He sees you when you’re sleeping
He knows when you’re awake
The fog is always watching
Do not run, there’s no escape.
(Happy whatever you’re celebrating from James Weaslegrease, Nimue Brown and Keith Errington who are collectively to blame for this blog post)
Text and image by Mark Hayes
Field Journal Notes of Philander Jones
Lead research botanist and chemist of the Hopeless Horticultural Society
It has long been established that almost all Toadstools on the island are poisonous to one degree or another. Notably the Death Night Cap, Old Widows Crust, Destroying Archangel, Fools Damp Funeral and Yellow-Strainer should all be carefully avoided.
The recent discovery of the new species Toadtables however we have discovered are perfectly edible. Native to the island they grow wherever you find other toadstools. Generally, in the middle of a patch of the fungi, with toadstools arranged around them in a suitable seating pattern.
Some scientifically uninformed individuals have said a toadtable is formed when several toadstools grow into each other forming a single long flat fungus with four or more stems but we of the Hopeless Horticulture Society refute this, we have determined it is definably a separate species and rigorous testing with our current research orphan has determined they are both nutritious and non-lethal.
The research orphan also reported a slight giddiness, weakness of the legs, feelings of elation, and then spent the better part of an afternoon in a semi-comatose state. Importantly though he did not die, which was a bonus as the next hiring fair is still three months away.
Having rigorously tested the Toadtable’s for basic edibility we progressed to stage two and brewed them into a nice tea which we surprised the research orphan with two days later, under the auspices of blind testing. One notes the research orphan was somewhat reticent to imbibe the tea, on account of a certain unfortunate wariness he has developed of late about things he is encouraged to partake of by members of the society.
Luckily the funnel and hose pipe delivery method worked just fine after we tied him down to the research chair.
It is to be noted that this can bias results due to unnatural stress placed upon the research orphan, and the effect upon his state of mind at been forced to partake.
The transcribed notes of the experiment also reflect this unfortunate methodology. It is difficult to be certain whether he called us all ‘A set of utter bastards’ and entreating us to ‘Go jump in the sea’ due to the tea increasing his innate aggression or just a reaction to being forcing to drink it.
His refusal to answer any of our questions about his state of mind, the effects of the tea and how he was feeling in general afterwards were frustrating. He has however developed an alarming twitch, bursts out laughing at irregular intervals and tried to run away three times.
This is a shame as we were going to write to Reverend Davis commending the robustness of our latest research orphan. We’ve not had one last this long before, and as you know the improved hardiness of research orphans is important for the advancement of science.
Further testing will be required, as we suspect will be a new research orphan come the next hiring fair.
Story by Martin Pearson, festive tentacles by Nimue.
In these grey days, around the time of the winter solstice, it is no exaggeration to describe The Squid and Teapot as being a small oasis of hope in a grim and foggy landscape. The inn invariably acts as a beacon to the good folk (and, it must be said, to some of the not-so-good folk) of Hopeless, Maine, and within its stout walls the troubled islanders can almost imagine themselves as being in a normal, albeit Dickensian, environment.
On the evening of our tale, business was brisk. Flickering candles, and lanterns exuding a gentle, amber light, glowed on every table, while a roaring log fire danced and crackled in the hearth. The bar and tiny snuggery of The Squid, packed with patrons, were bathed in a welcoming wash of gold that belied the horrors that lurked in every mist-strewn shadow beyond the walls. Safe within the inn, the air was filled with snatches of half-remembered songs and the hubbub of companionable conversation. Bartholomew Middlestreet, the landlord, made sure that the evening was fuelled with generous plates of Starry-Grabby Pie, washed down with copious amounts of Gannicox Spirit, foaming tankards of ‘Old Colonel’ ale and, not least, Reggie Upton’s home-made absinthe. One could almost be forgiven for thinking that nothing on earth could easily stop the flow of conversation and general bonhomie of this winter’s night – but one would have been wrong.
In the best tradition of well-worn clichés, the great oak door of The Squid and Teapot swung open dramatically, allowing a blast of cold air to send a flurry of snowflakes over the threshold, where they dissolved instantly. A sudden silence descended upon the revellers; heads turned, and every eye fell upon the dark shape silhouetted in the doorway. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop.
It was Reggie who broke the spell.
“My dear chap, I thought you were never going to get here.”
The newcomer stepped into the bar, closing the door quietly behind him.
“Rhys…?” It was Philomena Bucket’s turn to speak, apparently frozen to the spot with a tray of drinks expertly balanced on one hand.
A ripple of excitement swept through the room. It was Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man.
By necessity, Night-Soil Men have always been shadowy figures, rarely seen in the light, and then only from a distance. As is well known, the Night-Soil Man’s all-pervading reek routinely prevents people getting too close. There are exceptions of course; Reggie Upton suffers from anosmia – a total lack of any sense of smell – and had befriended Rhys, often accompanying him on his rounds. Philomena Bucket had been similarly afflicted when she came to the island, and Rhys had saved her from a gruesome end, wrapped in the deadly tentacles of some nameless creature. Philomena instantly fell in love with her rescuer, but their relationship was thwarted when an unexpected salt-water nasal douche, administered when she fell into the sea, loosened the deposits of grain in Philomena’s nose, instantly returning her olfactory senses to their original and efficient selves. On two previous occasions Rhys had attempted to give up his job, and both times things had gone horribly wrong, preventing the two from marrying. The likelihood of them setting up home together seemed ever more remote. Now, however, things had changed and Rhys had at last retired from his night-soil duties. He had subjected himself to a succession of baths, arranged for Reggie to secretly find him some clean clothes from the attics of The Squid, and summoned up his courage to re-join the daily life of the island.
The former Night-Soil Man made his way through the back-slapping throng to where the love of his life stood, still poised, holding a drinks-tray aloft. More than one pair of ears strained to hear what endearments might pass between the two.
“You might have let me know,” said Philomena, testily. There was anger in her voice.
Rhys was taken aback.
“Let you know what?”
“That you had been feeding that elf fella; that Tomte, or whatever his name is.”
“The Tomte at old Blomqvist’s place? Yes, I’ve been looking after him, but what has he got to do with anything?”
“He’s cleaning our house,” said Philomena, exasperated.
“Our house? I had no idea,” said Rhys. “But if he’s cleaning it, isn’t that a good thing?”
“No it isn’t,” said Philomena. “I wanted it to be just for us, not some museum piece, looking just as the previous owner had left it, years ago.”
“But I couldn’t let him starve,” said Rhys. “Besides, a Tomte can get pretty nasty if they’re neglected. But I honestly had no idea…”
“Of course you didn’t,” snapped Philomena. “It was to be my surprise. A place of our own that I brought back to life myself. Now it’s ruined.”
Rhys looked crestfallen. This was not the welcome that he had expected.
“I am truly sorry,” he said, “but this need not stop us from moving in.”
“Not with him there,” said Philomena. “And I get the idea that his sort doesn’t take kindly to being shifted.”
“No…” conceded Rhys.
Philomena looked close to tears.
“There will be other houses,” said Rhys, “but at least we still have each other.”
With that he dropped to one knee and produced a small gold ring. It carried a crest which depicted a square and compass, and looked suspiciously like the signet ring that Reggie Upton had worn upon his little finger until very recently.
“Philomena Bucket…”
Before Rhys could utter the question, Philomena blurted,
“Of course I will, you dam’ fool!”
A rousing cheer rattled the windows of The Squid and Teapot. A pile of bones, seemingly discarded in the corner, shook themselves into the shape of Drury, who barked approvingly and wagged a bony tail.
“So when?” asked Rhys, happy at last.
“Next week. A Christmas wedding,” replied Philomena, who was even happier.
First up, huge thanks to everyone who commented or got in touch by other means to talk about what’s going on with the Hopeless project. I’ve got some long term offers on the table that are going to make a huge difference, and some short term ones that will help me get to that point. I’ll talk more about that as we go along, but expect to see more of Mark Hayes and Steven C Davis here. If you’re inclined to throw a story or image into the mix, that’s always a great help.
I’m going to cut back where I need to, so I might be a bit quieter with the Hopeless accounts on social media, (Facebook, Twitter, Bluesky, Mastodon) and we may be down to a blog post a week at some times, but there will be something every week, I’m confident about that.
We won’t be doing an online festival this year. The previous two have depended on the technical resources and skills of Keith Errington. He’s not well, and isn’t going to be able to do it this year. If you know him personally there are details on his Facebook page, and he’ll see anything that gets posted here. There’s every reason to think he will eventually be ok, but he’s not going to be in a position to run a large project in the immediate future.
Thank you for your support, your kindness and your understanding. It’s meant a great deal, especially in this last week or so.
Text by Steven C Davis, image by Nimue
Gulch pushed the black sombrero back from his forehead. The fog streamed down heavier than he’d seen before; maybe there was a sun out there, but he wasn’t sure. He’d been following the trail for so long …
There was something wrong with his nag as well, he was sure. Sure-footed over dry ground, over cliff edges and up mountain trails, but this new trail … he shook his head. He was used to the sun shining down, clear blue skies and the steady clop-clop of his nag’s hooves on stone, but lately …
Something was definitely off with the nag. It wasn’t going clop-clop anymore; it was more of a squelchy sound as its hooves hit the ground. And, last time he’d looked, it’d looked like there were tendrils growing from its hooves. Obviously it was just tangled underbrush, but even so …
He swayed in the saddle. It wasn’t raining but he was soaked. The fog parted here and there and he caught glimpses of a very un-desertlike vista. It was cool – no, decidedly cold actually, but the fog wasn’t making him feel soaked.
He frowned. The heat of the chaparral made being clean shaven preferable, but now a beard grew. A straggly beard, with little outriders waving in a breeze he didn’t feel. He took his hat off; frowned.
The black was seeping from it, revealing a turgid, muddy grey colour.
Gulch returned it to his head. Leaned forwards, slipping a hand into the saddlepack he’d slung in front of him. Drew out the bottle of whiskey. It was still half full, the delightful gold now a limp, depressed bronze colour, but still.
He shoved it back into the saddlepack.
So I’m not drunk, he thought. This might make more sense if I was.
He frowned.
Thoughts made their way slowly through the mind of Dry Gulch.
One thing he knew, the gulch was no longer dry.
His nag looked painfully thin – why, their legs were bone thin and white. He was sure the nag had been black once.
His hat had changed colour, like some varmint had sun-bleached it.
Not that there was any sun.
The trail he’d been following … he’d kept on following. Except now it was vaguely downhill and damp, not uphill and hot.
He drew the pistol from his holster. The metal felt sticky. A little bit warm. Wrong, just wrong, in some way. He shoved it back into the holster, noticing it was trickling, leaving tiny splashes of silver behind it.
He drew the duster coat around him. It looked more like a shroud.
‘I reckon not everything’s hopeless,’ he muttered. ‘There’s gotta be something to eat round here.’
You may remember that an elderly and enigmatic resident of Hopeless, Herr Schicklegruber, disappeared under mysterious circumstances on December the fifth, a date which is not only St. Nicholas Eve, but also known as Krampusnacht (see the tale of that name). It is generally believed that Herr Schicklegruber was spirited away by Krampus, which is odd for two reasons: Firstly, the Krampus of legend usually focuses his dark attentions upon misbehaving children and, secondly, although the island is ripe with monsters of all descriptions, as far as anyone knows, this particular Christmas terror has never before been seen on Hopeless.
It has been speculated that Herr Schicklegruber, an Austrian gentleman, had somehow brought Krampus from his distant homeland, as part of his luggage, as it were. This is not beyond the realms of possibility, as the author Mr Neil Gaiman has so ably posited in his novel, ‘American Gods’.
I only mention this, as Rhys Cranham and Reggie Upton recently encountered a strange character who, it seems, came to the island under similar circumstances… but I am jumping ahead.
Regular readers will be aware that, at long last, Philomena Bucket is to marry Rhys Cranham, who will shortly be relinquishing his job as the island’s Night-Soil Man. This is only the second time in the history of Hopeless, Maine, that a Night-Soil Man has retired from his post, the first to do so being Randall Middlestreet, grandfather of the current Landlord of The Squid and Teapot, Bartholomew Middlestreet.
Having lived in The Squid and Teapot ever since her arrival on the island several years earlier, it seemed obvious to Philomena that the time had come to move on, and that she and Rhys should start their married life in their own home. This came as something of a shock to the Middlestreets, and the other resident, Reggie Upton, who expected the newlyweds to live at the inn. Philomena, however, was adamant, but promised that this was to be the only change; she would continue to act as cleaner, cook and barmaid at The Squid for as long as she was able.
“As long as you’re able?” asked Bartholomew, puzzled. “What does that mean?”
A flush came to Philomena’s pale cheeks.
“Well… you never know…” she said, not meeting his eye.
Bartholomew’s wife, Ariadne, gave her a knowing smile.
“If it should be that you cannot help us, be assured, we will certainly help you,” she said.
Bartholomew shook his head in bafflement. These women were talking in riddles as far as he was concerned.
“And when you move away,” he asked, trying to get back on to firmer ground. “Do you have anywhere in mind where you would like to live?”
“There’s an empty cottage out towards Scilly Point,” Philomena said. “No one has lived there for ages. I thought that we might go there.”
“Sven Blomqvist’s old home?” said Ariadne. “He died years ago. Long before you arrived here. It must be a damp and dusty old place after all of this time.”
“That can soon be put right,” Philomena said, confidently. “I haven’t actually been inside yet, but a bit of elbow-grease and a few fires and we’ll soon have it looking homely. In fact, I intend making a start before Rhys gives up his job next week. I want it looking nice for him.”
“I can help you,” said Ariadne, “and I am sure that Reggie will be more than happy to lend Bartholomew a hand while we’re away.”
The following morning the two women walked the half-mile or so to Scilly Point, armed with cleaning cloths and brushes, intent on bringing the abandoned cottage back to somewhere fit for human habitation. When they arrived there, and pushed open the front door, each was suddenly grasped by a feeling of trepidation, and looked anxiously inside.
The scene before them was not what either had expected.
“I think that I have made a mistake,” said Philomena. “Someone obviously lives here. Someone a darn sight tidier than me, too!”
The little parlour was scrupulously clean. Not a speck of dust or strand of cobweb could be seen.
“You don’t think that Mrs Beaton has moved in?” said Ariadne, worriedly. “I imagine that this is how her place must look.”
Philomena shuddered.
“If she has, I don’t want her finding us here… oh, but look… “
She pointed to a small bookcase.
“These books… they’re all in some foreign language,” she said.
“It’s probably Swedish,” said Ariadne, pointing to a map hanging on the wall, which proclaimed itself to be an accurate, if somewhat elderly, representation of Sweden.
“Mrs Beaton is definitely not Swedish,” said Philomena. “I don’t know anyone on the island who is, either.”
“Mr Blomqvist was,” said Ariadne.
That evening, when Rhys Cranham left his cottage to go to the bunkhouse and rouse his apprentice, Winston Oldspot, he noticed a letter pinned to his front door. In the light of his candle lantern he could just make out his name, written in a familiar hand, which made him smile. It was a note from Philomena. He took the paper to read indoors, where there was more light.
A knock came on the door.
“Are you ready, boss?”
It was Winston.
“Um… yes. Are you happy to go down to service the houses at Tragedy Creek? I’ve got something to do over at Scilly Point. I’ll meet up with you later.”
Winston nodded, and left. He was a lad of few words, which was a common trait in Night-Soil Men.
Rhys had barely walked a dozen yards when Reggie Upton slipped out of the shadows. Rhys could have guessed that Philomena would have sent his old friend as moral support.
“Philomena told me about the Blomqvist house,” said Reggie. “It’s all very rum. Apparently the old chap’s been dead for years and his place looks like a palace.”
“Yes, she wrote to me. She thinks someone is living there,” said Rhys.
“I know,” said Reggie. “Then she felt guilty, worried that you’d be confronting heaven knows what. That’s why she asked me to join you.”
Rhys grinned as the old soldier brandished his sword stick menacingly.
The two men had only been standing under the trees for a few minutes when they heard signs of movement around the cottage; it was the unmistakable scrape of a tin bucket, and something being dragged over the cobbled pathway. Then, like something out of a child’s picture-book, a tiny man appeared around the corner, pulling a sack behind him. He was no more than a foot high. He was colourfully dressed, with a loose red cap covering his head, and a long grey beard that reached down to his belt.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie. “What the devil is that?”
“More of a who than a what,” corrected Rhys. “That little fellow is some sort of elf, and is the one responsible for the housework.”
“You honestly think that he’s an elf?” Reggie sounded incredulous. “They don’t exist – they’re the stuff of fairy tales.”
Rhys gave Reggie a long, hard stare.
“You have come to an island where werewolves, shapeshifters and all manner of night-creatures are commonplace, strange little critters totter about, using stolen cutlery for stilts, and you live in an inn where two of your fellow residents are ghosts. How is it that you can’t bring yourself to believe in elves?”
For once in his life Reggie had no answer, all he could say was,
“I’d better report back to Philomena.”
As is so often the case, the answer was discovered in one of the many encyclopaedias littering the attics of The Squid and Teapot.
“The creature is called a Tomte, apparently,” said Reggie, thumbing through a dusty old tome. “Some sort of Swedish gnome, by all accounts. Old Blomqvist must have brought him over in his luggage. It says here that as long as you leave food out for him, he’ll continue to help. The downside is, if he isn’t fed, then he will cause all sorts of trouble for you.”
“Marvellous!” exclaimed Philomena, with a frown. “An angry gnome is all that I need at the moment.”
“Well, he didn’t look as though he’s starving,” said Reggie. “So someone must be leaving food for him – and I have a suspicion that Rhys knows more than he’s saying.”
I’m struggling when it comes to Hopeless, Maine and I need to talk about it. I got involved with Tom as a consequence of working on this project, and it defined our relationship in many ways. I wrote the scripts for him, I coloured for him, and he was my inspiration and my reason for doing all of this. If I’m going to keep this project going at all, I’m going to need input from other people. At the very least I’m going to need prompts. I could do with creative content as well to help keep this site alive.
I can keep Hopeless going as a community project if there are a few people who want it. Otherwise, I don’t think I have it in me to keep doing this.
Since we broke up, Tom has barely talked to me and he hasn’t talked to me about Hopeless at all. I didn’t even know when he’d handed Survivors in – the publisher had to tell me what was going on there. With Susie ill, Ominous Folk has fallen by the wayside because both James and I have found working with Tom impossible. We tried into July, and could not bear any more of it. The last few Ominous Folk gigs were actually Jessica Law and the Outlaws with different hats on.
It’s not the breaking up that’s caused the problems, from my perspective. That’s one of the best things we’ve done. This was never a good relationship and I was utterly miserable for most of the time. There’s not much incentive for me to try and reconnect with someone I failed to meaningfully connect with in more than a decade of trying. But, Hopeless Maine was something we mostly made between us, and I don’t know if it’s viable without Tom. He’s offered nothing for the site in many months, the social media is all me – and always was. He’s shown no signs of interest and I just don’t have it in me to keep running after him trying to get him to engage with things any more.
It’s possible that Hopeless, Maine as a project is bigger than Tom Brown and can survive his lack of interest in it. It’s also entirely possible that this isn’t the case and that without Tom contributing the project isn’t viable. I don’t actually have any idea which it is. So I’m putting this out here, raw and messy as it is because if we’re doing this, I need to do it honestly and if we’re not, I need to know so that I can let it go and focus my energy on other things.
By Martin Pearson
Herr Schicklegruber had lived on Hopeless, Maine for a very long time. In fact, it was such a long time that Herr Schicklegruber, besides having no recollection of when he had first landed on the island, was equally vague regarding the how, or indeed, the why. This, in many ways, was unsurprising, as he was extremely old and his mental faculties were not as sharp as they might be.
It had always been his practice to keep himself very much to himself. He had no idea why this seemed like a good plan, only that somewhere, far back in the deepest recesses of his mind, something told him that it would be wise to maintain the lowest of low profiles. So aloof was he that no one on the island even knew his first name; in fact, it had been such an age since that particular appellation was used, Mr Schicklegruber had quite forgotten what it was himself. Accordingly, he had no friends, and few acquaintances, even of the most distant variety. He lived a simple, solitary existence, preferring to slumber in his armchair and dream dreams which were forgotten as soon as he awoke. Then one day, in a dream of his childhood, memories flooded back to him with crystal clear clarity.
In the days when he was a boy, Austria was a country steeped in folklore, with a peasantry who believed every word of it. In young Schicklegruber’s mind there strode a panoply of mythic characters, some beautiful, some scary, some both. None, however, were more terrifying than Krampus.
Young Schicklegruber’s maternal grandmother had filled his head with tales of Krampus, the goat-footed, long-tongued monster; an ancient being who stalked the earth on St. Nicholas Eve, seeking out naughty children. Every child in the village secretly cowered beneath their blankets on that particular night, terrified that the monstrous creature would bind them in chains and haul them away in his sack, to meet some ghastly, but undisclosed, fate. Of course, this fear was unfounded for most, as they knew that deep down they were relatively good, and totally undeserving of any punishment that Krampus might choose to dole out. Young Schicklegruber, however, had no such illusions. He knew that he was bad to the bone. Really, really bad. His father had told him as much, many times.
Herr Schicklegruber senior was a most unpleasant man, who treated his wife and children abominably, with beatings being a regular feature of family life. It is no wonder that Schicklegruber junior believed his father’s words, for when one’s days are viewed through such a prism, it becomes easy to suppose that such brutish treatment is an inevitable consequence of being a truly bad person. Yes, young Schicklegruber genuinely believed that if there was anyone deserving of Krampus’ displeasure, it was surely him.
The old man emerged from his slumbers and looked in confusion at the dying embers of the fire. Whatever was it that had made him have such a vivid and memorable dream? He had not thought about his childhood for years, much less the infantile fear of folkloric monsters. He sighed, then shuffled outside to his meagre woodpile, returning a few minutes later carrying an armful of dark, twisted sticks of wood. These would have to do until morning. A few flakes of snow were beginning to fall, and he had no intention of venturing out again tonight; besides, those thoughts of Krampus had made him feel distinctly uneasy.
Wrapped in the warmth of the newly-fed fire, Herr Schicklegruber drifted once more into a contented doze. All dreams of childhood had left him now, and it seemed that he was standing in his sitting room, but observing his sleeping self. It was an odd dream, to be sure. Then it became odder.
A long shadow fell across the doorway, and the suddenly familiar features of the monster that had haunted his every December towered over his sleeping body. The cruel horns, shaggy coat, cloven hooves and obscenely lolling tongue could only belong to…
“Krampus!” screamed the watching Schicklegruber, but his sleeping counterpart stirred not at all.
He watched in horror as the creature wound heavy chains around the figure in the chair, then threw him in a sack. Then Krampus turned to the watching Schicklegruber, looked him full in the eye, and said, in his father’s voice,
“It is time for a reckoning… and you have been such a wicked boy.”
Rhys Cranham wanted to be certain that his apprentice, Winston Oldspot, was ready to take on the mantle of a full-time Night-Soil Man. Rhys was planning to retire from the position very soon, and marry the love of his life, Philomena Bucket. The Schicklegruber house was one he visited but infrequently, but it was necessary that Winston was familiar with every dwelling on the island.
They were more than a little surprised to see that the door appeared to have been ripped off its hinges. The two Night-Soil men looked at each other, not knowing what to expect when they peered through the window of the tiny parlour. In the event, there was nothing to see, the room was empty, but every stick of furniture was broken, as though some great beast had ravaged it. There were drag marks on the ground and scrapes on the walls, as though huge claws had traced deep grooves into the stonework.
“I have seen some strange things while doing my rounds, but never anything like this before,” said Rhys. “We’ll take a look, but I don’t think that Mr Schicklegruber is here anymore. Something has taken him.”
As the pair walked back to the House at Poo Corner, Winston asked,
“Do you ever get used to these things?”
“Not really,” said Rhys, “This one wasn’t so bad, though. There was nothing gory to see.”
“It was still disturbing,” said Winston.
“They all are,” agreed Rhys.
“I’ll log it in the journal,” he added. “What’s the date?”
“December the fifth,” said Winston.
Rhys froze in his tracks. The date December the fifth rang distant bells… in fact Christmas Bells, and not pleasant ones.
Suddenly it came to him.
“Krampusnacht!”
It’s not quite as horrific a post as the title may suggest! I now have hard copies of Survivors (people who support me as Glass Herons over on Patreon now have books on their way in the post).
This video involves me waving pages at the camera, talking a little bit about what’s in the books and my involvement. I wrote the scripts for the graphic novels, and as the series progressed I became involved with the colouring side of things, as well as coming up with concepts for some of the images. The cover for this one was my idea, and it says a lot about Salamandra’s relationship with the island.
You can get or order Survivors from many paces that do books. Here it is on the WH Smith website https://www.whsmith.co.uk/products/hopeless-maine-5-survivors/tom-brown/nimue-brown/paperback/9781908830227.html
Waterstones – https://www.waterstones.com/book/hopeless-maine-5/tom-brown/nimue-brown/9781908830227
Story by Mark Hayes, illo by Nimue.
There is a spring, on the island of hopeless. A spring from which no man drinks. Over the centuries the spring has cut a steep gorge down to the sea that no man found. The gorge leads to a beach of shale and grit sand that no man would call pretty. The tide is relentless here. Seaweed rots and dead things wash up twice each day. The decaying shells of broken boats litter the forgotten shoreline, but no man combs this beach.
The remains of a hut sits just above the high tide line. The roof long collapsed, one wall shattered by a storm ages ago. It is a hut now only because what remains remembers what it was. Beyond the hut a small jetty slumps, made by the same hands that made the hut. No man would walk upon it now. Even seagulls think twice before perching upon its posts.
At the end of the jetty sits the remains no man could name. A skeleton held together by a memory no man has. Clothed in rags that are more holes than cloth. The skeleton sits and stares out at the unforgiving sea, as once in life it sat there and waits. While the wind blows along the forgotten shore, and rain and spray lash at what was once waiting.
Each day, as the tide recedes from its apex, the thing that dwells in the sea comes. She is a thing no man has named. No man could name. Once someone did. She come and sing to the remains on the jetty. Her song, a song no man has heard for a long time. Not since the remains last struggled from their dying bed, out of his hut and along the jetty to listen to her one last time.
She comes, the thing that dwells in the sea. She comes to sing to her lover. She comes and sings and no man hears her. Least no man remembers hearing her. She comes and sings and no man weeps.
The tide recedes, the tide swells, and each day the thing that dwells in the sea comes to sing to no man. And no man weeps. And that which was remembers all that once was. In the cove no man would call pretty, the shade of no man remembers her lover, who visits her still.