The storms often bring something strange. Giant sea monsters wash up on our beaches, dead and dying, to become food for the crows. Small, broken things litter the high tide mark, tiny glimpses into other worlds tangled through strands of seaweed. In the violence of nature there is bounty for the scavengers, human and other.
I have never seen her like before. I watched her twisting out of the sky, fighting the rage of a late afternoon that meant to slaughter what it could. Beauty comes this way so seldom, and I do not know how many times I have seen some lovely thing die here, cast onto these hard shores.
She fought the wind, this bird, even as she came careening down from the clouds. I could see her struggle, a wild fight for life that refused despair or defeat. My heart ached for her desperate plight. I did not want to watch her die, and yet I could not bring myself to look away.
As she came closer I realised how big she was, the span of her wings far wider than my open arms. She passed over me, beyond my reach, every feather visible to me. There was a lustre in her, a brightness that even this foul weather could not dampen.
While the wind toyed with her, she slowed her fall, and came down onto the clifftop, stumbling but not wounded. Her landing disturbed a horde of screaming geese, and I was half afraid they might take their ire out on me, but they calmed under the gaze of the newly arrived bird – a thing I would not have thought possible had I not seen it myself.
Then she sang. An inhuman voice, with something of the flute in it and something of the shore on a gentle day. I swear the waves softened at the sound of it, and the wind dropped away. Even the ferocious stormclouds above us seemed less menacing somehow. She sang, and I remembered moments of sweetness from the past, and times when I had almost been happy. I wept for lost companions and for my own loneliness, and I was not ashamed of the weeping.
When at last she left me, I felt strangely peaceful. The heavy clouds thinned above me, and the sea tossed with far less anger than before. Her flight was as lovely as her song, full of the delicacy of her wondrous feathers, and for a while she filled the sky.
Only as she left did I understand that she had chosen to come to this inhospitable place. She had not been falling out of control as I first believed. She had journeyed here to share a little of herself, and had then travelled on to some other place, or time or soul where her song was needed. I felt honoured, humbled by this idea. I do not know why she chose me, for I see nothing in myself that could be worthy of her. There is only one response I can therefore make, which is to become something more, something filled with those feathers and haunted by that song.
You can find out more about Mike’s art here – https://www.zawackiart.com/ His work is amazing and I heartily recommend checking him out.
There had been no small amount of panic when it was discovered that Septimus Washwell had disappeared. No one had spotted hide nor hair of him for three days. The ever-resourceful Philomena Bucket had deduced that, by using the combined talents of Drury and Father Stamage, it should be possible to track the young man down and bring him safely home. And so, while Father Stamage haunted the depths of his Capello Romano (in which he was able to serenely wander the venerable corridors of his Oxford College, Campion Hall) Drury steadfastly followed Septimus’ trail to a cavern, its slender opening almost lost among a barren scattering of rocks. For every step of the way he had carried the priest’s hat firmly between his teeth. The plan, from then onwards, was that the ethereal wraith of Father Stamage would be able to find Septimus, bring news back of his whereabouts and alert a rescue party.
Bartholomew Middlestreet had never seen Drury looking quite so dejected. The skeletal hound slunk into the bar of The Squid and Teapot, where he dropped the slightly-chewed black hat that he had been carrying.
Bartholomew picked it up and hung it on the coat stand.
“I take it that there was no sign of Septimus” he said, doubt in his voice.
“Not at all,” the hat replied.
A second or two later the wispy figure of Father Stamage began to materialise from the depths of his beloved Capello Romano.
“I ventured into the cavern as far as I was able,” said the phantom priest, “But there was no sign of the lad – but I would bet my boots that he was in there somewhere. Drury is too good a tracker to have made a mistake.”
Hearing this compliment, the old hound cheered up visibly, and rattled off to his favourite corner, where he settled down on an equally favourite blanket, and immediately fell into a deep, and somewhat noisy, sleep.
Durosimi O’Stoat was sitting at his desk, deep in thought, his eyes closed and his mouth lightly resting upon his steepled fingers. He had no qualms about ensnaring those young men, now toiling far beneath the earth. If they were gullible enough to be taken in by his flattery and empty promises, then they deserved whatever fate befell them. It had been straightforward enough to dull their minds with drugged ale and a simple spell or two, but less easy had been the task of concealing their whereabouts. There would be a hue-and-cry when their absence was noticed, and doubtless that blasted abomination, Drury, would be enlisted to sniff them out. The cloaking spell that Durosimi had cast would only be effective for a dozen yards or so, but hopefully that would be enough to baffle the eyes and nose of Drury.
There was a flaw in Durosimi’s scheme which not even he could have foreseen. I have mentioned, in an earlier tale, that, with fatherhood on his horizon, Septimus had become unusually uxorious. His every thought and action had been with Mirielle and their unborn child in mind. It was inevitable, therefore, that when Mirielle reluctantly eschewed all alcoholic refreshment, for the sake of the baby’s wellbeing, Septimus felt duty-bound to follow suit. Since his capture this had been especially difficult, in the thirsty confines of Durosimi’s mine. It was hard to resist drinking from the barrel of ale which had been left for all to enjoy. But resist he did, and within a few days, clarity dawned in his addled mind once more, releasing him from the drugs and binding-spell with which Durosimi had hobbled him. There seemed to be no hope for his fellow captives, however, now reduced to little more than blank-faced automatons, toiling unceasingly in the greasy lamplight. Bidding them a silent farewell, Septimus staggered into the pale, foggy embrace of a Hopeless dawn, little knowing that Durosimi had one more trick up his sleeve; with each step, all memories of his captivity, and its causes, were erased from the young man’s mind.
If Septimus had expected to receive a hero’s unconditional welcome upon returning home, he was to be disappointed. While Mirielle was pleased, and not a little relieved, to see her husband, she made it more than clear that she could not accept his claim of temporary amnesia, and having absolutely no idea of his recent whereabouts. His parents were equally sceptical, and only Philomena Bucket regarded his story with any credibility. Whenever anything suspicious occurred on the island, she was inclined to attribute it to the devious deeds of Durosimi O’Stoat.
It was just a day or so later, when talking to Reggie Upton, that Philomena became even more convinced that the sorcerer was once more up to no good. Reggie had been out and about, on one of his flâneuring expeditions. He had wandered aimlessly, in the best tradition of what Philomena insisted on calling ‘flanneling’, until he eventually found himself sampling the ale on offer at ‘The Crow’. The talk in the inn that day had been of five young men, who had mysteriously gone missing a week earlier.
“Dashed rum affair, if you ask me,” said Reggie. “I know that it’s not unusual for chaps to go awol from Hopeless, but five at once from ‘The Crow’ is seriously out of order.”
Philomena nodded,
“If only Septimus could remember where he was for those few days, it might explain things,” she said, then added, “it’s a pity Father Stamage didn’t know where Drury had taken his hat.”
“Wouldn’t Drury remember?” asked Reggie.
They looked at what appeared to be a pile of bones snoring raucously in the corner.
“The trail would have gone cold by now,” said Philomena, “and if I know Drury, he’s forgotten all about it.”
The bones made a few soft whimpering noises, and an osseous leg emerged from the pile and began twitching furiously. Drury was busily dreaming of chasing spoonwalkers.
“Is there anything we can do,” asked Reggie.
“Those lads are somewhere on the island,” said Philomena, “and I’m fairly sure that Durosimi O’Stoat knows where.”
“Then that is where we will start to look, m’dear,” said Reggie, twirling his moustache. “The game is afoot!”
Survivors is the final graphic novel in the Hopeless Maine series. I can now confirm that it has all been handed in to Sloth Comics, the lettering is all done and the process towards getting it on paper is now well under way. As soon as I’m confident about a release date, I’ll post about it here.
The graphic novel series is a complete story arc, which ends at the end. There are survivors, it’s not such an absolute ending that nothing can happen after it. Coming to the end of the graphic novel series doesn’t mean we have to stop writing Hopeless, Maine things. Once this book is out, we’re going to have some shifts in how things are on the island, but it seems likely some of you will want to get in and play with the changes.
There are two novellas set after the graphic novels, and there will be conversations ahead about how best to proceed with those. News when I have any!
I’m fairly sure that this plant was discovered by Susie Roberts. Now, I know there was that whole business earlier in the year with Susie experimenting at length with the possibilities of licking dustcats for their hallucinogenic effects, but bear with me…
This one does seem to be real. It’s rare because it can only bloom in dry conditions and let’s face it, the island is, most of the time, damp. However, it can show up in response to outdoors fires, and can be a very pretty addition if you’ve decided to burn your deceased relative rather than burying them.
Mirielle D’Illay barked the words at her husband as he stumbled over his dance routine for the third time.
“Sorry,” stammered Septimus. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Well, move it off your mind and concentrate on the dance. We’ll be performing in front of an audience in a few days, and it needs to be perfect.”
“A few days?” said Septimus, paling.
“Yes – it’s your mother’s birthday party, or have you forgotten?”
“But I won’t be able to…”
“You won’t be able to do what?” Mirielle regarded him darkly. “I hope that you’re not going to say you won’t be dancing at Mabel’s party.”
Septimus had recently agreed to help Durosimi O’Stoat complete some mysterious task or other, and had, that very morning, received a message from the sorcerer informing him that he would be required to start work on the following day. Septimus had been reminded to tell no one.
“So where will you be?” Mirielle demanded.
Septimus, who had become suddenly and unaccountably uxorious since learning that he was to become a father, was reluctant to lie to his wife. Durosimi, however, had sworn him to secrecy, and Durosimi was not the sort of person you wanted to disobey.
“It’s just something I’ve been asked to do at The Squid and Teapot,” he said, not totally untruthfully. A few days earlier Septimus had delivered a firkin of ale to Durosimi. That was when the offer of a job had arisen. The firkin was now, apparently empty and needed to be returned to the inn, and another one taken to Durosimi. How the sorcerer had got through nine gallons of ale in such a short time, and now needed a further supply, was beyond Septimus’ comprehension.
“So you would rather mess about in the cellar of The Squid than going to your mother’s party and dancing with me?”
“Of course not, but I really have to…”
“I don’t know why you don’t move into The Squid and Teapot, like Reggie Upton,” Mirielle broke in angrily. “You might as well be married to that mad Englishman. You two deserve each other.”
“That’s just being silly…” began Septimus, but he was talking to himself. Mirielle had already left the building.
“It is a simple enough task,” said Durosimi. “I just need you to break up few rocks. It is easy enough work for a youngster such as yourself.”
Septimus gazed into the gaping mouth of the cavern with some disquiet. It was all very well Durosimi seeing him as being a strong young man. No one had said anything about needing to be brave.
“That looks a tad creepy in there, Mr O’Stoat,” he said, nervously.
Durosmi smiled a mirthless smile that was meant to be reassuring.
“Nonsense, lad,” he said, laying a hand on Septimus’ shoulder. “You will have a lantern, and it is perfectly safe, I can assure you, and you won’t be alone. There are some other fellows in there, all willing recruits like you. They seem very happy. I would do the job myself, but alas, I am not as young as I used to be.”
Septimus wondered what that had to do with anything. True, Durosimi certainly had a few years under his belt, but surely, he was no older than Septimus’ own father, Seth, who was still as strong as an ox.
Holding his candle lantern aloft, Septimus gave a sigh. His shoulder tingled, where Durosimi had touched him, and his mind was growing foggy.
“They seem very happy,” he said dreamily, and wandered, like a sleepwalker, into the cavern.
“I thought he’d never go,” muttered Durosimi.
“He has been gone for three days,” wailed Mirielle. “I was too harsh with him, what have I done? Mon Dieu, what have I done?”
“Whatever it is that has happened, it is not your fault,” reassured Philomena Bucket. “I checked with Bartholomew, and he said that the last time he had seen Septimus, he was in the cellar of The Squid, and about to swap Durosimi’s empty firkin for a full one.”
“Durosimi?” said Mirielle, aghast. “Durosimi O’Stoat?”
Philomena nodded. She did not know anyone else called Durosimi, and did not imagine that Mirielle did, either.
“I am uneasy if Septimus is associating with that man.”
“Me too,” said Philomena, wishing that Granny was around, so that she could at least to ask for her advice. True to form the ghost of Granny Bucket made a point of turning up when you least wanted her but failed to appear when needed.
“If only we could find where he is gone,” whimpered Mirielle.
“Maybe we can,” said Philomena, after some thought. “I think I know who can help.”
Philomena Bucket had always been wary of the priesthood, but, in recent months, Father Stamage had become the exception. It helped that, since his unfortunate death, his views on the afterlife had been drastically revised.
“Septimus is lost?” said the ghostly Jesuit. “Of course, I would be very happy to help, but I can’t really see what use I would be.”
“You do yourself a disservice, Father,” said Philomena. “You’ll help no end, as long as you’re happy to team up with Drury for a spell.”
Father Ignatius bridled a little at the word ‘spell’. He was only too aware of what the Bucket women were capable of when it came to spells. Then he realised that this was no more than a figure of speech.
“With Drury?” he said, his curiosity roused. “Why, yes, I get on with the old chap quite well these days, but I can’t really see…”
“You will,” said Philomena with a grin. “Leave it to me.”
Had you been standing outside The Squid and Teapot, later that evening, you may have spotted a skeletal hound slip out from the shadows, with a bible-black hat firmly held between his jaws. Drury was notorious for stealing various items of discarded clothing, but his usual tactic would be to dash away with it, causing as much mayhem as possible in the process. This evening, however, he slunk along, his bony nose firmly fixated upon the ground. Occasionally he would put the hat down, sniff the air, then finding his bearings, pick up the hat once more and continue with his mission.
As I have mentioned in other tales, you and I might find no more than the odours of sweat, cheap brilliantine and faded incense in the priest’s somewhat battered Capello Romano. For Ignatius Stamage, however, to haunt his hat was to walk, once more, through the cool, venerable corridors of his old alma mater, Campion Hall, in Oxford.
It was less than an hour later that Drury found himself standing at the forbidding mouth of a dark cavern. The ground was thick with scents, but he could easily distinguish that of Septimus from the others. Laying the hat upon the ground, he gave a low bark, intended to summon the ghost of Father Ignatius. Without a word, the ghostly priest drifted from the comfort of his hat and Campion Hall, and into the gloom-laden cavern, unseen and unheard by any who might be watching.
This isn’t the first time we’ve found terrible things inhabiting glass. Many years ago, Frampton Jones had a camera that was infamously infiltrated by some kind of nameless horror. The trouble with trying to research this sort of thing is that, based on Frampton’s experience, we know there is a high risk of being driven mad when whatever is inside the glass turns its gaze upon you. It may be better not to look too closely.
Dan Crow worked a farm a short way inland, it was a meagre living, but with serious effort and a canny eye, he compelled the begrudging land and its crops to give up enough of their harvest to afford him his house and his living. This was an impressive endeavour, as there are very few plants or animals on the island of Hopeless, Maine that are not incredibly dangerous and probably out to kill you. But some could be handled if you knew how, and Dan’s family had been farming this land for generations now and had handed down a wealth of ancient knowledge and expertise. His craggy face, keen eyes, rough hands and ever-present straggly beard, marked him out as a worker of the land, along with the solid wooden staff he always carried. He was big man, not unkind, but tough, and if he spoke, which was a rare event, it was quietly and with dignity.
Nathanial Veldt, or Nathan to his friends, fished off the shore of Hopeless. There were few more hazardous professions on the island than fishing. The sea creatures in the waters were like no other anywhere in the known world, a mass of vicious, spikey, multi-mouthed, tentacled bundles of hate and spite with more teeth than a saw making factory. The range and number of aquatic killer beasts generally deterred any sane person from venturing onto the beach, let alone into the water. After all, the island’s inhabitants knew only too well the treacherous nature of the seas having arrived there by shipwreck. Nathan, however seemed to be immune to attack or harm, and fished the seas without undue trouble, although this was still a formidable task as the seas and rocks around the island were challenging to the inexperienced sailor. Inexperienced Nathan was not, he had an almost mystical relationship with the sea and which allowed him to catch enough fish to sell in the town. This provided him with a modest living and a reasonable sized shack on the shoreline. Many said of Nathan that he had a witch’s protection, others that he was a benign demon – if there were such a thing – whereas the more fanciful said he was made of the sea itself – whilst not stopping to explain exactly how that might work. Broad shouldered and always wearing his tough sailor’s jacket, he had a mass of hair upon his head, which was mostly hidden under a woolly cap – except for his bushy eyebrows and even bushier beard. He kept himself to himself and was never known to harm anyone.
One afternoon whilst Nathan was casting his net, he noticed a huge commotion on the sea in the distance. An enormous bird, the like of which he had never seen before, was diving down into the water again and again. It was a raptorial beast with sharp angled wings and a beak like a huge spear, it’s end serrated and slightly curved. Suddenly, something rose out of the water and snapped at the bird, clipping a wing and the bird flapped backwards out of range before going in one last time in a fast focussed dive. Nathan could just make out a spreading of red on the surface of the water and the sudden frenzy of a hundred smaller denizens of the sea feasting on fresh flesh. The bird emerged from the water in a great plume of water, clutching a huge chunk of… something, in its beak. Nathan watched transfixed as it flew inland passing directly over his boat.
The bird was struggling to fly and hold onto its prize at the same time. The faltering motion of the bird jarred something loose, which dropped from the sky and landed in the boat. Nathan stooped down to see what he had just gained. The bottom of the boat was a mix of water, fish guts, fish oil and bits of rope, so Nathan had to look hard and close to see. As he peered into the murk, something shot up, tugged at his beard, and seemed to crawl inside. Nathan reeled back, cursing himself for his foolishness. Likely he’d be dead in minutes he thought. But as he sat in his vessel pondering his fate, he realised that nothing seemed to be happening. Cautiously, he felt inside his beard, he could feel nothing untoward – it seemed like just his beard and nothing more. Perhaps he had imagined it? But then, there seemed to be something slightly strange about the texture of his beard hair now.
Dan was out in the fields when he spied a large bird flapping in from the coast. It appeared to be in some trouble, a damaged wing causing it to falter. It was getting lower and lower, and Dan realised it would be down in the next field before long. He kept his distance, but approached the bird carefully as it flapped gracelessly down. At that moment, the bird saw him, struggled a bit and falteringly took off and flew towards the trees on the edge of the farm. Where it had been, Dan could just make out something small lying on the ground. Being a cautious man, Dan took his staff and moved it towards the object. Suddenly there was a rapid movement, and something ran up the stick across his body and into his beard. Dan yelped and pulled at his beard, running his finger through to try and locate and lose the foreign creature. But there didn’t seem to be anything there, just a change in the texture of his beard. In response to such a troubling incident, Dan did the only reasonable thing – he headed for the pub.
Nathan had sat in his old armchair for a while just considering his experience. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders, grabbed his coat and headed out. He needed a drink. As he stepped through the threshold and into sight of the bar he was warmly greeted by the barman – always glad of a customer, “Hello, Mr Veldt.” This was an affectation, the barman knew his first name, but always addressed them by surnames as in a traditional manner. “Pint of Green Heron’s Legs please” requested Nathan. Beer in hand he made his way to a booth near the back of the establishment – not his normal habit, he usually sat at the bar – but he felt like brooding, and that was going to be difficult surrounded by the pub’s custom.
“Hello Mr Crow” the barkeep cheerily shouted across as Dan entered the pub. “Will it be the usual sir?” “Yes, thank you” responded Dan. “Pint of Tine’n’turp, coming up”. Dan picked up his glass and looked around the bar – he felt a strange tingle in his beard and a slight tug, seemingly directing him to the back of the pub. He tried to ignore it, but nevertheless found himself walking back and sitting down at the very same booth as Nathan, taking a chair across the small table. “May I join you?” Dan asked, and received a nod in reply. “Evening”, they both said, almost simultaneously. “Dan Crow isn’t it?’ Asked Nathan. “Yes, and you’re the fisherman – Nathan…” Dan struggled to find the surname. “Veldt” offered Nathan helpfully, and they shook hands.
They sat for a while, two hard-working loners, who seldom said much and for whom small talk was a foreign language. They both sensed they should say something to start a conversation but struggled to find the means. Eventually Nathan spoke, “I, er, had a rather strange experience today…” he offered. Dan looked up, “Oh, so did I actually. Most strange. What happened to you?”
Nathan looked around conspiratorially, he didn’t want too many people thinking he was going mad after all, “Well, I was fishing off the coast this morning…” he said quietly. Rather too quietly, “What?” queried Dan and leaned in closer to hear. At that moment as the two men faced each other, a couple of inches away at most, something emerged from each of their beards and met in the middle, like fine filaments from a spider’s web. They spun around each other and pulled tight. “Weargh!” exclaimed Nathan as his head bumped against Dan’s. “Sorry,” Dan automatically replied without thinking, although the sudden closeness was no more his fault that Nathan’s. The threads pulled tighter bringing the two beards together and then intertwining them. By this point Dan and Nathan were beard to beard, mouth to mouth, nose to nose, and terrified eye to terrified eye. The beards stretched tighter and then, seemingly reaching an equilibrium, they relaxed slightly, but not quite enough to separate the two men’s faces. Some of the other customers were looking over at them, and from the other side of the room, the flamboyant Jason Tredagaire threw them a knowing wink. But then, after a while, it became obvious to the other customers that something wasn’t right. Perhaps it was the awkward body language, or the untouched beer, or maybe it was the muffled noises coming from the mouths of the entrapped pair.
Doc Willoughby was summoned and spent what he felt was a suitably appropriate amount of time scratching his head before pronouncing that he had never seen anything like it, and as they were not dying he would be off to see to some patients who might be.
The two men’s beards could not be separated no matter how hard people tried, or what they tried. And they had to go back to Dan’s farmhouse together.
Over time Nathanial Veldt and Dan Crow became used to their weird Siamese life. They fished together and farmed together, the extra pair of hands making the work easier. Somehow their sentient beard dwellers knew to allow them some respite and loosened their grip enough to let the pair eat and drink when they needed. But sleeping and other activities were always awkward and strained.
At some point they both realised they had a lot in common, that they shared many experiences, and living so close together they developed a relationship and eventually a gentle love began to blossom between them. In the fullness of time, they saw their affliction as a blessing, for never would they have found true companionship without it, and would forever have lived alone.
They became a byword on the island for true love, after all, the two men were literally inseparable, so much so, they became known by just the one name, VeldtCrow.
he reality of his situation was gradually dawning upon Septimus Washwell. At twenty-one years of age he was a married man with a child on the way. Had you told him, just a year ago, that he would be saddled with such responsibility in such a short time, he would have laughed in your face. The Septimus of last year was a confirmed bachelor, a free spirit, with a reputation for fighting his way in and out of trouble with monotonous regularity. And then Mirielle D’Illay, of the dance troupe Les Demoiselles de le Moulin Rouge, had come into his life, and his world was turned upside-down. Mirielle had transformed Septimus’ aggressive tendencies into a passion for dancing, much to the surprise of his parents and the amusement of his six brothers.
“Why do you worry so? The baby is not due until just before Christmas. Everything will be okay.”
Mirielle did not like to see her husband quite so distracted.
“But I do worry,” said Septimus. “Having a baby is big. Really, really big.”
“It will be fine,” reassured Mirielle. “Just keep that drunken quack, Doc Willoughby, well away from me, or I will not be responsible for my actions. Philomena has promised to take care of everything.”
“That’s just as well,” said Septimus, “she has helped deliver a few babies since she’s been on the island. What bothers me is how we’re going to manage.”
“The way everyone else does,” said Mirielle, sounding exasperated. “Mon Dieu, your mother had seven children. Do you think she worried about having to manage?”
“Well I want my kid to have the best of everything,” said Septimus.
Bartholomew Middlestreet stood in the cellar of The Squid and Teapot, surrounded by a variety of barrels of all sizes.
“I’m not used to people asking if they can have a barrel of ale,” he said, “especially people like Durosimi O’Stoat. I can’t imagine why he wants one so much – he’s not known for throwing parties.”
“How big a barrel does he need?” asked Reggie Upton, whose encounters with Durosimi, to date, had not been memorable for their cordiality.
A firkin – that’s nine gallons, and as small as I’ve got,” replied Bartholomew.
“What was it that my prep school teacher used to tell us? A pint of water weighs a pound and a quarter… why, that’s ninety pounds, plus the weight of the barrel,” said Reggie, doing a rapid calculation.
“I hope you’re not expecting me to lug it along to chez Durosimi,” he added. “I am not the man I once was, y’know. I recall an occasion, just after the battle of Spion Kop…”
“No, of course not,” broke in Bartholomew, keen to derail any long anecdote that Reggie might be planning to inflict upon him. “I’m going to ask young Septimus if he’ll wheel it along in the barrow, later.”
“Good show,” said Reggie, “It will give the lad something to do. He’s been moping around a lot lately. Worried about the trials of parenthood, I’d imagine.”
Septimus stood on Durosimi’s doorstep, plucking up the courage to knock on the door. Like most of those who lived on Hopeless, Maine, he regarded Durosimi with a mixture of fear and awe. What was it that people called him? Sorcerer, or something similar. Warlock as well. Septimus knew what they meant. But Philomena had used words he had not heard before; thaumaturgist and necromancer. Were they good or bad?
While contemplating this, Septimus had not noticed that Durosimi had noiselessly opened the door and was standing in front of him.
“Yes?” it was surprising how much menace could be invested in a single syllable.
“Sorry, Mr O’Stoat. I’ve got your ale from The Squid. Sorry.”
“Why are you sorry that you have my ale?”
“Oh, sorry.”
“For goodness sake, stop apologising man, and bring it along to the kitchen.”
Septimus looked at the mud-splattered barrow and decided that wheeling it through the house might not be the popular thing to do.
Cradling the firkin in his arms, he dutifully followed after Durosimi.
Over the years, Septimus had visited several houses on the island. There was very little variation in their décor and furnishings. Out of necessity islanders depended upon anything that they could salvage to make their homes as comfortable as possible. This often led to some very odd combinations of furniture and fixtures, but these were generally functional and fulfilled a need. Durosimi’s house, however, was like none he had seen before. There were no sea-stained tables and chairs, upturned orange-boxes or cracked plates and mugs. Everything was pristine. Everything looked new and expensive. Septimus gazed, open mouthed; he had no idea that such opulence existed on Hopeless.
“Come on lad. Put the barrel down in the corner,” said Durosimi, then paused.
“You’re not even breaking a sweat,” he said. “That barrel must weigh eighty pounds, at least.”
“A hundred, according to Reggie Upton,” said Septimus, then paled visibly. He would not want Durosimi to think that he was trying to correct him.
“Indeed? You’re a strong fellow, I’ll give you that,” said Durosimi, sounding uncharacteristically pleasant. “You wouldn’t be wanting a job, by any chance?”
“A job? What sort of job.”
“Working for me occasionally. I could use someone like you,” said Durosimi.
“Someone like me?” said Septimus, warily.
“Someone with a bit of strength. I am not as young as I used to be, and some of my transactions… “
He let the sentence trail off, as though he had said too much.
“Look,” he went on. “I know you’ll have a growing family to support soon…”
“How do you… ?” began Septimus, but Durosimi held up his hand to silence him.
“Just hear me out. I saw you casting covetous eyes over the modest possessions I have in my parlour. Things like those could be yours, for no more than a few hour’s work occasionally.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” said Durosimi. “But you must tell no one. Not even that pretty little French bride of yours.”
The hair on Septimus’ neck prickled. Durosimi seemed to know more about him than he was comfortable with. But all the same…
“What do I need to do?” he asked.
“Nothing at the moment. I’ll send for you in a few days… and yes, I know where you live. I will be in touch with you soon, and remember – tell no one.”
“He will do nicely,” Durosimi thought to himself, with a mirthless smile, as he watched Septimus make his way down the hill. “Strong in the arm, and not too much in his head. Perfect!”
Here are some fabulous creatures discovered on the island by Gary Stenning at the August event in Stroud. We may have to send out an expedition to see if we can find that tree.
Gary is a wonderful steampunk artist and if you’re following our page on Facebook you may have seen the dustcat he’s working on. You can find out more about Gary’s work over here – https://www.garystenningart.com/
Clarence became aware of his differences quite early in his life. For one thing he was much smaller than any of the others in his clan. He was also rather lacking in the claw department. He had claws but they were delicate things that retracted rather than the fearsome talons wielded by others in his clan. He also came to realise that he was much smarter than they were. That’s not to say his fellow dustcats were stupid, they had considerable cunning, but they were limited in their understanding of certain things that Clarence was increasingly curious about.
Clarence had been born in the library. This may have something to do with his differences but it may not. Dustcats like libraries, libraries have large collections of books and books, as anyone with a reasonable collection of them will know, collect dust. Lots and lots of dust. But Clarence discovered that libraries also contain words, lots of them, almost as many words as the dust. Words liked to gather in groups. Some of the words were a bit standoffish but most of the others were perfectly happy to whisper their sibilant secrets to Clarence. A few were a little offended that Clarence couldn’t be something called “possessed”, they never did explain what that was, but on the whole the words seemed to enjoy Clarence and he certainly enjoyed them. Sometimes the words asked Clarence to do things for them and where he could arrange things for them he did. He wasn’t sure why the humans were so upset by these things as they didn’t bother to explain themselves and treated Clarence as an annoying pest in spite of his genius. There, I’ve said it, Clarence was a genius, the sibilant words all agreed with this conclusion, and such beings are usually misunderstood. The words, however, encouraged Clarence to explore and find new pockets of dust for his clan and new gatherings of words to learn from. Soon Clarence knew the secrets of the library better than any other being that lived there and that’s when things really started to get interesting.
But that’s another story.
(Pauline wrote the text and made the adorable needlefelt dustcat!)
