Daucus didn’t think he was cut out to be the Green Man. For one thing, he didn’t know what to do with all the charred and blackened bodies they’d burned for him.
Well. Burned – sort of. None of them were edible, he thought most were dead, but the pervading dampness of Hopeless, Maine made it difficult for anything to truly burn.
He was touched, he’d supposed, and blessed them – well, mumbled some words over those who’d burned the others, in fractured carota, a language no one else seemed to understand, but he seemed to know without having to try.
It wasn’t just the sacrifices, but what was he supposed to do with the offering? They were far larger – and gradually turning greener and soggier than him, and he didn’t have the strength or size to bury them.
He doubted the spoonwalkers would want anything to do with them, and the dust cats were more of a threat to him, psychotic little sneeze-inducing creatures that they were.
As for some of the other inhabitants – well. He was sure the pile was gradually diminishing, and not simply turning to liquid.
How am I actually supposed to bless the crops? And I don’t want to jump over any fire, that sounds like a good way – he shuddered. Daucus turned on his single leg. He’d had multiple trailing toes once, and if he stayed too long in one place – particularly the slowly decomposing pile of semi-burnt, mostly-soggy offering – they tended to regrow at a rapid attitude, always attempting to bury down in the death-deep soggy soil.
He jumped away slowly, his green leaves bobbling and trailing all over the place.
“I cannot help but think it strange,” declared Philomena Bucket, “that things are suddenly being found washed up on the beach at Scilly Point. Not just ordinary things, either; so far we have been brought cheese, brandy, wine, pies, flour, confections made from marzipan… and all in excellent condition, too.”
“Well,” said Reggie Upton, “you know how it can be at sea. Things are always getting jettisoned overboard for one reason or another.”
“All the same, it smells a bit fishy to me,” said Philomena. “In fact, thinking about it, I would be more convinced that there was nothing strange going on if things really did smell fishy. As it is, everything that has turned up so far smells as though it only left the shop this morning.”
“You know I can vouch for the provenance of most of what has turned up,” said Reggie, defensively. “After all, I have been the one finding the stuff.”
Philomena gave the old soldier a sideways glance, but said nothing.
Reggie had been on the island for months now, and, until very recently, his wanderings (or flâneuring, as he liked to call it) had yielded very little in the way of useful discoveries. Now, suddenly, it was as if he had been granted the keys to some magical food hall. Still, she thought, she ought not to complain. Lately, the bill of fare at The Squid and Teapot had improved beyond all imagining.
“You’ll have to persuade Durosimi to start dropping the food off in other locations. And we need more people in on the secret, too.
Philomena is becoming most suspicious; it’s getting to be embarrassing.”
The ghost of Granny Bucket listened to Reggie’s worries with growing impatience.
“I’ve got no sway over Durosimi,” she said. “If I start making demands, he’ll stop bringing things back.”
“It’s beyond me why he wants his trips to the Underland to be kept secret, anyway,” said Reggie.
“Because he knows that Philomena will do her utmost to seal the passage, in the way that she closed up the other one,” said Granny.
“She could do that?” Reggie was intrigued.
Granny nodded. Durosimi was well aware that when it came to magical abilities, Philomena was the only person on Hopeless who could beat him hands down every day. Much to Granny’s disapproval, however, unless pushed to extremes, her granddaughter eschewed using, or even acknowledging, her powers.
“I might have a quiet word with Septimus Washwell,” said Reggie, thoughtfully, “and let him in on the secret. It occurred to me that if he says that he found the next consignment on another part of the island, that would, at least, let me off the hook.”
“I’m not comfortable with all this deceit,” complained Granny. “To begin with, I was the only one who knew about Durosimi’s trips to Tudor England. I thought a spot of blackmail might be worthwhile. Then young Winston Oldspot had to go and tell you that he saw Durosimi hiding that box of cheese and wine, and now you’re planning to bring Septimus on board. If too many people know, things will start getting out of hand, Reggie, and if Philomena finds out that I’ve been hob-nobbing with O’Stoat, she’ll never speak to me again.“
“Oh, nonsense,” said Reggie. “She should be pleased. The Squid and Teapot has taken on a new lease of life with all of this wonderful provender, brought to us directly from the time of Good Queen Bess.”
“Oh, I’m beginning to see the error of my ways,” said Granny ominously. “No good will come of this now, you mark my words.” With that she allowed herself to vanish into the ether, leaving not a trace of her ever having been there.
“Dashed annoying habit,” muttered Reggie. “Anyway, despite what the old girl says, I shall certainly be lurking around Scilly Point tomorrow morning. I wonder what we’ll get this time…?”
The following day struggled into reluctant life through a haze of murky fog and light drizzle. True to his word, Reggie slipped out of the inn and made his way to Scilly Point, where Durosimi would have left the latest cache of Elizabethan groceries.
The haul looked particularly appetising on this occasion. Reggie could spot several dark, wax-sealed bottles, an ornate confection, shaped like a swan, and a variety of pies and puddings, all wrapped in muslin.
He pulled the box out from its hiding place and eyed it appreciatively, rubbing his hands together in joyful anticipation. His good mood suddenly evaporated, however, when, as if from nowhere, a pale blue rock, the size of a football, dropped from the sky, missing Reggie by inches. Then, to his great dismay, the mysterious missile managed to totally destroy the box and all of its delectable contents, before bouncing harmlessly into the sea.
It is not often that Reggie has been rendered speechless, but with his legs wobbling and his heart pounding, for once in his life, he had nothing to say.
Granny’s words reverberated in his ears. “No good will come of this, you mark my words.”
Was this some sort of portent? It certainly felt like one. The worst of it was, he would never be able to tell anyone. He could hear the comments already.
“A blue rock hurled from the sky? Have you been on the absinthe again, Reggie? Who threw it, the Green Fairy?”
No, it would probably be best to say nothing about the bolt from the heavens, but just tell Granny that he could now see that she was right. She should tell Durosimi to stop bringing food. After all, the next blue rock might be aimed at any one of them, and Reggie had no wish for it to be him.
Author’s note:
As has been mentioned before, Hopeless, Maine has a complicated relationship with time and space. Maybe it is for the best that its inhabitants have no idea that a frightening world exists just beyond their reach. A world in which vastly complicated flying machines grace the skies, high above their little island. Sophisticated as they are, even these machines are not infallible. Occasionally one will have a leak in its septic tank, allowing a potentially lethal projectile to form, frozen in the high altitude and composed of something as basic as good old night-soil, bathed in liquid disinfectant. This is known as blue ice, and, over the past fifty years or so, has been responsible for dozens of instances of destruction to property throughout the United States and Europe.
Without Susie Roberts, there would have been no Ominous Folk and no stage shows.
I first met Susie through environmental activities in Stroud, and we were both regulars at Piranha Poetry. When I started putting together a Stroud mumming side I asked if she might be interested, and she was. There was some singing involved, and Susie expressed an interest in doing more of it.
At that point, Hopeless, Maine music was a trio called A Cup Full of Tentacles (Nimue Brown, James Weaslegrease, Tom Brown). There had been some singing at events, but there was no momentum and it wasn’t that strong a sound. Adding Susie to the mix changed everything.
Susie is an excellent harmony singer, and her innovative arrangements brought new life to the material. As a consequence of her involvement I felt emboldened to have a go at writing a show, and it rolled out from there. It helped considerably that Susie drives and was willing to drive to events. Prior to that, Hopeless, Maine had been dependent on public transport and there are a lot of places it isn’t easy to get to without a car. Her driving also made it possible for me to keep doing events during the years when I was very ill. Unreliable blood pressure and public transport do not mix well.
Susie brought her own brand of humour to the project, and a longstanding enthusiasm for goth music. It was thanks to her that Keith Errington ended up writing a song about Annamarie Nightshade. She’s also contributed to Hopeless, Maine theatricals at events and to the online festivals.
Since the autumn of 2023, health problems have meant that Susie hasn’t been able to do gigs. James and I would have tried to keep Ominous Folk going had she been up for it, but it wasn’t viable as a project without her.
For those of you who enjoyed the music, we are exploring a new project that won’t be Hopeless, Maine related – Carnival of Cryptids is shaping up rather well, and is likely to be a larger and more anarchic group. We very much hope that Susie will be able to come and sing with us later in the year.
“STOP!” old Jedbrough Smallpinch commanded, and the youngster halted his slow progress along the narrow path to the curious object ahead and turned to face him.
“That there’s a Thistlebomb nest, it’s dangerous,” explained Jedbrough. “You said everything is dangerous, but despite that, we needed to catalogue everything through careful examination. I was being careful.” His new apprentice responded with an air of petulance in his voice.
“There’s careful examination, and there’s sheer foolhardiness! Come back here, and we’ll find a way around.” Jedbrough was relieved when the young lad did as he was told; he really didn’t want to lose a new signup on the first day.
“Is it really that dangerous?” The young lad asked.
Jedbrough sighed. The impetuousness of youth. This lad will either learn or he won’t. And the won’t is the bit that will involve questions, paperwork, digging and burial. “Yes, it is.”
“Why, what does it do?” the young lad asked.
Jedbrough was going to run out of sighs at this rate; he thought as he sighed once more. But he had to admit it was a good question for a newbie to ask, so, having checked the area around an old log, he beckoned the youth to come and sit and then proceeded to answer the young lad’s query. “Let me tell you a story…”
◊◊◊
“Thistlebombs were not always dangerous (Jedbrough began). There was a time when they were a wonderful distraction. People even planted them outside their homes or across their garden paths, little realising what was to come. There was little to know about them then.
They seemed to live quite happily on any reasonable soil and grew from a small seed into a nest, just like that one. They were known as Sudden Sprays back then. They always seemed to grow in pairs, on either side of a path or a small stream, or occasionally even in a clearing.
The nests start very small but grow to about the size you see over there. When they are ready, a curious thing happens. Together, somehow, a pair of plants would each launch a large thistle sort of thing up from the nest to a height of about 8 feet in an arc across the path, stream or clearing; at the top of the arc, they would suddenly explode in a mass of seedlings, almost translucent, with beautiful colours and patterns, accompanied by the sweetest of sighs. Somehow, the two sets of sprays would mingle, and everyone figured that this was the way they pollinated.
Only a few of the seedlings would cross paths, sometimes none, but a successful crossing would result in two more nests growing a little further up the path, stream or clearing. Of course, you could never tell when it was going to happen, so it was always a surprising delight if you caught it – there was something very magical about it, and it was considered by some to be good luck to see it.” “That sounds delightful,” interrupted the youngster, “not dangerous at all.”
“Ah, but that was then, and this is now,” replied Jedbrough cryptically. “Listen to the story, boy, and no more interruptions, or we will be here all night!”
The boy looked sheepish and mumbled an apology.
“It was magic, of course; it’s always magic. Causes more problems than it solves, I reckon. It’s best to stay well away when magic is about. Have you heard of Grandma Kettle?”
The boy nodded – most people on Hopeless, Maine had heard the tales or caught her mentioned in a story.
“Well, Grandma Kettle went by the name Jemima Kettle in those days, and she got herself in a bit of a bind when she was a young lass; the combination of young minds and magic is rarely an untroubled one. She had tried to help a young girl in trouble with her family or some such. Anyway, she was being chased by the menfolk of that family – three in number, I believe it was – though some people tell of ten or twenty. People round here do love to puff up their telling. It was not a particularly fast chase; Grandma Kettle was encumbered by her choice of skirt she was wearing that day, and the menfolk, well, let’s just say they weren’t the fittest or ablest of men. Despite this, they were a real threat, one carrying a pitchfork, one a heavy spade, and the third a large loofah, so the story goes, not the brightest that one.
They were catching her up, too, when she chose a very deliberate path, not too far from here, as I recall, where many Sudden Sprays were growing. The men were shouting and getting closer, but Grandma Kettle remained calm as she ran down that path. As she did so, she drew a pouch from her garments and took pinches of a powder, spreading it over the plants where she could and uttering something magical as she did so. The men were almost upon her, and they were determined to do her grave harm, I’ve no doubt.
Suddenly, all the Sudden Sprays launched their thistles at once, but these had somehow changed under the influence, no doubt, of Grandma Kettle’s magic. They were all black now, black as the darkest depths of the ocean, and spikier. The men stopped under a cluster, not sure how to react. The thistles exploded, but this time, it wasn’t with a sigh; it was with an awful bang, and shards of razor-sharp seeds rained down upon the men.
The two in front were badly hurt and fell to the ground. Some say they died in agony right there, although others say they took weeks to die. The third was a little way behind, and so he missed the terrible rain of deathly seeds. He dropped his loofah and ran off, and nobody remembers seeing him after that.
Ever since then, the Sudden Sprays were forever changed; they became known as ThistleBombs, and these dark versions gradually replaced all the wonderful Sudden Sprays on the island. People whose families had planted Sudden Sprays across the entrance to their homes years ago when they were benign now have to climb through their windows to leave their houses.
Getting caught in their deadly rain can kill you – there have been many who have gone that way, and even if they don’t kill you straight away, they are deadly poisonous, and you are likely to have a slow, painful death. Like most deadly things on Hopeless, there is no known cure for their poison. That is why we avoid them; there is no telling when they might go off and end you.” Jedbrough finished.
“Can we go home now?” Asked the young lad.
Jedbrough sighed once more. He was not getting any younger, and his bones were tired from sitting on the cold log. He rose slowly. “Aye me, lad, that’s enough for your first day; let’s get home”.
“It was dashed fortunate that your grandmother chose to be haunting Scilly Point this morning, or we might never have found it,” said Reggie Upton, gazing appreciatively at the open wooden box that was sitting on the table.
“Isn’t it just,” said Philomena Bucket, with surprisingly little enthusiasm.
“Why, that wheel of cheese must weigh at least nine pounds,” gushed Reggie, adding hopefully, ”I wonder what the wine will taste like?”
“What I’m wondering,” said Philomena, ignoring him, “is what, exactly, Granny was doing down at Scilly Point in the first place. She never ventures far from the inn, unless she has to.”
“Well, that’s as maybe,” said Reggie. “Let’s just consider ourselves lucky that she was able to tell us where to find the box before the tide washed it back out to sea again.”
Philomena said nothing. This did not, somehow, feel at all right.
Little did either of them suspect that the cheese and wine came courtesy of Durosimi O’Stoat, who, for once, had been as good as his word.
You may recall that, having discovered another route to the Underland, and finding himself in Doctor John Dee’s study, Durosimi had wasted no time in perusing the alchemist’s notebooks. By great good fortune he had arrived there in the year 1583, when Dee and his friend, Edward Kelley, were safely out of the way. It seemed that the pair were indulging in some magical mystery tour of their own, somewhere in the depths of Poland.
Hopeless Maine’s very own sorcerer pored over the notebooks, envisaging the power he might have, once his mastery of the Underland was established. John Dee’s occasionally impenetrable handwriting indicated that he was fully conversant with the arcane secrets of the Underland – secrets that Durosimi was keen to unravel. So far his best efforts had only allowed him the ability to return to Tudor England whenever he chose. Until he knew more, this was better than nothing, and by disguising himself as a genuine Elizabethan gentleman, was able to move freely around London. Durosimi had to admit, that for all of the city’s squalor, it provided a most pleasant change from being forever in the confines of fog-bound and impoverished Hopeless.
Then one day Granny Bucket materialised in Dee’s study. Durosimi was keen to keep his visits to the Underland safely under wraps, at least until he knew more, and Granny was famously indiscreet. Being, above all, a pragmatist (albeit a devious one), he made a deal with Granny; tell no one, and the patrons of The Squid and Teapot will soon be enjoying the choicest fare that Elizabthen England could offer.
Pro quid quo, he had said. Pro quid quo.
When Philomena had satisfied herself that the cheese and wine were genuinely fit for human consumption, and not a trap set by some soul-devouring entity, or any similar agent of evil, she consented for it to be put on the menu of The Squid and Teapot. Those who had lived all of their days on the island had, in all likelihood, never tasted cheese.
“I can’t help but think that young Winston Oldspot might enjoy a spot of cheese,” Reggie said to Rhys Cranham. “I’ll wander down to Poo Corner later, when he starts his rounds.”
Winston had been Rhys’ protege, and was now the island’s new Night-Soil Man. Having lost his sense of smell when in India, years earlier, Reggie was in the unique position of being happily able to spend time in the company of the Night-Soil Man.
“I just hope that he appreciates what you’re doing.” said Rhys with a smile, thinking of his years of isolation in the job, when no one could bear to stand within a hundred yards of him.
“I have heard of cheese,” said Winston. “Never tried it, though.” The young man chewed reflectively, nodding in approval as his taste-buds registered that here was something new to take on board.
“Is this what Mister O’Stoat left at Scilly Point last night?”
“Durosimi?” said Reggie in surprise, “I wouldn’t think so…”
‘Well, I saw him leaving a box of something there. I reckon it must’ve been this.”
Reggie scratched his head. What was Durosimi up to this time? And had Granny really stumbled on the wooden box by accident?
Reggie wondered if he should tell Philomena, then he thought better of it. If the girl believed that Durosimi had anything to do with the cheese and wine she would probably throw the lot into the Atlantic, and that would be a great pity.
“I wouldn’t be inclined to mention that, if I were you,” said Reggie.
“Best keep it under your hat for now, my friend.”
“As no one else ever speaks to me, that won’t be a problem” replied
Winston, philosophically.
“I must have a quiet word with Granny Bucket,” Reggie thought to himself as he walked back to the inn. “I am sure that the old girl knows far more than she is saying.”
Meanwhile, far away, in time and space, Granny was busily trying to persuade Durosimi that the price of her silence far exceeded nine pounds of Cheddar and a flagon of malmsey…
My guess is that Martin is the person who has written most words about Hopeless. He’s done this steadfastly week by week over many years, with The Squid and Teapot providing the backbone of this blog.
Hopeless, Maine was a project started by Tom Brown many years ago. Various people have been involved with it in the past. After I (Nimue) got involved, Martin was the next person to make a substantial commitment to the project, and he’s been here ever since, sharing tales.
What I love about The Squid and Teapot stories is how they’ve opened up island life. While some of the characters from the graphic novels show up here and there, the cast in these tales is huge. We get insight into what living on Hopeless is like for its (relatively) normal citizens. Other contributors who have come in to write stories have expanded on this population, but Martin is the one who initially opened up this territory.
There were long stretches when other work pressures and lack of inspiration meant that I wasn’t writing much for the blog. It made a huge difference having this steady supply of stories to keep the blog alive. That I was able to jump back in with Mrs Beaten tales some years ago, and had the motivation to keep the blog viable is very much down to the existence of The Squid and Teapot.
Being the island’s pub, The Squid and Teapot has become an iconic setting that many other contributors have alluded to in their stories. It’s a key part of island life. Martin is also responsible for the existence of the night soil man and the traditions surrounding that job. He’s responsible for the Gydynap hills, and for developing the history of the island as well.
The Squid and Teapot usually goes out on a Tuesday.
The shark was not an overwhelming success, I am sad to say. When reports of it, washed up on the beach came in last year, I was initially somewhat excited. Mrs Ephemery and I arranged a little team of workers to prepare the shark. I gutted the shark myself, a smelly and visceral process. Mrs Ephemery undertook the beheading. I was not previously aware that she had such a great fondness for that process.
We buried the shark in sandy gravel, as I have been informed is traditional. Although it is rather a lot of work. There were those who said we should eat what could be salvaged from the shark at once. There were others who said it was too far gone and that we might as well try something else. There were those… (and I hesitate to quote them) who said that the shark would taste of (something terrible) no matter what we did with it.
Mrs Ephemery cheerfully assured us that the meat at this stage would be poisonous, and that anyone daring to eat it before she had processed it would be likely to go blind.
After the fermenting process, we had to dig up the shark – which to my great astonishment had not been eaten by anything else during the months of its being buried. We then cut it into strips and took it to The Crow to be dried. At this point the shark had a discernible smell, and it was not the smell of decay, but of something else altogether. It put me in mind of my late husband at his most beastly.
We waited for a further four months, during which time Mrs Ephemery and I discussed the shark on a number of occasions. I have found her to be an excellent companion. We share a passion for unusual food, and have sampled all kinds of meat together. I did not think that at this stage of my life I might find a friend, but it has come to pass. I shall remain ever grateful for the day that I saw the board outside The Crow announcing “Dead Mans Fingers” on the menu. They turn out to be an edible mushroom with only mild side effects.
I approached the day of the shark testing with great excitement. Mrs Ephemery and I worked together to remove the crust from the outside of the shark meat. She reassured me that she had been expecting this, as it was mentioned in her great grandmother’s kitchen notes.
The texture was inoffensive. The smell… pungent and reminiscent of my late husband. Of the tasters gathered, three did not make it past the stage of smelling the meat, even though we were samping it outside. Mrs Ephemery had informed us that despite the snowstorm, outside was the best choice for eating this dish.
Of course I partook of the shark meat. I have tasted worse. It was not wholly impossible to swallow, although I seem to be the only one who could manage much of this. Mrs Ephemery only ever tastes small amounts of food and seems to enjoy food more in terms of preparation and as a spectator’s sport.
One of the Scientific Gentleman kindly informed me that the correct technical name for the flavour – which has the merit of not being uncouth – is ammonia.
While haunting the attics of The Squid and Teapot, the ghost of Granny Bucket had discovered the vertical passageway leading to The Underland, and the nebulous dangers of the Crystal Cave. Her granddaughter, Philomena, had previously sealed the way, however, following the disappearance of young Marigold Burleigh. While mere mortals seemingly had no access to the cavern, this proved no barrier to Granny’s wraith, who was determined to contact her old friend, the Elizabethan alchemist, Doctor John Dee. To Granny’s surprise, when she reached Dee’s study it was not the learned doctor whom she encountered; instead she found herself staring into the eyes of Durosimi O’Stoat.
“Is your granddaughter so arrogant,” drawled Durosimi, “that she believes herself to know the only way into the Crystal Cave?”
Granny ignored the question.
“The last that I heard,” she said, “was that you were enslaving young men in an attempt to clear the passageway. The Lost Boys, we called them, and to my knowledge, they all escaped.”
“Enslaving?” Durosimi raised a single eyebrow. “A foul calumny, I assure you. I simply engaged a few youngsters to do a job of work for me… besides, there are plenty of others who were willing to help after that first unfortunate mutiny.”
‘So you found a way to get here. Congratulations,” said Granny, unenthusiastically, then added, “and what have you done with John Dee?”
“Done with him? Why, nothing.” said Durosimi. “It appears that we have arrived here in the year 1583, and, if my research into Dee’s life is correct, he is currently in Poland with his friend, the charlatan, Edward Kelley.”
“Typical!” exclaimed Granny. “So what are you doing still hanging around?”
“I have other business here,” said Durosimi.
He leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Did you know that Dee was aware of the existence of The Underland long before that Buck… before your granddaughter came here?”
Granny didn’t know that, but she kept quiet. Durosimi seemed to want to share, and she had no intention of stopping him.
“Through his knowledge of The Underland, Dee often travels to… who knows where?. These journals of his are not only full of his adventures, but give detailed information of how he achieves this.”
“And you intend to learn how to do the same,” said Granny.
Durosimi nodded. “At the moment I have to satisfy myself with being able to wander through Tudor London… which is something of a mixed blessing. Sometimes I wonder how anyone ever survived the squalor, filth and barbarity of the age. However, it has a few advantages.”
“Such as?”
“As an Elizabethan gentleman I have access to books of learning, not to mention a reasonable diet, passably good wine, excellent brandy…”
Durosimi strutted from behind the desk, displaying the somewhat flamboyant attire of a well-heeled Elizabethan-about-town.
“Nice codpiece,” observed Granny.
Durosimi ignored the remark, instead saying,
“I know that you and I have had a few differences of opinion in the past…”
“Differences of opinion!” spluttered Granny.”That’s an understatement.”
“But that aside, I think, deep down, we respect each other’s abilities.”
“So what are you getting at? No, don’t tell me. You want me to keep quiet about your little escapades in Merrie England.”
“I would be grateful.”
“And if I don’t?” said Granny, defiantly. “After all, you can hardly kill me.”
Durosimi was silent for a moment, then said,
“I was wondering if we could have some sort of quid pro quo arrangement. It means…”
“I know exactly what it means,” broke in Granny. “I’ll scratch yours if you scratch mine.”
“I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,” replied Durosimi. “But yes, in essence that is correct.”
“You might not have noticed,” said Granny, “but I have nothing to scratch. I am pure ectoplasm.”
“But your silence could ensure my bringing back from Merrie England, as you so inaccurately call it, the occasional luxury for your granddaughter.”
“She’s not one for luxuries,” replied Granny.
“Very well. How about better food for that inn? Something that doesn’t involve fish heads and bits of dead cephalopods.”
“What could you get?”
“Oh… cheese, butter, decent flour, spices, sweetmeats… I could arrange for something to be found at Scilly Point, or some other agreed location, now and then, as though it was no more than a random bit of
flotsam and jetsam thrown up by the sea. Philomena need never know the truth.”
“You want me to lie to my granddaughter?” Granny sounded offended.
“That’s about the size of it,” said Durosimi, casually.
I first met Keith Errington on a stage at a steampunk event. We hit it off instantly and it was because of him that over those two days I wrote a Hopeless, Maine sea shanty. That was the second song I’d written for the setting – No Hope At All came first. The existence of The Ominous Folk as a project owed a lot to that weekend.
Keith came onboard at some point after then, writing stories for the blog, and getting Hopeless out to events. His Hopeless, Maine radio shows in the style of Garrison Keillor also pre-dated the shows that I wrote and led me towards trying that. Performing at events makes a huge difference to how people see the work and he led the way for us on that.
It was because Keith wrote The Oddatsea and was willing to organise a kickstarter for it that we first got New England Gothic out into the world, too. Those two books have been published in one volume by Outland Entertainment,
Over the years he’s written songs for the settings, enabled us to do online events, supported Hopeless through Patreon, sung with The Ominous Folk, recorded us, and made a lot of things more feasible. He’s done much of this very quietly.
Keith is also responsible for a horribly funny children’s book that mostly isn’t for children – Once Upon A Hopeless, Maine.
Last year when things broke down with Tom Brown – who stopped communicating with me about Hopeless, Keith was the person who kept me going. His love of the setting, and his speaking up for the community of people around this project gave me the reasons I needed not to just give up on the whole thing. That things are still happening on Hopeless now is very much thanks to him.
At this point I am fairly confident that if the story of the island is going forward from here, it will be in Keith’s hands next. I’ve got two novellas set after the graphic novels and I need to figure out how best to get those into the world. Those stories bring in some new elements (thanks to Dr Abbey!) that I didn’t know how to take forward, but Keith has a sense of how things might progress from here. And let me tell you, he’s got some pretty darn exciting ideas.
In the coming weeks I’m going to be doing more posts like this to highlight contributions from the wider Hopeless family. There are a lot of people who have significantly contributed to this project over the years, and I want to celebrate that.
The book came into my procession three weeks ago, after a great storm washed another wreck upon to the beaches west of the lighthouse. The book was old, bound in tattered leather and damaged by the salt of the sea. I have every reason to believe the latter was true even before the wreck.
I did not discover the book, that was my second cousin Incongruity Jones, but he passed the book on to me, as I am of the scholarly type, And also the from of the book was embronzed by the words ‘Fungus Fatisque Vocantia Te*’. Incongruity recognised the Latin word for Mushroom, so thought the contents of the book might be of interest to my main field of study.
*the spore of the mushroom beckons you
Most of the pages of ‘The book’ were damaged beyond repair. Some clearly had detailed lithographs of various fungi, and long descriptions which would have been of great interest, yet most were now indecipherable. But at the back of the book, spread across some thirty pages was the modern translation of a medieval ballad, which seemed somewhat incongruous to the other contents of ‘the book’. This too was damaged so that only fragments could be read. Fragments that meant little but hinted at much.
What is most strange, and thus worthy of note, are the passages that refer to our own island and events upon it. This being a medieval ballad, originally written in Middle English, then translated, and published according to the notes in the front in London in 1886. Yet it speaks of Hopeless, which implies someone from here took the tale out to the world centuries ago, or else some in the world had a way of knowing of events on the island centuries back….
The title of the poem was also Latin ‘Domino Galoglass layci et grail’ which translates roughly as ‘The lays of Sir Gallowglass and the Holy Grail’ possibly. My Latin is less than perfect. The poem, what fragments remain’ however is in English.
Additionally, poetry is not my string point. I study fungi as a rule, but the latest research orphan is a bit of a moody sod given to reading the kind of poetry than depresses the spirit while wearing black. He writes a little as well and says the structure of the poem is, to quote him, ‘garbage, it’s like it’s just made up by someone.’
I pointed out ‘all poetry is ‘just made up by someone’. And gave him a clip round the ear.
He said ‘a two line rhyme followed by a discontented line and a hook is a bloody odd way to structure poetry’.
I threatened to dig out the birch switch if he didn’t bugger off and leave me to it.
He left. I don’t think he will last long, too gobby for one thing. I think we will have to do another study of the effects of Deaths Nightcap in tea before long. He may as well prove useful…
In any regard, after some rather lurid passages about Sir Gallowglass, a maiden in a tower, unrequited longings and his death at the hands of a dragon or some other mythical creature, its hard to be sure as most of these sections are lost to us we arrive at a passage where the knight, apparently dead and a ghost, but not letting that keep him down, arrived at a strange shore…
Sir Gallowglass to isle most Hopeless came
Through mist and fog and sleet and rain
When gibbous moon rises high
Then haunt doth seek the haunts cup
Mort brings no rest in hallowed halls
He seeks he cure to the woes of all
The ghost of that the lamb’s lips touched
Then haunt doth seek the haunts cup
The grail, the grail, he seeks it still
Death brings not rest beneath honours hill
Whence luna’s light doth shine
Then haunt doth seek the haunts cup
There are then several passages that follow along the same lines, something about frogs ‘In thine wisdom listen to them not’ Several obscured fragmented pages. None of which would seem to speak about Hopeless, but then a passage relates to things indigenous to the island more directly.
Lick not the cat of dust beseech
Nor in the night potato patch reach
Whence night is dark stay home, stay home
Then haunt doth seek the haunts cup
One day the sun will shine again
And Sir Gallowglass know tis not in vain
If he but lay his hand upon the chalice, and so.
Then haunt doth seek the haunts cup
This section seems to speak of future events, of a redemption of some kind. Of a sunlit island which seems impossible to me. Then of course most of the work is obscured and illegible thanks to the salt water, there is a passage that I think reads ‘beware the trousers of ill content’ and another that has something to do with ducks, there is only one complete stanza left which is the one below.
By pond of frogs in multitude
And towers of toads that shall not be stewed
Hide from the knight who seeks the grail
The haunt doth seek the haunts cup
It’s all a bit bizarre and I would dismiss it entirely, old though the book is some of it seems handwritten rather than printed. Transcribed carefully to look like print. It crossed my mind this may be a prank being played upon me by one of the research orphans. But this seems as inconceivable, as it is far too complex to be such a thing. But if it is genuine then some story of the island has clearly made it off the island centuries ago and then come back to us. The implications are worrying…
Also, there is a pond, well known for its frogs, in the middle of the island in some woods that according to local legend the ghost of a knight hunts there under a full moon seeking something long lost to man. Which sounds very strange so is probably true. I find myself wondering what the hell any of this has to do with mushrooms however.
(Note from Nimue – this was written after it was pointed out to Mark that he seemed to have visited the same Frog Chapel as Dr Abbey – posted in in this tale long before Mark got involved. I’m pretty sure Mark doesn’t know about trousers of ill content but that’s trouser magic for you.)
