooks to his heart’s content. It was there that Durosimi had learned the secrets of the Crystal Cave, and the means by which he could control when and where it conveyed him. Winston had no such advantage, however, and was destined to be deposited wherever and whenever the cave’s capricious nature took him.

The eerie luminosity of tens of thousands of crystals had drawn Winston, moth-like, into the cave. Once inside, however, the light became subdued, and he suddenly found himself standing upon a well defined trackway, deep within a forest. He turned, and was relieved to see that the mouth of the cave was still visible, just a few yards away. It resembled a dark, egg-shaped patch, somehow stitched incongruously upon a tapestry of tall trees. Suddenly, his relief turned to dismay as the egg-shaped patch diminished, until all that remained was little more than an orb, the size of a tennis ball. He watched it hanging in the air for a moment, until, with a brief crackle of crystal light, the orb flared into nothingness.

Winston felt suddenly alone. He had no idea where he was, or what to do. He took a deep breath and persuaded himself not to panic, reasoning that the path upon which he was standing must eventually lead to somewhere, and Hopeless was only an island, after all. Home could not be too far away… could it? It felt to Winston that he had walked for miles. The daylight was fading and there seemed to be no end to the path through the forest. It was then that he heard voices. For a moment his heart leapt; here was rescue at last. Then he realised that, because of his particular odour, the noxious reek that has been the trademark of every Night-Soil Man who has ever lived, that it would be unlikely that anyone could bear to be within a dozen yards of him. Maybe it would be a better plan to disappear into the trees and follow whoever was coming from a discreet distance.

From a vantage point upwind of the path, Winston spied upon the two walkers. The boy and the girl looked to be around his own age, or possibly a year or two older. To the Night-Soil Man’s eyes, everything about the pair was outlandish. For a start, each carried an unfeasibly large pack on their back. It made him think wistfully of his lidded night-soil bucket, abandoned in the cave when he first stopped for shelter. Their jackets were shiny, and brightly coloured, but strangest of all, both wore short trousers. As far as he knew, no one on Hopeless would be likely to wear short trousers, certainly not that short, anyway. It would not be sensible, given the perpetual foggy weather… and then Winston’s world came crashing down. Where was the fog, the ribbons of mist? He had never known a day go by without seeing mist of some description.

For the first time that day he realised that he had been walking under a canopy of sun-dappled leaves, and not a wisp of fog in sight? Where was this place? By now the two hikers had gone, apparently walking back towards wherever it was that Winston had started his journey. They were a strange couple, to be sure, but they must have come from some sort of habitation. He scrambled back on to the pathway, and carried on heading, he guessed, in a vaguely north-easterly direction. After little more than ten minutes hope flared in his heart. He could see a signpost in the distance. Things, at last, were looking up.

Winston stared up at the signpost with confusion written all over his face. The pole itself was topped by diamond shaped board, with wooden eaves to keep the rain off. It reminded Winston of a birdhouse. On the board a thick black arrow pointed upwards, and encircling the arrow were the words ‘APPALACHIAN TRAIL – MAINE TO GEORGIA’. Immediately beneath the sign was a finger post proclaiming ‘1,090.5 Springer Mt’, followed by a large letter S. Beneath that was another finger post. An equally large N was followed by the legend ‘Mt Katahdin 1,090.5.’

Winston breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that he lived in the State of Maine, and there it was, marked on the signpost. General geography had never been on the curriculum at the Pallid Rock Orphanage, mainly because anywhere beyond the rocky shores of Hopeless was a mystery to most of the islanders, However, Winston had always prided himself upon his knowledge of mathematics and measurements. He knew that a mile consisted of five thousand two hundred and eighty feet, or one thousand seven hundred and sixty yards. If he was only just over a thousand yards from that mountain in Maine, why, he would be home within the hour. He strode into the dimming of the day with renewed hope and a light heart.

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales

Why Your Socks Have Holes…

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By Prudence Weatherpenny (Professor)

Although it was my housemate Miss White’s turn to attempt the laundry (“attack” might be more appropriate given the state of some of her garments, but that is a matter for some other time), I found myself joining in the most recent hunting of stray socks and stockings.

The regular discovery of seemingly-expired examples of these pieces is often distressing enough (I have covered this in a Treatise elsewhere, although I have my doubts that the Hopeless Philosophical Society here on the Island will ever publish it, narrow-minded and jealous little bigots that they are) but imagine my surprise – nay, almost horror! – when, on
lifting yet another raggedly woolly former-footwear from its place of expiration behind the chest-of-drawers, I was just in time to spot something slither away from the Scene of the Crime.

It did not take much pursuing: the house that Miss White and I currently share might be rickety, battered, tumbledown and slowly filling with mould – in other words a perfectly acceptable dwelling by Hopeless standards – but the wainscoting is solid and the skirting-boards sound. We do not even suffer from mice in the usual way of things beyond the
scullery (as far as I am aware they have not yet evolved sufficiently to contemplate tool usage), so I was confident of their being no escape for this… whatever it was. And so it proved!

The timely, inspired and spontaneous re-employment of the Chamber Pot as a temporary prison was a master-stroke, if I say so myself; what matter a little extra cleaning afterwards? Is that not what we engage an Orphan for?

Whatever this thing was, it was lively! It slithered and clattered and thrashed around within the porcelain as, with a heavy book across the top, I carried it downstairs into the scullery – where, not only is the light better but it is where my Research Implements are kept, such as
they are on this Island (any implication that they also form part of the Kitchen Paraphenalia is firmly and resolutely refuted, I might add). With a notebook to hand, and Miss White to take those notes and assist as I might direct, we lifted the book from the pot and peered inside.

It was immediately obvious that whatever we had caught was at least a part of the solution to the most common cause of death found among our socks and similar, for in the short journey down the ramshackle stairs, it had either coughed up – or otherwise ejected from itself – some unmistakable strands of wool and silk. Aha! – so socks can – sometimes at least – fall prey to this… well, what was it, precisely? It did not exhibit the body-segments one might expect from a worm, or at least those in the outside world, but nor did it have the scales of a regular serpent. It was clearly quite at home in air rather than water, but I was minded most strongly of the Lamprey, especially when the creature reared up unexpectedly as Miss White’s rather frayed jacket-cuff strayed over the pot in her reaching for yet another biscuit (we are going to have to either stop buying those quite so often, or discover a seamstress to let out some of her dresses). As it did so, this diminutive little worm-creature
revealed the most enormous mouth, a mouth lined with ferocious, if minuscule, teeth!

From a body no broader than a knitting-needle but almost as long as a middle-finger, came a gape fully as round as my palm, and those teeth were sharp – as Miss White discovered to her chagrin. The wound is still not fully healed even now, though it does not appear to affect her
ability to pull biscuits from the jar.

Mindful of the usual pattern of Island Life, particularly when things are released into the wild, I am at something of a loss as to what to do with the creature. I have discovered no others, and the rate of death among our stockings appears to have lessened, which can only be a good thing given the scarcity of such items on the island generally. I have no wish to set it loose in the landscape as it clearly represents a serious danger to one and all; I think on balance I might keep it somehow, against the chance of slight or insult from one or other of my fellow-dwellers on this little island in the mist. Perhaps that information might even be
sufficient to “persuade” the Philosophical Society of the good sense in overcoming their ages-old and completely nonsensical prejudices and actually publishing some of my findings at last!

(Actual author, Roz White, image by Nimue)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

When you walk through a storm…

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Winston Oldspot dragged on his boots, and peered out of the window with little enthusiasm. Since taking on the role of the official Night-Soil Man of the island of Hopeless, Maine, he had so far enjoyed his work. While there was always mist, and frequently thick fog, this was somehow a comfort; a cotton-wool blanket seemingly keeping the world at bay. Not that he needed anything like that, of course. Even as a comparative novice, the overarching stench of his calling was enough to keep even the most ravenous predator at bay. Tonight, however, there was the promise of a storm brewing. Something in his young bones told him that he needed to get to work, do as little as was absolutely necessary, then hurry back home before the skies burst and the wind threatened to blow him and his lidded-bucket out to sea.

It took less than an half-an-hour for Winston to realise that he had drastically underestimated the mood of the weather. It was very soon apparent that this was not going to be some gentlemanly tempest which allowed him time to fulfil his obligations before, almost apologetically, deciding to start playfully ruffling the trees. What was sweeping in from the wild Atlantic was a full-on, no-nonsense bruiser of a storm that roared across the island, screaming ‘Come on out if you think you’re hard enough,’ to anyone who cared to listen. Discretion had to be the better part of valour on a night like this and, with his bucket barely sullied, the young Night-Soil Man was forced to seek shelter.

Hopeless is honeycombed with caves, and it took next to no time for Winston to find a narrow cleft in the rocks, which opened out into a spacious cavern. He flopped gratefully onto the soft, sandy floor and prepared to sit patiently until such times as the storm eased sufficiently for him to return to the House at Poo Corner, the place that many generations of Night-Soil Men had called home.. That was the plan, anyway; the reality was that, within minutes, he had eased onto his back and allowed himself to drift into a comfortable slumber.

When he awoke the wind had stopped whistling through the cavern and the sound of rain outside had lessened. He reasoned to himself that in order for the storm to have blown itself out, several hours must have passed. With his joints aching, Winston pulled himself to his feet, then stiffened. There was a faint light illuminating the cave’s mouth. Someone was outside with a lantern and they were coming in. Quietly, he slipped into a recess,deep in the darkness of the cave, far enough away from anyone entering for them not to see, or more importantly, not to smell him.  Even if the newcomer was no threat, Winston had no wish to meet anyone; he did not enjoy the company of others. That is why he had chosen to become a Night-Soil Man.

The yellow gleam of the lantern pierced the gloom of the cave, casting long shadows that swept up the walls. Winston pushed himself further into the recess and watched intrigued, as the sinister shape of the lantern-bearer strode confidently along. It quickly became obvious to the Night-Soil Man that this could be only one person – Durosimi O’Stoat. He had seen the sorcerer skulking around the island in the depths of the night before. It was also clear that this was not the first time that Durosimi had walked this path. On a whim, Winston resolved to follow him, being careful to keep the glimmer of the lantern in view, but maintaining a safe distance; he needed to be far enough behind to ensure that his malodour was not going to betray him.

Following the dancing light of Durosimi’s lantern, Winston lost all sense of time and distance. He may have been walking for an hour, or possibly only for ten minutes, when the darkness became impenetrable. Either Durosimi had doused his lantern, or he had gone into a part of the cave which shielded the flame completely. Winston stopped, straining his ears for the slightest movement, but there was none. He remained standing stock-still for some minutes, until his curiosity, and a sudden cramp in his left leg, forced him to move. Gingerly feeling his way along the wall, he ventured deeper into the cave. He had been aware that the path was gradually descending for some time, but now the gradient became more obvious, then his outstretched hand felt nothing; the wall had disappeared. It took but a moment to realise that he had reached a junction, and that the path had taken a ninety-degree turn. That was why the lantern’s glow had disappeared. Before him, now, he could see a pale, unearthly glow. It emanated from the entrance to yet another cavern. The memory of a snatch of conversation stirred in his mind. It was something that he had overheard  some months earlier, before Rhys Cranham had retired and Winston was still an apprentice. Rhys had been talking to Reggie Upton about Philomena Bucket closing the pathway to somewhere called the Underworld. No, that was not right. It was the Underland. Reggie had said something about some girl getting lost after straying into the Crystal Cave, and that is why the way to the Underland was being shut off for good.

Winston gulped. If that was really the Crystal Cave ahead, and Durosimi was in there, he wasn’t making any noise. Maybe he needed rescuing. Taking his bucket off his back, and placing it on the stony ground, he decided that it was no more than his duty to come to the aid of the notorious Mr. O’Stoat; maybe he would be rewarded for his trouble. Besides that, he was curious to see for himself what all the fuss was about, concerning the mysterious Crystal Cave. With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation he made his way in…

To be continued.

Hopeless

Hopeless people – Keith Healing

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Keith Healing was the first person to have a go at making a Hopeless, Maine roleplay game. In doing so, he brought a number of key things to the wider project as well.

Keith made a major geographical contribution to the island. He placed the bridge of bottles at the end of Gaunt Street, where it crosses the Gaunt River (also his) beyond which lies Gaunt Town. Gaunt Town is the oldest part of the main town on Hopeless, and it haunted and abandoned. You’ll have seen those ruins in the graphic novels, while Gaunt Street is where Owen sets up his household. Keith pinned down this part of the island, in terms of its history and making sense of how these parts of the town fit together.

I’ve taken this geography and worked with it in a novella that most of you haven’t seen yet!

Given the nature of roleplay games, Keith wanted to figure out the mechanics of how things work. ‘Very nicely thank you’ doesn’t cut it when people want to role dice. This led to a lot of thinking about the way in which magic shows up on the island. For most people, the available magic is folklore derived.

Keith gave us the concept of demon devices – objects that have a demon trapped in them. Being Hopeless there’s every scope for this to go either hilariously or horrifically wrong. Sometimes both. James Weaslegrease picked up the concept and wrote a really cool song about it. It’s something I started incorporating into stories as well – partly to tie the games development into the wider project and partly because it’s such an excellent idea. This is how Lilly May came to be working with demon devices and why Mark Hayes took a photo of a demon he had shoved into a blunderbus. I love the way these things develop.

During the game project it occurred to Keith that he really wanted to write novels – he’s gone on to do just that. I heartily recommend that you check out his Burnt Watcher books out, which you can find on Amazon and also here – https://www.rogueanimalbooks.com/book/the-burnt-watcher/ These aren’t Hopeless projects, but if you enjoy terrible, Lovecraftian things or a touch of King in Yellow then these are for you.

News for the residents of Hopeless, Maine