Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

About Time

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Philomena Bucket and Reggie Upton were ransacking the attics of The Squid and Teapot, in an effort to find some fresh reading material for the hermit, Neville Moore. Neville, as you may remember, lives with his pet raven, Lenore, in a decrepit old mansion on a part of the island known as Ghastly Green.

“There are plenty of books,” declared Reggie, “but not a lot of what you might describe as light reading matter. There seems to be an endless supply of encyclopaedias, dictionaries and suchlike – even the odd grimoire or two – but very little that would entertain Neville for very long on a winter’s evening.”

“How about this one?” said Philomena. “It looks quite old… ah, but maybe not. It’s written in German, I think.”

“Let me see,” said Reggie, his curiosity whetted.

Philomena handed the old soldier the tome, heavy and dusty in its dark leather binding.

Reggie stared at the cover, then gently opened the book to view its first few pages.

For a brief moment a deep silence fell upon the room, until Reggie exclaimed,

“Good Lord.”

“Is there something amiss?” asked Philomena, worriedly.

“Good Lord,” said Reggie again.

“You have said that twice, now. Is there any chance that you might tell me what’s wrong?” Philomena insisted.

“Nothing wrong, m’dear. Just the contrary, in fact. This book, dear lady, is virtually priceless. It would realise a fortune at Sotheby’s.”

“And totally worthless on Hopeless,” reflected Philomena, drily. “But go on, anyway.”

“It is no less than a first edition of The Chemical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz, by Johann Valentin Andreae, published in 1616. How the devil did it get here?”

Reggie’s excitement was palpable, unlike that of Philomena.

“Oh, is that all,” she said, a little disappointedly. “So, who did this Christian fella marry, and what was chemical about it? Perhaps they meant to say that it was a comical wedding. I’ve been to a few of those.”

“No, Christian Rosenkreutz was a guest, not the bridegroom, but anyway, the book is an allegory. It isn’t about a marriage between people at all. It is all about alchemy.”

“Ah, like my old friend Doctor John Dee practiced,” she said, feeling on firmer ground now. “I wonder if he ever read the book, back in his study in England?”

“Sadly not,” said Reggie. “John Dee had been long dead when this book was published. In fact, it’s likely that some of his teachings inspired the work.”

Philomena’s face fell.

“It is weird to think that Doctor Dee has been dead for centuries,” she said. “It was only a few months ago that he was here with us.”

“Strange things seem to happen on Hopeless,” said Reggie. “I feel, sometimes, that this island defies all natural laws.”

Philomena fell silent, then said, hesitantly,

“On that subject, there is something I need to say, and you might find it a bit of a shock.”

“I doubt it m’dear,” replied Reggie, in avuncular tones.

“How old do you think I am?” she asked. “Go on, be honest. I won’t be offended.”

Reggie shuffled uncomfortably.

“Twenty-five, twenty-six…” he ventured, crossing his fingers behind his back.

“Not bad,” she grinned. “I’ll be thirty on my next birthday. So, in your opinion, in which year was I born?”

“One doesn’t have to be a genius to work it out,” smiled Reggie. “Eighteen-eighty-two, or three at the latest.”

“Not quite,” said Philomena. “Try seventeen-ninety-five.”

“Oh, come on,” said Reggie, suddenly a little afraid. “That is impossible. It would make you old enough to be my grandmother.”

Philomena said nothing, but took him by the arm and led him to a pile of encyclopaedias lying in a corner. She selected one, thumbed through the index and opened the book for Reggie to read the entry.

“Gosh,” he said with delight, “why, there is a photograph of The Titanic. I was supposed to board her, just before I was whisked off to this island. It looks as though it was taken before she docked in New York. Let me see, now…”

As he read the article in the encyclopaedia, Reggie’s face became paler and paler, and his jaw dropped open.

“She sank? But this cannot be…” he started to say, then Philomena handed him another encyclopaedia.

He scanned the page she had offered him, and his incredulity grew.

“I’ve missed a war,” he spluttered.

“At least one,” murmured Philomena.

“So what year is this, exactly?” Reggie asked, his voice trembling.

“I do not know, and besides, it doesn’t matter,” said Philomena. “Hopeless and Time seem to have a complicated relationship.”

Reggie flopped down on to a conveniently placed chair.

“I don’t know if I can cope with this, I need a drink,” he moaned.

“You always need a drink – and of course you can cope,” said Philomena. “Just look upon it as another of your adventures. One of the more unusual variety.”

Reggie puffed out his cheeks in exasperation.

“It is a lot to ask, m’dear, but it seems that you and I – and I suppose everyone else on this island – are stuck with this. As far as I can see, the whole issue appears to be about time.”

“Speaking of that, it’s about time we found some suitable reading matter for Neville,” said Philomena brightly, helping him to his feet. “Come on, we haven’t got all day.”

It was much later, when a pale moon was peering through the mist, that Reggie strode out to meet Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man. Having lost his sense of smell years earlier, he had no problem associating with Rhys.

“I have a package to deliver to Neville at Ghastly Green,” said Reggie. “We eventually managed to unearth a few books for him this afternoon.”

“That will cheer him up,” said Rhys, adding, “and I have a letter for you to deliver for me, please. Don’t worry, it won’t take you out of way; it’s for Philomena at The Squid.”

“I’d be delighted to,” said Reggie with a knowing wink.

The delivery to Neville went remarkably easily, with the raven, Lenore, displaying only the tiniest amount of malevolence, and hardly any violence, which made a refreshing change.

Having accompanied Rhys on his rounds, it was not until the very early part of the following morning that Reggie wandered wearily back to The Squid and Teapot, where he took care to leave the letter to Philomena on the kitchen table.

When he came downstairs a few hours later, he was surprised to see the barmaid sitting in the otherwise deserted snuggery, and staring into space as though stunned. In fact, the look on her face was not so different to the one that Reggie had worn when he had discovered how Time was playing tricks with the island.

“Are you quite well, m’dear?” he asked, concernedly.

“I think so,” said Philomena.

“And…?”

“It seems that Rhys has been training a new apprentice, and had decided not to tell me.”

“Is that so very bad?” asked Reggie, puzzled.

“Not really,” she replied. “But, on the strength of that, he is giving up Night-Soil work. He has asked me to marry him – again –  and promised that nothing can possibly go wrong.”

“And what is your response?”

Philomena looked at Reggie for what felt like an age, the faintest blush colouring her pale features.

Then she smiled.

“It’s about time!” she laughed.

Hopeless inhabitants

In the winter mist

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Winter mist mari by Skulls and Sheets, story by Nimue

I went down to the sea tonight. I don’t like those public rituals for screaming the names of the dead. Grief is a private thing for me. I like to be alone with the waves and whisper what I have to say.

I often see surf horses in the early morning, there’s a herd of them who usually appear in this cove. I think they feed on something in the water,  or maybe it’s the foaminess of the cresting waves that they’re drawn to. 

Today the mist lay heavily on the sea, rolling in banks like a second ocean riding upon the first. The kind of morning when it seems there might be many different worlds all layered one atop the other and that you might easily slip between them. 

Then the slanting winter light cut through it all, buttery and strange, the yellow against the white. I saw her form then. She is to the mist what surf horses are to the waves, I think. Larger and more imposing than even the storm horses I have seen in previous years, but also more delicate, more ephemeral than the sea beasts I normally encounter.

I whispered the story of my grief to her, and she stayed, hovering in the bay as though inclined to listen to my words. I felt comfort, for the first time in many years. I felt understood. Sometimes there is beauty in the terror, and kindness in the most uncanny things. I have learned not to make assumptions.

With her blessing I go back to sleep in my grave a little longer. No doubt I will wake again, tormented by memory and loss. But I will wake knowing that I am not wholly alone in this world after all.

Find more Skulls and Sheets art over here – https://linktr.ee/Skullsandsheets

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

Mrs Beaten’s Bedside Manner

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Story by Nimue.

You are feverish, but you do not think this alarming vision is just a product of your fevered brain. While you can’t stand up, you have enough mastery over yourself to be fairly certain of your own mind.

The question is, how did she get in? Surely the door was locked? She isn’t the type to climb through a window, that would be far too undignified. You feel confident this is someone who would rather die in a house fire than climb indelicately from a window.

Her hands are cold upon your burning brow. So cold. You almost like the feeling while wanting not to like it at all. She straightens your quilt, not even sickness makes untidiness acceptable.

“I do not think you are ready for soup,” she says.

This is a relief. You have never felt less ready for soup, but imagine her spooning it into your mouth, making you feel powerless in face of her. What other horrors might she insist upon? A bedbath? An emptying of the chamber pot? There are so many things to fear, and in your fevered state, that fear has a truly delicious quality to it.

“Of course you have no one to blame but yourself,” she says, sternly.

You have no idea what she means.

“I know some gentlemen consider a brisk paddle in the sea to be good for the constitution, but hardly in that bay.”

You still have no idea what she means.

“It was fortuitous that I happened to be in the area,” she adds.

You have been suspicious for some time that Mrs Beaten has been following you, but thought it best not to say anything.

“There’s a jellyfish woman in that bay. Everyone knows that.”

You did not know that, but a hazy memory returns, of translucent flesh and a desperately pretty face.

“She had you enraptured,” Mrs Beaten puts her hands on her hips and stares at you. Her judgement is intense.

“I don’t remember,” you manage to say, but your voice is hoarse.

“Of course you don’t. That’s how they get you. They make you forget, and they make you long to return to them. You’ve lived here long enough to understand that. Really, I expected better from you.”

“Sorry,” you manage.

“I had no choice but to beat her to death with my umbrella,” Mrs Beaten adds, with a casualness that suggests she does this sort of thing all the time. “I had to bring you back in a wheelbarrow.”

While this explains a few things, it does not comfort you.

“I’ve brought you a restorative from Doc Willoughby,” she says.

You can’t see the umbrella, but all the same it seems wiser to follow her instructions.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Best Wood For Burning

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By Martin Pearson, illo by Nimue Brown

It was another of those bitterly cold November nights on the island of Hopeless, Maine; its only saving grace was that the cruel, blustery wind that had been raging for days was keeping the rain at bay.

The ferocity of the wind had even kept the regular patrons of The Squid and Teapot away from the inn, leaving only those who lived within its walls to enjoy the quiet camaraderie of the snuggery. There, Bartholomew Middlestreet and his wife, Ariadne, sat enjoying some slightly tipsy conversation with Philomena Bucket and Reggie Upton. Drury, the skeletal hound, slumbered contentedly before a flickering log fire that bathed the room in a rich chiaroscuro wash, rendering the little gathering into a study by Caravaggio.

“Dashed weather,” complained Reggie. “Is this blasted wind ever going to stop? I haven’t been out for a stroll for ages.”

“Moan all you will, but it’s an improvement on last November, “said Philomena. “Do you remember, Ariadne?”

The landlord’s wife nodded.

“We had so much rain that it flooded one of the privies at the orphanage, and brought down the wall,” she said. “It couldn’t be mended until the rain stopped. I remember Reverend Davies commenting that it was hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain.”

Philomena scowled.

“The miserable old so-and-so had the gall to blame me for the weather. He said it was divine retribution for bringing Dr Dee to the island.”

Reggie nearly dropped his tankard of Old Colonel.

“So you were responsible for bringing the alchemist, John Dee, here?” he said. “I know that this island is rum beyond words, but how on earth did you…?”

“It’s a long story,” interrupted Philomena. “Remind me to tell you sometime.”

(Author’s note: For those – and there must be many – who have no idea to what Philomena and Ariadne were referring, they could do worse than look at the tale ‘November Rain’, and any one of several tales in which John Dee has featured, beginning with ‘The Visions of Doctor Dee’)

“Well, let’s be thankful that the bad weather is outside, and we are in here, snug and warm,” said Bartholomew. “I think I’ll put another log on the fire.”

“It’s a jolly good blaze,” observed Reggie.

“So it should be; it’s seasoned ash wood, and burns well,” said Bartholomew. “Seth Washwell lets me have all of the ash off-cuts from the sawmill.”

“Oh yes… now you mention it, I remember hearing that some types of wood make better fires than others,” said Reggie.

“Oh yes,” said Bartholomew, “I’ve learned, over the years that you have to be careful what you’re burning.”

“When I was a girl, Granny Bucket taught me a rhyme about the various types of wood, and what they’re good for.” said Philomena, wistfully.

“Do you remember any of it?” asked Ariadne, more out of politeness than anything else.

“As a matter of fact I do,” said Philomena and, assuming that Ariadne’s question meant that everyone was keen to hear the rhyme, cleared her throat, and began:

“Oak logs will warm you well,
If they’re old and dry.
Larch logs of pine will smell,
But the sparks will fly.

Beech logs for Christmas time,
Yew logs heat you well.
‘Scotch’ logs it is a crime,
For anyone to sell.

Birch logs will burn too fast,
Chestnut scarce at all.
Hawthorn logs are good to last,
But cut them in the fall.

Holly logs will burn like wax,
You should burn them green,
Elm logs like smouldering flax,
No flame to be seen.

Pear logs and apple logs,
They will scent your room,
Cherry logs across the dogs,
Smell like flowers in bloom

But ash logs, all smooth and grey,
Burn them green or old;
Buy up all that come your way,
They’re worth their weight in gold.”

“Well remembered m’dear,” said Reggie, applauding. “And dashed useful to know, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“But what’s all that about cherry logs on the dogs,” asked Ariadne. “I don’t think Drury would be too pleased about that.”

“It’s the fire-dogs,” said Bartholomew, pointing to where the logs were blazing in the hearth. “Like those iron brackets supporting the grate; they’ve been sitting there since before my grandfather’s time.

“I notice that your rhyme didn’t mention elder wood,” said Reggie. “I have heard that there are lots of superstitions surrounding it.”

“And well founded, too,” said Bartholomew, settling himself down to tell a tale. “Back in the early 1800s, old Corwen Nailsworthy was the community’s apothecary, vintner, distiller and guardian of a little copse of elder trees that grew on the edge of the common. These trees were the source of many of Corwen’s remedies and were hardy enough to put up with the climate. The blossom alone would provide folks with elderflower wine, cordial, tea and when flour was available, fritters. When the flowers were applied to the skin they could help with joint pain, and elderflower water soothed sore eyes. Of course, the ripe berries could be made into elderberry wine, port and syrup for all to enjoy. In one way or another the elder is the most miraculous of all trees, given what it provides.”

“Then why the poor reputation?” asked Reggie, puzzled

“Well, superstitious folks would say that it’s to do with witches, and suchlike,” replied Bartholomew, giving Philomena an awkward sideways look. “There’s more to it than that, though, as Corwen found out.”

Confident now that he had their full attention, Bartholomew took a swig of ale, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and began:

“There was a shipwreck one winter, and half-a-dozen sailors survived and made their way ashore. They were ruffians to a man, and took over a deserted cottage near the common. It wasn’t long before they started stealing and bullying without a second thought. Things came to a head when they cut down one of Corwen’s elders to use as firewood. He begged them not to, told them it didn’t burn well and warned that anyone who tried would find themselves cursed. Of course, they laughed at him and said that they would be back the next day for more. As you can imagine, Corwen was terrified; what could he do against men like that? The next day came and went, and they didn’t return. After a week Corwen plucked up the courage to go to their cottage, hoping that they had left. When he arrived there he found that the doors and windows were sealed in ice, and he could just make out, through the glass, six dead bodies sprawled all around, their faces horribly contorted and discoloured. It seemed as though the curse had taken them, after all.”

“There must be an explanation,” said Reggie uncertainly. He had seen enough strange sights in his army career in India and Africa to know that this was not always the case.

“Oh, there is,” said Bartholomew, then paused for dramatic effect.

“Tell us then,” said Philomena, impatiently.

“Cyanide,” said Bartholomew. “When elder burns it gives off cyanide poison. In their sealed up cottage those sailors signed their death warrants as soon as they decided to set the wood alight.”

“I’ll wager that’s caught many a poor peasant out in days gone by,” said Reggie. “All the superstition that grew up around it at least deterred people from burning it.”

  “But don’t write superstitions off,” warned Philomena. “After all, this is Hopeless.”

As she spoke, the ghost of Father Stamage drifted through the room, on his way to meet Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless Lady, who haunted the flushing privy.

 The others could only nod in silent agreement.

Author’s note: The full story of Corwen Nailsworthy and his trees can be found in the tale ‘The Elders’.

Hopeless

Hopeless Star Signs

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What I’ve tried to do here is combine the elegance of traditional images for star signs with the what-even-the-fuck-is-that-supposed-to-be of traditional star signs.

If you aren’t familiar with Hopeless Horrorscopes and do not know what your star sign is, you can find more about that over here – https://hopeless-maine.co.uk/2021/01/17/new-hopeless-maine-horrorscopes/

(And yes, there’s a reason for doing this, but I’m just going to tease rather than tell you what’s going on, because it amuses me and I’m a bit evil).

The Bemused Starfish

The Succubus Wasp

The Bucket (if you were looking at it from above)

The Cuttlefish Overlords (it is best not to make accurate depictions of The Cuttlefish Overlords).

The Night Soil Carrier (it’s a stylised poo)

The Ominous Watcher

The Ur Deer

The Half Person (space left to fill in what the other half is according to your needs)

The Large Angry Mammal

The Scuttling Entity

Mostly Teeth

The Night Potato (and not a teapot as you may have mistakenly assumed)

Inexplicably Standing On The Roof (which is not rude. Why even would you think that?)

Hopeless

Hopeless with Sloths

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The photo comes from last weekend’s Thought Bubble in Yorkshire. For those of you unfamiliar with it, this is a massive comics convention. Intimidatingly so. Thankfully, Nic from Sloth Comics is very good at this sort of thing and takes Sloth to all kinds of big events. That’s Nic in the photo, the one at the table who is wearing a not-preposterous hat. 

Survivors is not long out in the world. There were a few people who came to the table looking for the last book in the series. There were of course a lot more people who had never heard of any of it, but were curious. One chap bought The Gathering on the first day and then came back on the second day and bought all the other books as well. He made me particularly happy.

Hopeless is in good company at Sloth Comics. On the fantasy side, there’s also Erika and the Princes in Distress, the Penny Blackfeather books and the wonderfully wicked Goblins series. Nic likes a bit of twisted humour (evidently). We’re the darkest thing on his table, but I feel we fit in well nonetheless. 

Quite a few of the Sloth Comics titles are in translation from French, this being something Nic specialises in. If the elder gods align and the stars are benevolent, perhaps one day it will be possible to get Hopeless into France. It’s been a longstanding daydream, and it’s not wholly unthinkable. This isn’t about an overwhelming desire to be paid in cheese although… cheese… nor is it entirely about wanting an excuse to swan around a few French comics conventions, where my half forgotten A-Level French is likely to do me more harm than good. France is a country that takes its graphic novels seriously, and it would be very cool to be there.

So at some point when the moon is bright and we’re in good voice for howling, there might have to be a ritual sacrifice of camembert to whatever unnatural forces preside over international publishing opportunities.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Scrabble

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By Martin Pearson

Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, could not help but smile to himself as he watched a flickering light dance gracefully along the pathway towards The Squid and Teapot. Even if the church clock had not chimed the hour, he would have known that it was 3a.m. on a Tuesday morning, the time when Miss Calder, the ghostly matriarch of the Pallid Rock Orphanage, made it her business to call upon Lady Margaret D’Avening and Father Ignatius Stamage. With her head tucked underneath her arm, Lady Margaret haunts the stonework of the inn’s flushing privy, and Father Stamage haunts his hat, which usually hangs on a hook nearby. As such, the pair are considered to be The Squid’s resident ghosts. Miss Calder, on the other hand, is free to wander wherever she wants, and feels it her duty to keep the island’s other, less mobile, ghosts up to date with the current gossip. Come Hell or high water (and this is meant literally when speaking of Hopeless, Maine), The Squid and Teapot’s allotted hour for her to visit is carefully diarised for 3a.m. on a Tuesday morning.

“Being a ghost takes some getting used to,” complained Father Stamage.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” said Miss Calder. “There are a lot of advantages. Being able to walk through walls, not needing to sleep, or eat… “

“But I enjoyed eating and sleeping,” replied the priest, testily. “I also enjoyed being with people and playing games.”

“You really played games?” broke in Lady Margaret, nearly dropping her head in surprise. “Football and tennis, and suchlike?”

“When I was younger,” Stamage admitted. “But I’m thinking of things a little more sedentary, like chess and Scrabble.”

“Whatever is Scrabble?” asked Miss Calder. “It sounds to be a very disorganised sort of game.”

“Not at all. Let me show you a Scrabble board,” he said, screwing his face up in concentration.

As you may be aware, ghosts have a natural gift of telepathy, and are able to project their thoughts to other ghosts.

Instantly the two ladies were seeing a rectangular board divided into a grid pattern. Miss Calder counted fifteen rows of fifteen squares. Although most squares were grey, for reasons as yet beyond her understanding, others were shaded pink, blue and red.  

“Then we have little tiles with letters,” said the priest, “and we take turns to make words.”

“Well, this all sounds fairly simple,” said Miss Calder, reassuringly. “I am sure that we could arrange for someone to make you a set.”

“Which would be just fine, if I could only pick the tiles up,” said the priest irritably, passing his hand through the wash basin to prove his point.

“Then you need someone to do it for you, silly,” said Lady Margaret. “Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezey.”

Ignatius Stamage and Miss Calder looked at each other in dismay. Where on earth did Lady Margaret pick up these irritating sayings? 

It was just a few days later that Philomena Bucket presented Father Stamage with his Scrabble game. Following Miss Calder’s instructions, she had painted a very credible likeness of a board on to a folding card-table, and Seth Washwell, proprietor of Washwell & Sons Foundry and Sawmills, had been persuaded to make one hundred little square tiles, upon which Philomena had inscribed the letters of the alphabet, leaving two blank.

“That’s amazing,” said Father Stamage. “Why you’ve even got the letter values and distribution right; twelve As, 6 Ns, three Gs and so forth.”

“It’s written on the side of the board,” said Philomena. “You remembered it well.”

“So I should. I have played the game often enough,” he replied. “But who will be playing on my behalf?”

“Septimus said that he would place the tiles for you, if you tell him what letters to put down. I’ll play for Miss Calder, and Reggie Upton is intrigued by the whole thing, and said that he had never seen anything like it, and would like to take part.”

It is one of those interesting quirks of time that exists on Hopeless that, although Father Stamage came to the island some months before Reggie, his era was somewhat later. You may recall that Reggie – or Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton, as he was then known, was waiting to board the RMS Titanic when he found himself whisked away to Hopeless, fortunately with a well-stocked travelling trunk to keep him company. That would have been in 1912, over twenty years before Scrabble was invented.

All was going well, until the inevitable disputes arose regarding the authenticity of various words. Miss Calder had instructed Philomena to put down the letters ‘NON’. Reggie immediately challenged the word saying that it was not valid and certainly not included in the only dictionary that was immediately available. Philomena pointed out that the book was ancient and intended for use in schools, but Reggie would have none of it. Then Septimus, surprisingly, came to Miss Calder’s defence.

“It is one of Mirielle’s favourite words,” he said, ruefully. “It is definitely something that is said a lot on Hopeless, especially in our house, so it ought to be included.”

After a certain amount of harrumphing from Reggie it was decided to allow NON.  After all, he reflected, it only gave Miss Calder and Philomena a miserly three points, so where was the harm?

Reggie’s next move was to put the word IBEX in the top corner. The letter I was already in place, so the triple word score had gone. However, the X fell upon a double word score, giving him a moderately satisfying twenty points.

By now the game was almost over and, although the scores were close together, Reggie looked certain to romp home to victory.

“I think we’re just about done,” said Septimus. “Me and the Father have only got vowels left to play.”

The ghost of Father Stamage winced at Septimus’ bad grammar, then smiled, raised a finger and said,

“We are not finished yet, lad. Put these letters down…”

Following the Jesuit’s instructions, Septimus put an E between the X of IBEX and the word NON, which was immediately below.

“XENON. Very good,” conceded Reggie, with a twinkle in his eye, “but a score of twelve won’t be quite enough to beat me.”

“Hold on,” said Septimus, “there is more to come – and then we’ll be out.”

He proceeded to follow the first E with UOUAE.

“EUOUAE? What on earth is that supposed to be?” asked Reggie.

“You-wah-wee,” enunciated Father Stamage, “It is a perfectly legitimate word, old chap.” 

“Absolute balderdash!” exclaimed Reggie. “You have just made it up.”

“How dare you,” said Father Stamage, angrily. “I am – or was- a man of the cloth. I would never…”

“Then what does it mean? Go on, tell me.” Reggie’s face was becoming flushed.

Philomena and Miss Calder wisely stayed out of the altercation.

“It is a musical mnemonic used in Latin psalters,” said Father Stamage, adding triumphantly, “and I should know!”

“But.. but..” spluttered Reggie, but before he could say another word, the door burst open and Drury raced in, dragging a sheet that he had found hanging a little too low on the washing line. As the skeletal hound charged by he knocked over the table and the Scrabble pieces flew across the room.

Strangely, no one seemed too upset that Drury had ruined their game. Indeed, his intervention had diffused the situation.

“Ah well, that can’t be helped,” said Reggie, his face going back to its natural pallor. “Shall we call it a draw?”

“A draw it is,” said Father Stamage, receding into his hat, and the quiet of the hallowed corridors of his old Alma Mater, Campion Hall.

“A draw? Definitely,” said Philomena, adding, under her breath, “Good old Drury!”

Views of Hopeless

Hermit Cottage

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Text and image by Nimue Brown

Hermit Cottage has been inhabited by members of the Jones family for generations. The main body of the cottage is the shell of a giant mollusc. There’s no knowing from the shell alone whether there was a more regular ocean-going giant mollusc, or whether it belonged to one of the hermits indigenous to the island. However ‘Hermit Cottage’ has a nice ring to it, and ‘Might have been a massive conch  cottage’ doesn’t quite have the same swing.

Hermit Cottage features in a story set after the graphic novel series. If you support me on Patreon, you’ll have already run into this (and thank you, it really helps). There are a couple of stories set after the series, and figuring out what happens to those will be a job for this winter. 

The cottage is in a fairly remote spot, tucked in amongst the dunes. It’s a short walk to the sea and a much longer walk in to town. Here we find Necessity, a young female-ish person who has built a wandering mechanical device. And yes, this whole thing started with the notion of necessity being the mother of invention, but I managed to get through the entire story without actually saying it.

Hopeless Tales

Into the Puddle

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By Roz White

If you ask a good many of the residents on Hopeless, Maine, to name their favourite place of recreation (although that in itself is a bit of a dodgy term on the island, some might say), there are probably not many that would name The Puddle Inn before one or two others – although, again, the choice is hardly enormous on Hopeless. It is not that The Puddle is a particularly noisome establishment (but again, see the above comments) but it does rather suffer from Geography. Which is perhaps a better option than suffering from some of the other things common to the Island.

Very few people go anywhere near its location, which in consequence means that very few have even heard of The Puddle Inn, and how it continues to even survive against such insurmountable odds is merely another mystery surrounding a place that is enough of a mystery in itself. You see, The Puddle is situated in a part of the island known as “the puddle”: it sits in a swampy area of lower ground that is damper, muddier and wetter than most of the rest of Hopeless, so it is perhaps merely a matter of degree.

So, if asked to provide directions to the establishment, those who are even aware of it might describe it as “The Puddle Inn in The Puddle.” The majority will simply stare at you blankly as if you had gone mad, although again this might be considered normal behaviour for a good many of them…

But it gets worse. Sitting in a damp depression (another term applicable to the rest of the island and its inhabitants, come to think of it), the pub itself is prone to occasional manifestations of water within its walls as well as outwith them. So sometimes there is The Puddle in The Puddle in The Puddle. Nobody on the island appears to consider such appalling grammar worthy of note; it is more a case of going to, say, The Squid and Teapot on that particular day, since The S&T tends to at least allow its patrons to keep their feet (or equivalents) dry.

Attempts to provide extra, and somewhat unique, entertainments in the pub also met with a singular level of failure. Islanders have a well-founded distrust of pretty much any body of water – even ones they can see the bottom of – and so the Puddle Inn Pool proved to be no benefit to profits at all. Even games of billiards can, on a bad day, come to resemble water-polo more than anything else, and shove ha’penny can be more akin to skimming stones across ponds (or, indeed, puddles). Nobody mentions the skittles anymore.

A certain Mr Igneous appears to be the hotelier at The Puddle; we say it in those terms because nobody has so far been able to produce any documentary evidence of his appointment or ownership of the Establishment, least of all Mr Igneous himself. But for all the damp, the loose and self-determining outbreaks of water and the singular lack of any regular (actually, any) clientele, Igneous always has a smile and a jolly word for anyone happening upon his little business; his chief source of supply is one Silas Grimgach, who whilst technically independent and self-employed, does seem to have some sort of tie to The Puddle, and has yet to attempt peddling his wares to any other hostelry, private cottage, village shop or… well, anywhere, really. The precise nature of this tie, as with so much else surrounding The Puddle, is yet to be illuminated but we do not doubt that it will prove to be just as unwholesome and potentially dangerous to life and limb as his “Old Succubus” Porter proved to be on its one and only outing. Yet Mr Igneous appears to be somewhat enamoured of the brew…

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Under a Hunter’s Moon

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By Martin Pearson

Durosimi

(Durosimi image by Nimue Brown, based on Erek Vaehne, with thanks for the loan of his face.)

No one could ever accuse Durosimi O’Stoat of being unduly burdened by his conscience. The sorcerer has, in his time, caused enough misery and destruction to drive anyone else insane with feelings of guilt. He is a master of manipulation and treachery, stopping at nothing to further his own ends. That, at least, is what he would like you to believe. Indeed, until recently it was pretty much his own self-image. But all of that was before the Lost Boys incident.

You may remember that he had cruelly sent five young men into the arms – and teeth – of the hideous, flesh-eating sirens who inhabit the waters around the island of Hopeless. The continued existence of the Lost Boys, as they had become known, had become somewhat inconvenient to Durosimi, and he considered such a course of action to be quite reasonable. After all, on Hopeless people disappear all the time. What difference would five more make?

Some weeks after their disappearance, when the first full moon of Autumn – the Hunter’s Moon – rose in the sky, to stare dimly through the perpetual mist that hangs over the island, Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, was taking a well-earned break from his labours. As usual Philomena had wandered along from The Squid and Teapot and left a bottle of ‘Old Colonel’ and a generous slice of starry-grabby pie on his doorstep. These were now sitting on the lid of his bucket, which doubled-up nicely as a makeshift table when he was on his rounds. Meanwhile, his old friend Drury, the skeletal hound, was snuffling around in the darkness in the hope of picking up the scent of a stray spoonwalker or maybe a puddle rat, or anything else likely to provide the chance of a chasing game while Rhys was eating his meal. Suddenly the dog stiffened. This, of course, bore little resemblance to the elegant, silent freeze of a pointer, or the quiet menace of a German shepherd on guard duty. Drury’s attempts at pointing generally involve a series of rattles and clacks, as of bone meeting bone, and on this occasion, making just enough noise to disturb the silence of the night.

Reacting to the sound, Rhys looked up, and was surprised to see a pale, luminescent smoke creeping up from the threshing ocean and gradually make its way inland. As it grew closer the Night-Soil Man realised that what he was seeing was not smoke, but a huddle of ghostly human shapes. This was unusual. While fulfilling his duties Rhys had seen any amount of ghosts, phantoms and apparitions generally, but these were usually solitary entities, and not given to wandering around in groups.

From his position on the headland he watched the eerie tableau drift noiselessly from the coastal path and disappear into the trees. Drury, having more sense than many gave him credit for, made no attempt to follow them.

Durosimi O’Stoat has always prided himself on needing little sleep. Three or four hours are usually sufficient. Tonight, however, he had nodded off into a deep, satisfying slumber while sitting in his armchair. Even when the hefty tome that he had been reading slipped off his lap and fell to the floor, he did not stir. It was only when a faint bluish-green glow insinuated itself through the heavy oak front door and settled in the corner of his study, did he awake.

He sat, stock still, for several minutes staring at the phenomenon. Most of us would have fled in terror, but not Durosimi. A lifetime of weird encounters has left him unfazed by virtually anything.

“Who, or what are you?” he demanded sternly.

The glow shimmered and expanded, as if to respond, then resumed its original shape in the corner.

“I am waiting…” said Durosimi, sounding like a schoolmaster addressing a wayward pupil.

Almost reluctantly, the glow spread once more and broke into five distinctive shapes.

He recognised the Lost Boys at once. They stood shoulder to shoulder before him, gaunt, haggard and accusing.

“You can stand there all night,” Durosimi said, unconcernedly, “but I am well aware that you cannot harm me, and you certainly don’t scare me.”

The Lost Boys said nothing; they just hovered within that ghastly light and stared at the man who had been responsible for their deaths.  

Durosimi closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the Lost Boys were gone. The first few ribbons of morning light were fighting their way through the mist.

“I must have dropped off to sleep again,” he muttered. “Such behaviour is quite unlike me, and that was a most weird dream, to be sure.”

Lost in the business of the following day, Durosimi thought no more about his strange dream.

It came as something of a surprise, therefore, when the boys once more manifested in his study, sometime after midnight. Durosimi was poring over his books, trying to make sense of a complicated mediaeval spell written in Latin, when he sensed their arrival.

He turned abruptly and eyed them in silence.

The five stared back, accusingly. Not a word was spoken for what felt like an age.

“What do you want?” Durosimi asked, at last.

There was no reply, but the air seemed to grow colder, then little by little the apparitions faded, until there was no clue that the Lost Boys had ever been there.

Durosimi felt exhausted. Leaving his books on the table he lay down on his bed, fully clothed, and immediately fell asleep. Those five wasted faces haunted his dreams.

As the days and nights went by the sorcerer came to expect his strange visitors. He gave up asking what they wanted; after all, they were the Lost Boys, and they wanted their lives back. That was something that even he could not give them, and, to his surprise, it troubled him.

Durosimi found himself to be harbouring certain thoughts and feelings that he believed to be long-dead. One evening he allowed his mind to wander into an alternative future, where the five youngsters had matured into family men, becoming fathers and eventually grandfathers. These were the lives that he had stolen from them, and for once in his life Durosimi felt real remorse for what he had done.

When next the apparitions appeared, he wasted no time in addressing them.

“I am truly sorry for being the cause of your deaths,” he said, glad that no one else was there to hear. “I can only beg your forgiveness.”

His words hung in the air, and he feared that his apology had not been enough. Then the blue-green light that enveloped the five gradually turned into a ball of shimmering silver that grew stronger with each passing second, until it was far too bright to look at. As Durosimi turned away, shielding his eyes, the ball of light seemed to explode and, for a long while, he knew no more.

Sitting in front of his parlour fire, many hours later, Durosimi pondered over the events of the previous week. He knew that the Lost Boys had gone for good, now. They had reached into him and found the man that he might once have been. It made him uncomfortable. It was a weakness, buried so deep that he was unaware of its existence. That must never happen again.

Despite these thoughts, the briefest ghost of a smile flickered across his face. This in itself was a rarity.

“No, such weakness must never happen again,” he repeated to himself, but a part of Durosimi was glad that it had, just this once.

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