Gregory O’Regan is Hopeless, Maine’s unburialist. This is a rare calling, but the work is vital. Sometimes people are buried when they should not have been. A well practiced and dedicated unburialist can detect these situations and may be able to act in time to stop the presumed dead person from becoming an actually dead person. Of course, if the unburialist is too late then all that is revealed is horror.
When people have been buried secretively with a view to hiding the body, the keen senses of the unburialist are needed to retrieve the victim. Not that this reliably leads to any kind of justice for the dead, but on the whole we find it helps to at least know that they are dead, and where they have been put.
For these reasons, you may well see Gregory at work on the island, digging for those who should not have been buried. It is best not to approach him when he is working, and best not to ask what he is doing. His ability to tell whether people should not have been buried seems to depend on getting them in the ground first, but if you invite him to the funeral and ply him with good beer, then the processes tends to be smoother and less traumatic all round.
(People who want to be islanders are sending in photos. If you’ve got no other way of contacting us, leave a comment and we’ll email you.)
Last week we said things about demon devices and how sometimes you just have to shove a demon in a blunderbus and get on with things. This led to Mark Hayes feeling moved to shove a demon in a blunderbus and take photos.
Mark is an excellent chap, and one of the Gloucestershire steampunks. (He’s not actually residing in Gloucestershire, but this seems to be a minor detail really).
… and the sort of person who turns out to own both a blunderbus and a demon, and to be possessed of the willingness to put these two things together and take photos of them.
Philomena Bucket was sitting in silence in the snuggery of The Squid and Teapot. It was an hour or so before dawn, and, except for the tiny flame of her candle, the inn was in darkness. For three nights now she had followed the same ritual, hoping to summon the ghost of Granny Bucket. So far her beloved ancestor had failed to materialise. This was ironic, for there had been times in the recent past when Granny, whose presence was always something of a mixed blessing, had flitted in and out of Philomena’s life, unbidden, on a regular basis. Where was she now, when her granddaughter most needed her advice?
Since Reggie Upton had arrived on the island, Philomena had been given much to ponder. It was not that Reggie himself was a problem; in fact, he was the very epitome of gentlemanly behaviour. Philomena’s main concern was that Reggie’s tulpa – the thought-form he referred to as Annie – had not only become more than a little petulant, but had also managed to separate itself from him. Like most of us, Philomena had no first-hand experience of tulpa behaviour, and was unsure if this was a common occurrence, or a direct result of being brought to Hopeless, where the strangest of things were wont to happen. Reggie had related the story of Annie’s creation in confidence to Philomena and, as far as she was aware, no one else on the island knew about it. While none of this affected Philomena personally, she could see how much it troubled her friend, who had endeared himself to many who frequented The Squid. Lately, however, he had taken to arguing publicly with Annie, an entity invisible to everyone except Philomena and himself. Soon rumours were spreading that he was either quite mad, or in an almost permanent state of inebriation. This was unfair, for while it cannot be denied that Reggie was inclined towards a degree of eccentricity and, indeed, no stranger to the occasional ‘Beaker full of the Warm South’, as Keats so aptly put it, there was much more to the man than that. The tulpa needed to be put back into Reggie’s head, heart, mind, psyche – or whichever bit of him it had lived previously – as soon as was possible. That was why Philomena needed Granny’s assistance.
The fact that she could see Annie came as no great surprise to Philomena. She had always had the dubious gift of ‘The Sight’, and had lately been assured by several who, in her opinion, should know better, that she was the last, and most powerful, of a long line of witches. This revelation was something of a bone of contention between her and Granny, who maintained that it was Philomena’s duty to produce at least one daughter to carry on the tradition. Here was another reason to get Annie safely back into Reggie with some haste, for Philomena and the notorious Durosimi O’Stoat were descended from a common ancestor. If Philomena could see the tulpa, then it was certain that Durosimi would be able to. Assuredly, the old villain would not be able to resist the temptation of ensnaring Annie and using it for all sorts of mischief.
It was on the fourth night that Granny eventually chose to manifest herself. She did not appear, as was expected, in the flickering candlelight of the snug, but went to quite another area of The Squid and Teapot. To all intents and purposes, Granny had not come to see Philomena, but to call in on her old friend, Lady Margaret D’Avening, the ghostly White Lady, who carried her head in her hands and haunted the inn’s flushing indoor privy. It was only by chance that Philomena knew the she was there, having volunteered to work late and wield a mop and bucket, following a rather over-enthusiastic birthday celebration by Egbert Washwell and his six brothers (and that is as much as you need to know regarding that particular event, believe me!).
The two ghosts were complaining about the lamentable behaviour of modern youth (which included anyone born during the last two centuries) and Drury’s annoying habit of trying to run away with Lady Margaret’s head.
“Philomena, me darlin’, I hear that you’ve been trying to get hold of me,” said Granny, when her granddaughter entered the privy to empty her mop-bucket.
“Ah, so there you are, at last!” said Philomena testily. “I’ve been trying to contact you for days.”
When Granny asked what the urgency was, Philomena related the problem of Reggie’s tulpa. Lady Margaret looked down her nose (which is easy if you are holding your head in your hands at the time).
“Thought forms!” she spat the words out with venom. “Such horrid, common things. I can’t stand them.”
Lady Margaret was one of those people who would invariably start a sentence with the words “I’m not a snob, but…” then go out of her way to prove that she was.
“Oh, they’re alright,” said Granny. “It’s just that they’ve got no experience of life like me and you have had, Maggie.”
Lady Margaret hated being called Maggie almost as much as she loathed sloppy English, but, out of deference to Granny, she let both offences pass.
“Well, I think they’re ghastly,” she said primly, which was rich coming from a three-hundred-year old spectre, with a severed head and a diaphanous nightgown splattered in gore. With that she turned abruptly and disappeared into the wall.
“But can they be banished, back into the original host?” asked Philomena, thankful that she could now talk to Granny without Lady Margaret butting in.
“Usually thought forms evaporate into thin air after a while,” said Granny, “but, as I see it, this one has been conjured from somewhere deep in Reggie’s mind, and is altogether different. So, in answer to your question, yes, anything can be banished, providing you know the right spell and aren’t fussy if something gets damaged along the way.”
“Damaged?” asked Philomena, nervously.
“Your chum Reggie,” said Granny. “might not come out of it so well if this toupee of his…”
“Tulpa,” corrected Philomena.
“If this thingy of his puts up a fight.”
Knowing what she did of Annie, Philomena thought that this would be more than likely.
“Is there anything we can do?” Philomena asked.
“Much as I should be singing the praises of pocheen and porter, when it comes to things like this I have great faith in the power of The Green Fairy. You wouldn’t be having any absinthe handy, by any chance?”
Erek Vaehne suggests lotus stems as raw material for fabric. What could possibly go wrong?
LOTUS: Lotus flower fiber from the root of the lotus plant has been used for centuries to produce rare fabrics used in hand-spun scarves. The process, in which the stems of the lotus are cut and twisted to expose the fibers, is however time-consuming. The process produces a luxurious fabric that feels like a combination of silk and raw linen. Lotus fabric has unique properties — it is naturally soft, light, breathable and antibacterial. Cambodia-based Samatoa Lotus Textiles reports the Lotus plant is believed to have healing abilities, and wearing a fabric made using the fibers lotus fibers may have healing effects curing the wearer of headaches, heart ailments, asthma and lung issues.
*
There was a man in the pub. Yes, I know no good outcomes ever follow from an opening line about buying something from a man in a pub, but I traded one of my little cows for a sack of beans. The man in the pub said that they were lotus beans and that I could eat what they grew and make coats out of the stems.
Now, coats are hard to come by, especially ones that aren’t thin at the elbows, greasy about the shoulders and entirely the wrong size. So the idea of a bean that would grow me a coat seemed really clever to me. I thought I’d go into business, selling bean coats.
So I planted the beans, and took care of them, told them stories of an evening and laid out circles of broken crockery and pine needles around them to protect them from curses. Beans are delicate like that.
They didn’t grow me any coats though. I watched them every day, waiting for that first coat bud to show, and when I got my first buds I was so excited. Such a wonderful, jolly colour. But when it opened up it wasn’t a coat at all, it was this funny looking fish thing. A bit like a spiny whiney badger faced black bean, only more scaley. Pretty, mind you. Didn’t try to bite me.
So I’m trying my hand at making shoes out of fish leather instead, I reckon that’ll be dead popular once I can get rid of the smell.
Sometimes you just have to roll up your sleeves, shove a demon in your blunderbus and do your best to shoot the problem.
Demon Devices are a concept brought to the island by Keith Healing, during the period when he was working on the role play game. The premise is that you can get stuff done by binding a demon to a bit of technology. We now also have an Ominous Folk song about them, written by James Weaselgrease. At present the only way to hear it is as part of the opening section of Anomaly. ANOMALY PART I
Lilly May – as pictured above – is clearly the sort of person to go in for this kind of activity. If you’ve read the graphic novels you’ll be aware of the magical side of what Lilly May gets up to, not least that she’s the person who ends up with Annamarie Nightshade’s familiar – Lamashtu. Lilly May is also an inventor, something you only really see in the chapter covers.
If you’re a Dustcat over on Patreon, you’ll have access to Necessity, which features Lilly May and her demon devices far more thoroughly. https://www.patreon.com/NimueB
At some point we’ll figure out how to get this story, and other new Hopeless tales into your eager little paws. We know you have eager little paws. You probably keep them in a dusty box under the bed, only taking them out on special occasions.
“It will be absolutely fine, honestly,” said Reggie. “I know it’s been a few years since I last had a hand in making absinthe, but I can assure you, I know what I’m doing.”
Philomena Bucket, peering through the scullery window of The Squid and Teapot, wondered who Reggie was arguing with.
“Yes, I know my alcohol intake has not always been as moderate as it should be but… what was that you said? Louche? You’re calling me louche? How dare you!”
By now the old soldier was waving his silver-topped walking cane angrily. Philomena was concerned that he might strike out at whoever was talking to him. Deciding that it was time to intervene before someone was hurt, she picked up a tea-towel, dried her hands and marched outside.
It came as something of a shock to see that Reggie was apparently remonstrating with a length of driftwood, propped innocuously against the wall of the inn.
“Are you alright, Reggie?” she enquired.
“What? Oh yes. Absolutely top-notch, m’dear.”
“I thought I heard you arguing with somebody.”
“No… not me. It must have been someone else.”
Philomena gave him a meaningful look, but said nothing. It was not like Reggie to lie, but something was definitely not right.
Rhys Cranham pulled on his boots with a weary sigh. While he enjoyed his work as the island’s Night-Soil Man, it took its toll upon his joints and back. He really needed to recruit another apprentice, but having lost two in as many years, the lads at the orphanage had become slow to volunteer their services. Things were not all bad, however; at least, these days, he had someone to talk to. Ever since Reggie Upton’s admission that his sense of smell was defunct, the old boy would turn up, from time to time, and join him on his round for a while.
“Will you please leave me alone?” said Reggie.
“Sorry, what was that?” asked Rhys. “I didn’t see you standing there in the shadows.”
“Just wishing you a good evening, my friend,” said Reggie, quickly. “Might I join you for a while?”
The two walked through the night, chatting companionably. Neither noticed the pale watcher who regarded them from a distance, or the skeletal dog who padded quietly by her side. For once, Drury was behaving himself.
Reggie left Rhys after twenty minutes, and took the path that wound back towards The Squid and Teapot.
As soon as he was sure that he was out of earshot, he said,
“This is getting beyond a joke. You are supposed to be a confidante, not nagging at me all the time.”
Philomena, keeping in the shadows, heard every word. Out of concern for her friend, she decided that she would have to confront him as soon as possible.
Reggie flopped into a seat in the deserted snuggery and regarded Philomena with tired, sad eyes.
“My dear young lady,” he said, “I know you mean well, but if I told you the truth you are unlikely to believe me.”
“Try me,” said Philomena. “You would be surprised at some of the stuff that I’ve had to take on board over this last couple of years.”
Reggie took a large swig of ale, and laid his tankard on the table.
“As you know, for much of my army career I served in India. The place is rife with all sorts of religious sects and holy-men, fakirs, mystics and the like. It is a far more spiritual country than anywhere you could find in Europe. As a consequence, India has always attracted those whom you might describe as seeking some sort of enlightenment. One such was a lady named Annie, who became very dear to me.”
Philomena said nothing. She was wondering where this story was going.
“She told me that she belonged to a group who called themselves Theosophists. I must admit, I had never before heard of them, but, dash it, although neither of us were in the first flush of youth, she captivated me from the very day I met her, and I was sufficiently ensnared to want to share her interests. Although, as a serving officer I had certain responsibilities, I also had the freedom to do pretty much as I liked. Inevitably, Annie’s obsessions rubbed off on me and together we delved quite deeply into some of the more esoteric practices of those mystics whom I mentioned earlier. That is how we learned to create a tulpa.”
“Tulpa? I’m none the wiser,” admitted Philomena.
Reggie sighed.
“I don’t know if Annie actually made the word up, or if it exists in some exotic vocabulary, but a tulpa is what you might describe as being an entity created by nothing more than the power of the mind.”
“A thought-form!” said Philomena. “I know all about those.”
“You do?”
Reggie was surprised, knowing little of Philomena’s history.
“Well, to cut a long story short,” he went on, “my regiment was eventually posted back to England, and thence on to South Africa. We have not seen each other since then. It is probably just as well, she being much more devoted to the spiritual life than I could ever aspire to. But I haven’t lost her completely; I have always had the tulpa to remind me of her. In fact, I have given it – or should I say her – Annie’s shape and name.”
“So, do you mean that you’re being haunted by this Annie?” Philomena asked, confused.
“Good heavens, no,” said Reggie. “As far as I am aware, the dear lady is still alive and kicking, and doubtless making it her business to bother someone or other. No, my tulpa is purely a facsimile of the original. In the past, she has been a great comfort when I have been in a tight spot, or just needed someone to confide in. Lately though, since I’ve been on Hopeless, she seems to have taken on an existence of her own and nags me endlessly.”
“Can you actually see her when she does this?” asked Philomena.
“More often than not,” said Reggie. “And she never alters – she is the image of my Annie as she was when I first met her.”
Philomena’s curiosity was roused.
“Would she be visible to me? I would really like to meet her.”
“I wouldn’t think so. She is a product of my mind – a part of me. No one else has ever seen her, to my knowledge.”
“That’s a pity,” said Philomena. “Is she with us now?”
“No, thank goodness,” replied Reggie. “These days she comes and goes as she chooses. I just wish that she would behave as she used to.”
“Or leave forever?” asked Philomena, pointedly.
“No, not that,” said Reggie, sadly. “She has been with me for almost twenty years. I could never wish for that to happen.”
They talked for a while longer, then Reggie stretched and announced that he was going to bed.
Philomena watched him wander along the passage. As she turned away she caught a movement in the corner of her eye.
A small, brown-haired woman with strong, but kindly features was standing at the foot of the stairs. She was dressed in a brightly coloured sari that seemed to light up the dingy passageway. She smiled at Philomena, raised a hand in greeting, then gradually faded away.
The Magpie by Davey Dodds was one of the first songs we picked up when singing out as anything related to Hopeless, Maine. It pre-dates The Ominous Folk. I started singing it many years ago, and James picked it up from me as a child.
With the folklore and the corvids and decidedly Pagan vibes it was always a perfect match for the setting. It’s also easy to pick up the chorus and a song that can take having many voices on it.
This video was taken by Mark Hayes at Woodchester Mansion on the 30th April 2023. The mansion is a fantastic and gothic place – unfinished – with bats in the attic, an fabulous array of gargoyles, ghosts aplenty, and ravens in the grounds. It is therefore very much our natural habitat.
The big band are (from left to right) Robin Burton, Tom Brown, Susie Roberts, Jessica Law, Keith Errington and James Weaselgrease. We’re exploring ways of working with each other, musically and dramatically and who knows what else – not all of it Hopeless, Maine orientated.
We also sang The House is not Haunted by The Men That Will Not Be Blamed for Nothing! The house seems to like it.
“Well, this is a dashed nuisance,” thought Reggie Upton, as he felt himself being dragged, by the leg, into some unseen creature’s lair.
The tentacle wrapped around the hapless limb was hard and suckered. This was too bad. Reggie reflected that he had only worn the worsted-wool suit twice before, and between being pulled over rough ground and the detrimental effect the tentacle was doubtless having on his trouser leg, the whole bally outfit was probably ruined beyond repair.
It was a shame that such a pleasant evening was being spoiled in this way. Norbert Gannicox had been a surprisingly good host, despite the fact that he was a non-drinker (rarely a good sign, in Reggie’s estimation). He had been wandering back to The Squid and Teapot in a fine, if somewhat inebriated, state of mind, having spent a few blissful hours regaling Norbert with his army reminiscences. Being a practical type of chap, Reggie had happily warmed to Norbert’s suggestion that, while there, he should take the opportunity to sample the produce of the distillery. It was shortly afterwards that disaster had struck. All it had taken was a stumble, and that tentacled beast had got the better of him. Well, the Afghan tribesmen hadn’t managed to see him off, and neither had the Boer guerrillas, so he would be damned if he would allow some glorified land-locked cuttlefish to succeed where they had failed. The only problem was that, for once in his life, he had no idea what to do. He was being drawn inexorably towards the dark fissure which the blasted animal regarded as its home, with no obvious means of escape.
Suddenly, things began to look more hopeful. Drury, the skeletal hound, unexpectedly bounded from the shadows, barking loudly enough to wake the dead (although, in all honesty, on Hopeless that was no great feat).
“Give it a nasty bite, there’s a good chap,” encouraged Reggie, remembering how Drury had saved Philomena Bucket from danger just a few weeks before.
Much to the dismay of both, before Drury could apply his teeth to the tentacle, another similarly suckered arm slithered from the gloom of the lair and swatted the dog off with ease. Reggie winced in sympathy as he heard the clatter of bones noisily hitting the ground, some yards away.
“Are you alright, old fellow? Come on, get back on your feet.”
It was a voice that Reggie did not recognise. Was he talking to him? Old fellow, indeed! He was in the prime of life. Dashed impudence.
A strange figure emerged through the gloom. It was that of a tall, powerfully built man, his features illuminated by the candle-lantern that he held aloft. He carried something on his back; it looked like a large bucket. Drury, who had obviously been the object of the man’s concern, rattled up behind him.
Immediately Reggie felt the vice-like grip on his leg relax, and the tentacle receded back into the hole in the ground, with an angry hiss.
“What on Earth are you doing out at this time of night?” Rhys Cranham demanded. “It’s no place for folks to be wandering, especially a gentleman like yourself.”
Reggie rose painfully to his feet, examining his trouser leg for damage. Satisfied that the trousers would live to fight another day, he faced his rescuer.
“Reggie Upton,” he said. “I am most awfully grateful, young man. I think you have just saved my life, not to mention my suit. But how the devil did you…?”
“It’s the smell,” grinned Rhys. “I’m the Night-Soil Man and, to put it bluntly, I stink! There’s not much on the island that can stand to be around me.”
His voice trailed off and he looked at Reggie with some suspicion.
“Including people,” he added. “So why are you not affected by the smell?”
“A smell?” queried Reggie, “I had no idea, old chap. The old hooter’s not worked for years. Anosmia, I think it’s called.”
Rhys had heard the word before. When Philomena first came to the island she had a similar affliction, until a dunking in the sea had cleared her nasal passages.
“You can’t smell anything?” said Rhys, incredulously.
“Not a whiff, old boy,” replied Reggie. “It happened when I was a young subaltern in India. Due to brain damage, apparently.”
“You were wounded in battle?”
“Good heavens, no,” Reggie chuckled. “I was as drunk as a lord, and fell over in the officer’s mess after a rather good, but ill-advised, beano. I banged the back of my head on the corner of a step and was out cold for ages. When I came to, I couldn’t smell a thing. Been like that now for forty years.”
“And you’re happy to talk to me?” said Rhys,
“My dear chap, of course I am. Let me shake you by the hand.”
“No… no, don’t touch me,” said Rhys, quickly pulling away from him. “The stench will stick around you, if you do.”
“Well, I am much obliged,” said Reggie. “I’d better toddle off back to The Squid, but if there is anything I can ever do…”
It was late the following morning when Reggie, feeling slightly the worse for wear, wandered into the bar, hoping that the metaphorical hair of the dog might chase away his hangover.
“You were out late last night,” commented Philomena. “I was beginning to worry.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” said Reggie, “but it was a close run thing. Saved from sudden death by someone who said he was a Night-Soil chap, or somesuch.”
“You met Rhys?” Philomena was suddenly interested.
“Is that his name? Yes, nice fellow, though a bit remote. He seemed surprised that I could bear to be around him.”
Reggie then related to Philomena the events of the night before, and the fact of his inability to detect smells.
“That’s a pity for you,” commiserated Philomena, “but at least you were able to talk to Rhys face-to-face. No one else can get that close to him.”
“Poor fellow,” said Reggie, “I assume that he’s not exactly fighting off friends or sweethearts, in that case,”
Philomena shook her head and stifled a sob. Then she poured her heart out, telling of her shattered hopes and the wedding that never was.
Reggie pondered her words, smoothing his moustache as he always did when in deep thought.
“Well, it won’t change your plight, but I’m more than happy to go and chat to him at any time, if you think he can stand the company of an old soldier.”
“Thank you. I am sure that he would love the company of an old soldier,” said Philomena, truthfully.
That night Reggie met Rhys, just as the Night-Soil Man was beginning his rounds.
“Just ask if there’s anything I can bring you from The Squid,” he said. “You know, food, beer, etcetera, etcetera.”
“No, I’m catered for, thanks,” said Rhys. “Philomena is always leaving bottles of ale and starry-grabby pie on my doorstep.”
“Ah, the Lovely Miss Bucket!” said Reggie, with a grin.
Rhys said nothing. Much as he appreciated having this new-found friend, he would have preferred that the Lovely Miss Bucket was the one with anosmia.
This week, Erek Vaehne takes us into the fabric potential of mushrooms.
This could happen to you.
MUSHROOMS: The technical process of making fabric from fungus or mushrooms is known as bio-fabrication. This process is basically making the fabric from the growing part of microorganisms like mushroom root. However, the interesting thing is that this process has shown the relationship between fashion and biology, and how fashion comes very close to biology. For lab production, different treatments (like lighting, temperature, humidity, essential oils & other organic techniques) have to be applied for the nutrition and growth of the mushrooms with the help of a petri dish. After 2-3 weeks, they are ready for harvest and marinated with another liquid, and then taken out and placed in the circular 3D-shaped mold. And eventually, through drying, they are transformed into garments. The advantage of this ‘MycoTex’ fabric is that the garment is made without sewing. So, this process can reduce production time and cost. Different fungus mycelium can give different appearances and hand feels for the resulting products. This eco-friendly mushroom fiber has some unique properties that are not found in other sustainable fibers. Some of its notable features are:
1) Fabric made from the mushroom fiber is non-toxic, waterproof and fire resistant.
2) Clothing made from this fiber is very thin, flexible and comfortable to wear.
3) The ingredients made from this fiber are antimicrobial and suitable for sensitive skin.
4) Mushroom fabric is strong, breathable and durable.
5) Requires less water for production.
6) It is an environmentally friendly and 100% biodegradable fiber.
So there was this one autumn when food was scarce and I ended up making a lot of bad choices about toadstools. Hunger doesn’t lend itself to being sensible. I ate grass. I ate things I found on the beach – we all did that. I ate all the kinds of seaweed that everyone agrees really aren’t for eating even if you boil them for a week. I wandered about in the woods and I found some toads, and some toadstools, and something green and yellow that might have been snakes, or eels. I don’t know how you tell.
It’s not a certainty it was the toadstools. I ended up with the overwhelming urge to make trousers. I had very strong feelings about the things I was supposed to make trousers out of – toadstools featured heavily, as did moonlight, seaweed and some rather sinister flowers that I thought better of putting in the toad, toadstool and maybe snake stew. It would be fair to say that as trousers, they failed to perform many of the key functions associated with that kind of garment.
I’m not sure it mattered. Not given what happened at the library, which we do not speak of, to protect the guilty. As hunger-induced madness goes, it was fairly mild.
