The Marshes is a Hopeless, Maine story by Keith Healing, performed by Tom Brown. Originally this story was broadcast as “interruptions” to the scheduled broadcast during The Eldritch Broadcasting Corporation’s online festival. For this video, they have been presented together here, so you can follow the whole piece in one go.
You can find the playlist for the entire event over here – https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLgL8NSDkxNIrw-_OZ4vL4mG61BG9MWjgZ
By Harrison W. Crow
It is doubtless some of the long-time Hopelessers remember the history or have heard the stories about how, centuries ago, medieval monks from Ireland landed on the island and built a community upon it, totally unaware that they had landed on an island on the Maine coast and not in Scotland, as they had thought.
We now have reason to believe that their community was not limited to an abbey and a distillery; it may have been bigger than thought. In the thickly-wooded uplands of the island, Jim Farnsworth – 7-year-old son of Daniel and Winona Farnsworth – was out late playing in the woods against his parents’ wishes with his imaginary friend Guy O’Hara, 8-year-old son of unknown parents (though we may surmise at least one of them is also named O’Hara,) when O’Hara tripped on a rock and skinned his knee. In turning back to cuss the stone, he and Jim saw the stone was unusual.
“It wasn’t like any rock we’d ever seen in the woods,” said Jim, whose
parents allowed him to speak with the Vendetta during his grounding. “Guy and I know the rocks here can be jagged, but it looked too clean cut, like a large brick almost.”
News spread quickly, and amateur archaeologists Hephzibah Corey and James Hansen were interested in the boys’ story.
The young Messrs. O’Hara and Farnsworth, the latter under the watchful eyes of his accompanying parents, guided Corey and Hansen to the spot, which is memorable for a prevalence of dead and curiously crooked pine trees. There they found the stone. The two archaeologists decided to clear it off, and after only a little brushing away of fallen leaves and pine needles, found the site consisted of even more stones, of similar shape.
“We could already tell that what we were looking at was something far grander in scale than any old drystone wall built up by any common farmer,” said Corey, who added, “though I have to give credit to Mr. and Mrs. Buxton for coming closest with their ambitious 100-foot-long 9-footer. We’re still trying to figure out how in Tunket they did that
and why, but I digress.”
With shovels, mattocks, and willing hands John Adam, Damien Chevin, and Paula Greenstone, (hands which were undoubtedly difficult to come by, what with Ash Peterson’s archaeology- related death still imprinted on town memory) they returned to the site and conducted a fuller
excavation. What they dug up was that O’Hara had literally stumbled onto the collapsed remains of a stone cathedral! Several well-worn inscriptions in Latin were found, two branding the building as “The Church of St. Brendan,” built “in the year of the Lord, 12__.”
“I don’t want to jump to conclusions,” said Hansen, “as the stone is so badly effaced to be certain, but the tens digit looks like it could be a 1 or a 7. Don’t quote me on that.”
According to the team, it is safe to assume that the builders, having made a long ocean voyage, were inspired by St. Brendan the Navigator’s sea travels to strange lands. This corroborates a few tales about the medieval monks that are extant on the island, as well a recently rediscovered tale of a particular accursed dwelling lost in the woods of the island, still recalled by Lorraine Gagnon, a local Algonquian mythologist and storyteller.
When the team began digging at the floor, John Adam pried a flagstone with a prybar and was hit with a stench.
“It was foul and musty,” said Adam, “like the dry fart of death.”
Moving the flagstone revealed something wholly unexpected: a shallow recess beneath the floor with a bony foot. Removing more flagstones not only revealed one body, but a total of 48 skeletal corpses, all in the same state: they were bound by the wrists and ankles, their arms and legs were broken, iron nails were driven through the joints of their limbs and jaws, their sternums were each pressed under a boulder, and a rock was jammed between each of their jaws.
In the words of Corey, “To see them all at once, for the first time…it was paralysing. Of course, we’re aware of things like animal sacrifices made to be church grims, and even of people buried under the floors of churches, dead and sometimes alive. But this…all we could do was stare, in stunned silence, probably for a solid minute.”
The bindings and mutilations suggested that those who buried the corpses believed them to be revenants – most likely vampires. The belief in revenants is corroborated in Gagnon’s story, in which the people from across the sea who settled into their new stone dwelling succumbed to a
strange sickness, and “despite their sickness, refused to die.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Corey says. “If these are foundation sacrifices, why did their buriers take such extreme measures? If these are church burials, why entomb so many dangerous ‘sinners’ on holy ground? Surely such a strong, evil presence would taint the ground, in the buriers’ minds.”
The next day, the team returned to the ruins of St. Brendan’s Church to conduct an even more thorough investigation, as well as to search the surroundings for other buildings and a quarry, to find the site disturbed; ground stakes were knocked over, tarpaulins moved, and every last one of the bodies was gone. According to Corey, “It was as if they had somehow wriggled out from under the boulders and left, like every last one of them was Harry Houdini.”
The team will pay for any information regarding the whereabouts of the corpses, and will pay handsomely for their return. They are each a few inches over five feet tall, with tawny, leathery skin stretched tightly over crooked, skeletal frames, and bearing multiple rows of sharp, pointed
teeth. They will probably be attempting to communicate in Latin or cussing out in pain in Old Irish if not for the rocks in their mouths, and shambling with stiff joints and a wicked limp, if not still squirming or rolling around in their bindings.
Ask about Hephzibah Corey and James Hansen at the Historical Society or the Squid and Teapot for more information.
By Martin Pearson
Philomena Bucket stood on the summit of the Gydynap Hills, watching, with some trepidation, the eerie mist that snaked up through the darkness.
“I’m glad that they are meeting here, and not in The Squid,” she thought to herself. “Even by Hopeless standards, this is beyond weird.”
It was late evening on the seventh day of February, the anniversary of Granny Bucket’s death. A few weeks previously Philomena had rashly suggested that there should be some sort of event to mark the occasion.
“After all,” she had reasoned, “everybody has a birthday, and they also have a deathday.”
If, like Granny Bucket, the departed are able to enjoy a full and active afterlife, happily haunting all and sundry, then Philomena could see no reason why there should not be a party, of some description, to celebrate their special day. What Philomena had failed to take into account was Granny insisting that she should have a veto regarding the guest list, and then summarily rejecting all of her granddaughter’s suggestions.
As the mist drew closer, Philomena could see wispy forms gradually taking shape within it. These were Granny’s party guests, the ghosts of her witch-brood ancestors; generation upon generation of Bucket women. Some were from such a distant past that they were almost invisible.
Philomena had no idea how the Bucket surname had originated. Given the mysterious nature of that ancient Irish clan, I like to believe that it derives from the old Gaelic word “púca”, for a shape-shifting spirit. The truth, however, is probably far more prosaic. Whatever its root, the name has been carried proudly for hundreds – possibly thousands – of years by countless female Buckets, regardless of their marital state. And here they all were, shades gathered upon a dark hilltop, honouring Granny Bucket. Philomena gazed fondly at her grandmother, and as she did so, the scene changed. She was in a tiny, badly-lit room where an old woman lay in a truckle bed. Her face was almost as white as the pillow upon which she lay. It was Granny. These were her final moments of life. Philomena was only a child at the time, but she could remember this vividly. The vision faded and once more it was night-time on the Gydynaps. Philomena’s gaze fell upon another party guest. Although a wraith, this one looked to be little more than a girl. Suddenly, alarmingly, she was ablaze, her hair a fiery halo, her mouth opened in a soundless scream. Shaken, Philomena turned away abruptly, only for her eyes to fall upon another ghost, who, an instant later, appeared to be hanging from gallows, her eyes bulging and her legs kicking helplessly. Horrified, Philomena knew at once that she was witnessing the deathday of these women. Wherever she looked, she was assailed by visions of violent death. Few had been as lucky as Granny, to die in bed surrounded by a loving family.
There was another watcher on those hills. For reasons known only to himself, Durosimi O’Stoat had asked for an invitation to Granny’s party.
“After all,” he had said, “I am family.”
It was true, to a degree. Somewhere in that melee of ghosts drifted a common ancestor, a forebear who marked the exact time when two magically powerful families – the Buckets and the O’Stoats – had found each other.
When no invitation had been forthcoming, Durosimi decided to turn up anyway.
By now the phantom witches had started chanting. This was obviously what passed as fun in witchy circles, Philomena decided. Not so much a party as a gathering. A meet.
“Merry meet and merry part, and merry meet again,” intoned Philomena aloud, somewhat surprising herself, for she had no idea where the words had come from.
It was almost as if this was a signal. Led by Granny, the witches drifted towards her and, surrounded, she felt herself lifted, as if by nothing more substantial than clouds. She floated, unafraid and deliriously happy, in the night-air, for what felt like an age.
Durosimi watched with fascination. While no stranger to the world of the supernatural, this was something completely new to him. In fact, so mesmerised was he that he had almost forgotten the reason for his gate-crashing the party. Then the weight of the little black bottle that he carried drew him sharply from his reverie.
The ghostly throng surrounding Philomena seemed to be unaware of Durosimi’s presence. It was only when he held the bottle aloft that one of the witches turned towards him, as if in answer to a summons. She drifted through the night until her shimmering form was within his arms’ length.
Durosimi smiled, coldly. The spell had worked. And then he froze. The witch standing before him looked exactly like Philomena Bucket.
“Melusine?” he asked, incredulous.
It was Doctor John Dee who had given him the idea. The sixteenth-century alchemist had visited Hopeless some time before and had revealed that Melusine O’Stoat, burned for heresy and witchcraft in Elizabethan times, was not only Durosimi’s ancestor, but Philomena’s as well. She had been a wonder-child, the product of the union of two magically powerful dynasties. The O’Stoats would not allow her to revert to her maiden name, however, and that had been her undoing. It was dangerous being an O’Stoat in those days.
Granny’s party had been the perfect opportunity for Durosimi to summon the spirit of Melusine, and trap her. The black bottle looked innocuous enough, but Durosimi had soaked it in enough magic to capture a dozen of her kind. But he did not want a dozen; only Melusine. How he would extract the power and knowledge that he craved, he had yet to work out.
Philomena opened her eyes. She was lying on the damp grass of the Gydynaps.
“Happy deathday, Granny Bucket,” she called, but no one replied.
The phantom witches had gone. Even Granny.
Philomena shivered, pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders, and made her way down the hill.
“Well, that’s over,” she thought to herself, with a certain amount of relief. “Thank goodness that nothing untoward happened.”
Durosimi gazed at the nondescript bottle sitting on his desk.
He smiled to himself. Who said that you couldn’t put a djinn back into a bottle?
But now that he had her, how was he going to control her?
So here we were, in Susie’s kitchen, singing the new Hopeless, Maine anthem as written for us by Keith Errington. Previously, Keith’s been more involved with us on the book side – having written a Hopeless, Maine novella called The Oddatsea, which is published by Outland in the same volume as New England Gothic. He’s been a frequent contributor here on the blog and has performed with us at events.
Keith has been increasingly involved with The Ominous Folk for some months now, as he’s recording our album and has written us a couple of songs. As this photo indicates, he’s also now singing with us, at least sometimes. He’s very good at the comedy stuff, and has a different selection of musical influences while also being folk-affected, so he adds to our overall sound rather well.
The young human in the foreground is Keith’s daughter, Kat. She’s an incredibly multi-talented person with serious art skills, a fabulous singing voice and considerable word taming skills as well. Rumour has it that she’s also good at acting, so that’s something to explore in the future. We’re currently in the process of working out exactly how everything fits together, but I think it’s safe to say that you will be seeing more of her in assorted Hopeless, Maine projects, and here on the blog.
From the beginning, Hopeless was envisaged as a project people could get involved with. The community aspect of it has always been really important. Sometimes it feels more like a family, and this recording session was definitely one of those moments.
There are young humans in the Hopeless, Maine books, but this was never intended to be a project for children. However, there are children who rock up enthusiastically. Today’s guest art was the work of Connie, who introduced herself to us by throwing her hat at us during our performance at Raising Steam last year. She went on to make Tom and James sing her ‘bum in the bumhole’ song.
Not all children are into pretty and innocuous things. James as a child considered the owl demon from the first book to be cute. Connie, as we can tell from the drawing, also likes things with a lot of teeth. We’re aware of at least one other young human who is a big fan of Drury – our resident dead dog.
So here’s a lullaby.
Go to sleep, go sleep
Your parent is screaming,
The night is so black
And the dead things are dreaming.
Rest your bones and your eyes
And your pointy and sharp bits
Just be quiet, little fiend
Even old gods can have fits.
Dream of teeth, and of blood
And cold water rising
Rend and tear in your sleep
Thrash about, be surprising.
Go to sleep, little beast
Oh you darling small horror
Ceasing your gnashing and wailing
You can rampage tomorrow.
By Martin Pearson
“So, who have you invited so far?”
“Invited?” Philomena Bucket’s face was a picture of innocence.
If she had been shocked by being whisked away to some liminal place, as a whim of the ghost of Granny Bucket, Philomena did not show it. Over the years she had ceased to be surprised by any stunt that Granny pulled. She was, however, a little taken aback that her elderly, and long-dead, relative had got wind of the impending celebrations.
“To my surprise deathday party. Don’t pretend you’re not planning one,” said Granny. “I heard you plotting with that Middlestreet fellow. Now, who have you invited?”
Philomena knew that there was no point in trying to hide the details any longer.
“Well, I have asked Miss Calder…” began Philomena
“Miss Calder?” interrupted Granny. “I hardly know the woman. Why are you asking her?”
“If you would allow me to finish,” said Philomena archly, “I have asked Miss Calder to talk to the other ghosts on the island and find out who would like to come.”
“And I don’t get a say in anything?” snapped Granny
“It is supposed to be a surprise party!” exclaimed Philomena, exasperated. “Anyway,” she added, keen to change the subject, “I don’t recognise this place. Where exactly is it that you have brought me?”
You, like Philomena, will recall that she had been wandering up the Gydynap Hills in an effort to clear her head. She had no idea that Granny’s wraith was following her until she found herself suddenly standing next to a babbling stream, deep within a sun-dappled hazel wood. It was quite beautiful and certainly bore no resemblance to anywhere on the island of Hopeless, Maine.
“We’re safe within a memory I have of the Old Country,” said Granny, nostalgically. “I used to do a spot of courting here, as a girl.”
This was news to Philomena.
“And who was the lucky man, may I ask?” she said.
“Ah, Indeed you may. ‘Twas a young rascal called Willie Yeats. That was long before your time, though” confided Granny. “You wouldn’t know him.”
“Hmm… the name’s familiar,” said Philomena, uncertainly.
“But back to this party business…” Granny was like a lurcher with a rabbit. “Who do you intend to ask?”
“The maiden ladies of the Mild Hunt…”
“Them old biddies? With their yappy dogs and fartin’ mules? I don’t think so!” said Granny, emphatically.
“Very well. How about Lady Margaret D’Avening and Father Ignatius Stamage?”
“That sanctimonious pair, haunting the lavvy in The Squid and Teapot?” Granny was aghast at the suggestion. “They’re devout Catholics, the two of them. They won’t want to be hob-nobbing with a load of witches, that’s for sure.”
“A load of witches?”
Philomena had echoed the words with a certain amount of unease.
“Well, the ghosts of witches, anyway. They are my friends and relations,” said Granny. “And it’s my deathday, after all.”
“How many, exactly, are we talking about?”
“Not sure yet,” said Granny. “I’ll let you know.”
As she spoke these final words, Granny began to gradually fade away, and with her went the stream and the hazel wood. Suddenly it was dark, and the familiar shapes of the Gydynap rocks were outlined against the misty skyline.
Drury was confused. He had spent hours searching for Philomena, following her trail high into the Gydynaps, only for it to disappear in a most unexpected manner. When it abruptly returned, in a dizzying burst of fragrance and accompanied by the lady herself, he was overjoyed. The osseous hound wagged his bony old tail in obvious pleasure. He had been seriously concerned when one of his two favourite people in all of the world had vanished, apparently into thin air.
“Come on Drury,” said Philomena, not even slightly surprised to find her old friend waiting for her. “I’ve got to get back and see how Rhys is faring. I must have been gone for hours.”
For the last few days, Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man had been struck down with influenza. Philomena, armed only with a clothes-peg to keep the smell at bay, had taken it upon herself to administer to him. Her humanitarian mission had to be put on hold for a while longer, however, when a lean figure emerged from the darkness.
Drury growled menacingly.
“You can call your dog off, Miss Bucket. I mean you no harm.”
Philomena recognised the voice of Durosimi O’Stoat immediately.
“I hear,” he drawled, “that you intend commemorating your grandmother’s deathday, next week.”
“I don’t know who might have told you that,” said Philomena defiantly, trying to hide the tremble in her voice. “But yes, you heard correctly. As a matter of fact I do.”
“With the island’s ghosts in attendance, if my information is correct,” said Durosimi. “Young lady, that is not a good idea and I suggest you abandon it now.”
“And why would that be, Mister O’Stoat?”
“It would not be … politic” he said, struggling to find a suitably apposite adjective. “The spirits of this island have come from different times, different cultures, different mind-sets. You would be creating a potentially explosive situation. In dealing with these opposing energies, I fear you would be unleashing forces far beyond your comprehension.”
“Well you needn’t be worrying on that score,” said Philomena, her face reddening with rage, “because the island’s ghosts don’t seem to be invited anymore.”
“How so?” Durosimi was suddenly interested.
Philomena felt suddenly bold. Who was Durosimi to tell her who could come to Granny’s party?
“Granny is most insistent,” she said quietly, “that it will be a knees-up for just witches, and ghostly witches at that; friends and relations, some from different times, but every one of them with the same mind. So, there is no chance that I might be unleashing any opposing energies, whatever that means.”
“No, indeed,” said Durosimi. He paused for a moment, as if processing the information.
“I believe,” he said carefully, “that your grandmother is under the impression that she and I – and obviously you and I – share a common ancestor. In view of this I would very much like an invitation, being family, and all that. May I rely on you to ask her, please?”
“I can ask,” said Philomena, having a fair idea what Granny’s reply would be.
Durosimi smiled chillingly and disappeared into the night.
“I wish I’d never thought of any of this,” muttered Philomena.
Drury wagged his tail again. He could smell trouble in the air. Drury liked trouble. Trouble was fun.
Guest blog by Steven C Davis
No one knows quite how the first Meeping Kazoo came to Hopeless, Maine. Some say Lady Carriage Clock had a tame one – a rarity in itself, although little is known about Lady Carriage Clock, other than she was often pre-punctual for meetings. According to reports from that time, Lady Carriage Clock was not well liked and people would often try and avoid her – hence, she developed the habit of turning up to visit people before she met them to arrange the meeting.
But the Meeping Kazoo. Well now. Who has not heard a symphonicmare (the term for hearing a collection of Meeping Kazoos) and compared it unfavourably to the screeching of fingernails down a chalk board? It is a truly hideous thing to behold in the wild – and if you are lucky, such are its effects that you may be rendered deaf to all other sounds.
But in Hopeless, Maine, with its fog-enshrouded environs, the sounds of a herd (or some say, collateral) of Meeping Kazoo are somewhat muffled. Odd squawks are sometimes heard. A single finger, scratching at a chalk board. A random ting-ting-ting, but that may be the Meeping Kazoos attempts to lure a Spoonwalker out into the open.
They look rather like – well, perhaps that is not their best feature. The sounds they make are definitely not their best feature either, but they are the most striking aspect of them. Unless, of course, you happen to be a Spoonwalker who is caught out in the open –
They are a non-migratory species, which suggests there was some incident, possibly a tsunami caught some in the wild and delivered them to the island a long time ago. Breeding patterns and preferred habits are not known, and best not-guessed at. Frankly, even talking to you about a Meeping Kazoo is to invite the potential for a localised symphonicmare.
But one thing is known. No Meeping Kazoo ever hunts alone. Whether a collateral of them could tackle a human sized creature is unknown. But the best form of defence may be attack – since the physical aspects of the Meeping Kazoo are unknown, it may be that the range of Meeping Kazoo physical aspects is quite wide, and they may be identifiable more by sound than sight.
That being the case, if you think you are about to be attacked by a collateral, the best defence might be to sound like one.
This is David Atteneighbourhood, signing off, for Planet Maine. Hopeless, Maine.’
Doc Willoughby sucked on his teeth for a little while, as he tended to do when he wanted people to think he was considering matters carefully. The small ‘fff’ noise did not confer the dignity he imagined, but this was of little consequence. If Doc Willoughby had really understood how little dignity he was afforded, he might never have dared to even venture outside his own doors. Thankfully, a lifetime dedicated to the science of distilling had protected him from such discomforts.
He took a swig from the cup on his desk, which still had something in it. After a briefly unpleasant sensation in his mouth. It occurred to Doc Willoughby that some of what was in it had been a spider, probably now deceased. He shrugged, and swallowed anyway.
“Ffffff,” he repeated, on the inbreath, shaking his head slightly. “Too much excitement of the nerves,” he pronounced.
His patient sighed heavily at this.
“You’ve been overdoing things,” the Doc continued, nodding to himself as he warmed to his theme.
“I was worried I’d gone too far with the fasting this time,” Reverend Davies admitted, seeming relieved. “Miss Calder has been nagging me about it.”
“Fasting is good for you,” Doc Willoughby said. “It would be terrible for me, but it is clearly right for your nature and constitution.”
“I haven’t slept in about a week now,” Reverend Davies added, a statement supported by just how bruised his eyes appeared to be.
“That’s overstimulation for you,” Doc Willoughby said.
“What should I do?” Reverend Davies asked. “I was thinking about prostrating myself in prayer for an entire night, do you think that would help?”
“It might,” Doc Willoughby said. “But I think the most important thing is to try and have less fun.”
By Martin Pearson
Drury was not in the best of moods. He considered himself to be neglected, deserted and generally abandoned. A small confluence of circumstances had apparently conspired to leave the skeletal hound feeling suddenly alone, and deprived of the company of his two best friends, Rhys Cranham and Philomena Bucket. As faithful companion to Rhys, the Night-Soil Man, he had spent many a happy hour wandering over the island of Hopeless, while Rhys serviced the outside privies, cesspools and, occasionally, earth closets of its inhabitants. This week, however, Rhys had been too unwell to perform his duties. Struck down by influenza, the Night-Soil Man had taken to his bed in an effort to shake off the malaise. His illness had unfortunately coincided with Les Demoiselles dancing troupe moving into larger premises. While their move did not directly affect Rhys, Philomena felt it to be incumbent upon her to help both parties, as well as fulfilling her duties at The Squid and Teapot. In one stroke, therefore, Drury was deprived of both of his friends and main sources of entertainment.
Drury had not always been so dependent on others for company. For more years than anyone could remember he had been a presence on the island, minding his own business and invariably poking his bony nose into other people’s. True, he had frequently found companionship with several generations of Night-Soil Men, but he had formed a special bond with Rhys and, more recently, Philomena.
Doc Willoughby had refused to go within twenty yards of the House at Poo Corner, which surprised no one. Philomena was thankful, convinced that a visit from the Doc usually had the effect of prolonging an illness. She, on the other hand, had no such inhibitions. The peg adorning her nose was barely sufficient for the intended task, but it at least enabled her to bring Rhys the pots of soup, plates of starry-grabby pie and flasks of Gannicox Distillery’s finest spirit, that she considered essential for the completion of a full recovery.
“I wonder if I could go through married life wearing a peg on me nose?” she thought, idly remembering how close she had come to marrying Rhys. That was in the days, not so long ago, when it seemed as though the Night-Soil Man would give up his job for her. He would have done so, too, had his apprentice, Naboth Scarhill, not met an untimely end.
“Well, enough of this daydreaming,” said Philomena, aloud. “Dwelling on the past will achieve nothing.”
Drury watched forlornly as she pocketed the peg and bustled away, back to the inn.
With the absence of anything better to do, Drury resorted, that afternoon, to his old habits of removing washing from lines and terrorising the occasional spoonwalker. Usually these activities would leave him feeling fulfilled. Today, however, they held no pleasure for him at all. He wandered listlessly over to the establishment known for years as Madame Evadne’s, lately renamed the School of Dance, in the hope that Philomena would be there. Several of the Washwell brothers were shifting furniture in through the big front door, with Mirielle D’Illay barking orders at them in French and English, but there was no sign of Philomena. Nor was she in The Squid and Teapot. Drury was puzzled.
It must be remembered that, even allowing for the fact that he may appear to be nothing more than a collection of bones, Drury is no ordinary dog; he has been around for a very long time. So when Philomena failed to appear by nightfall, he knew that something was amiss. Had Rhys Cranham been in any fit state to search for Philomena, Drury would have tugged at his jacket, in the best Rin Tin Tin style, and made him understand that something was wrong. As it was, Rhys was huddled under a pile of blankets, running a temperature and feeling extremely sorry for himself.
It had been Philomena’s habit to wander into the Gydynap Hills whenever she felt the need to clear her head. The extra workload of helping Les Demoiselles to move into new premises, worrying about Rhys and wondering how to organise Granny Bucket’s forthcoming deathday party, was beginning to take its toll. Despite being horribly busy, she just had to get away for an hour or two. More often than not, Drury would appear from nowhere and accompany her. It was ironic that he had decided to feel particularly unloved that day, and chosen to wreck washing lines on the other side of the island, just when she needed him most. Unaware of this, and deciding that her old friend must have been nobly watching over Rhys, she set off alone.
Night falls quickly on Hopeless at the best of times. In the winter it slips in like a thief, and steals away the daylight before you realise what has happened. Almost uniquely among the islanders, being out in the dark had never particularly bothered Philomena, especially since learning that powerful witch-blood flowed in her veins. In the past this, and the fact that Rhys had been secretly keeping an eye on her, had kept the less pleasant denizens of Hopeless at bay. Tonight, however, was different. Rhys was fitfully sleeping in his sick-bed and, because of her preoccupation with those other things, Philomena’s defences were down. That is why she did not sense the presence of the figure following her. At least, not until it was too late.
Drury sniffed the air. Although he had just a gap where a dog’s nose would normally be, he was as adept as a bloodhound when it came to following a trail. That Philomena had gone to the Gydynaps was no surprise, but she might have taken any one of a dozen different footpaths. To Drury, however, her scent was as clear as if etched in luminous paint upon the grass. With the gap in his ribcage, where his heart used to be, brimming with hope, he raced through the night, confident of tracking down his friend. Then he came to an abrupt halt. The trail had stopped at an outcrop of rocks. Drury clawed frantically at the ground. There was no trace of Philomena. She had apparently disappeared into thin air.
To be continued…
Coffee beans do not grow on the island of Hopeless. Anything that cannot be grown or made here might occasionally wash up from a shipwreck. For people who have lived on the island all their lives this isn’t much of a problem because real, proper coffee has never been a thing.
However, if you’ve known true coffee, then what happens on the island is a source of pain and dismay. There really is nothing quite like salt soaked, wood flavoured coffee that’s been in the sea for a day or two.
Then there are the coffees the islanders like to make. Much of this is inspired by having consumed salty wood flavoured coffee. Or by having survived the coffees made by other islanders. Sometimes, the people who have consumed proper coffee in the past go a bit mad and try to make coffee out whatever is to hand. This never goes well.
In the picture, we see a cup of Master Scutcheon’s hairy coffee. The hideous origin story can be found over here – https://hopelessvendetta.wordpress.com/2017/05/19/master-scutcheons-hairy-coffee/
Desperation breeds terrible choices. Yes, there are plants that taste bitter and not all of them will kill you. Yes, a bit of dirt will give you exactly the right colour. Yes there are two kinds of berries that give you a buzzy, lively feeling. One causes chronic flatulence and the other may lead you to temporarily believe that you are a duck.