The Aunties are agents of change, tiny Gods of changemaking and mayhem. Perhaps you’ve met them already. If you’ve read Keith Errington’s Oddatsea – published by Outland in the ‘Hopeless, Maine’ volume – you’ll have met The Aunties. You may also have found them here on the blog, in Merry’s story – https://hopelessvendetta.wordpress.com/2018/07/06/the-aunties/
Often the changes in the world made by Agents of Change are pretty random – at least from the perspective of people seeing the impact. They like a bit of asymmetry, hence the three legged chickens. They like getting in your storage jars and creating surprise flavours, for better or worse.
Most islanders prefer to think of fate as either cruel, or random. Life is considerably more bearable when you don’t have to take it so personally. Terrible things happen all the time for no reason. If you thought there was a reason for it you might go mad trying to find a way of keeping yourself safe. We can say with some confidence that placating the terrible gods of callous indifference gets you nowhere, and tends to make everything that little bit worse.
The Aunties are not distant, powerful beings who care nothing for your irrelevant mortal life. The Aunties are mighty, they believe in justice and they suffer dreadfully from boredom. As a consequence, they may do to you that which they believe you truly deserve. Unfortunately, the logic by which they operate is incomprehensible to the fragile human mind. Why one person grows a tentacle from their elbow, while another sprouts antlers from their head is utterly mysterious.
The Aunties wish to make it known that they are not responsible for recent outbreaks of vampirism and people getting especially hairy at full moons. They have no idea how donkeys get on roofs, or where all the blood came from the other week. They are not all powerful and it annoys them immensely when people imagine they are *that* sort of gods, and can be expected to Do Things on demand.
Do not pray to them, for they are not persuaded either by your distress or your ideas about how to fix things. Do not ask what sort of problem they thought you had that they felt could be solved with the sprouting of tentacles, or antlers, or whatever else they may have done to you.
(With thanks to Rostov for the loan of his face. By using his face on this post we are definitely not implying 1) that he’s actually Keith Errington or 2) that he really does have antlers. We’re fairly confident the hat is real.)
There are those who say that dustcats are foolish, thoughtless creatures. Annoying sometimes, but not malicious. This sort of thing is generally said by the kinds of people who believe in their hearts that humans are better than other entities. Only humans are capable of the kind of complex thought that makes deliberate malice possible. Only humans can be evil, because only humans understand the concept of evil and can choose.
Do the dustcats know? Do they know when they go through your kitchen and knock every jar from the shelf that they are doing you a great disservice? Of course knocking things over is always fun, but they are more careful with the possessions of people who have been kind to them. Violently evict a dustcat from your kitchen and there is every chance that they will come back for revenge.
Do they know about how rare it is to find salvageable spices in a shipwreck? Do they guess the amount of work it takes to find and process bits of local plant that are tasty and probably won’t kill you? Have they thought about it? For the people who imagine that dustcats are foolish things, living only by instinct, it may be hard to imagine the forms dustcat anger could take.
All that fine ground kitchen spice. It’s a lot like dust really, and is easy to suck up.
Only people who have seriously upset a dustcat get to experience the ‘blow’ options that the cats have. What is taken in through the tongue can also be released through the tongue. It is a terrible misuse of precious spices to snort them up and spit them out in this way. It’s also a very effective form of assault.
Almost as if they understood that they had been called thoughtless and foolish. Almost as if they were making a deliberate point.
You may recall that Philomena Bucket, with skirts tucked into the waistband of her sturdy Victorian underwear, had made her way down the long, vertical ladder which would take her from the attics of The Squid and Teapot to the tunnels which led to the Underland. Why she needed to go there was a mystery, but the compulsion was so great that wild spoonwalkers could not have kept her from her mission.
Unbeknownst to Philomena, after Trickster had discarded the rapidly failing body of Marigold Burleigh, he had attempted to possess her instead. What neither he, nor indeed Philomena, knew was that she was descended from the mysterious Tuatha de Danann, the Old Gods of ancient Ireland, latterly regarded as being Faerie folk, and their blood flowed strongly in her veins. Trickster was confounded; he was no match for power such as this and now he found himself trapped. As for Philomena, totally unaware of what was happening, she had the weirdest sensation that something was bursting to get out of her, wriggling and squirming inside both her mind and body. She did not dare to open her mouth or relax until she had found a place of safety. This was why the Underland was calling.
As she made her way through the underground passage, where the rush lights on the walls burned continuously, every step became more difficult, as though whatever it was that raged within her was furiously resisting her progress. Upon reaching the mouth of the magical cavern, at the end of the tunnels, Philomena stopped, not knowing what to expect. In the past it had been a portal to Doctor Dee’s study in Tudor England. She nursed a faint hope that he would be waiting for her again. Gingerly she stepped through the mouth of the cave, half-expecting to be greeted by the wily old alchemist. But there was no John Dee – just an empty space; the inside of a hollow hill. Minutes ticked by, and Philomena gasped in wonder as the walls gradually took on an eerie light of their own; they were studded now with crystals, as faint and plentiful as stars. Then, as if somehow called, spectral figures materialised all around her.
“Ghosts? No, these are not ghosts,” she thought to herself, though she had no idea what or who they might be. Each one was tall and slender, pale and beautiful, yet not a little terrifying, at the same time.
“Welcome daughter,” they whispered as one, though in no language that she had heard before, but yet understood.
“You bring a gift for us.”
For the first time in hours Philomena opened her mouth to speak, and as she did so, Trickster tumbled out on her breath, and lay writhing upon the floor of the cave.
Try as she might, Philomena found it impossible to discern the creature’s true shape. The angry tangle of life, thrashing and twisting before her in the crystal light, resembled no more than an indistinct, smoky kaleidoscope image of human and animal forms. Without knowing why, Philomena instinctively recognised the identity of the protean being who had tried to possess her, and as if in confirmation of her knowledge, the strange throng began to chant, though their voices were barely audible, and the shining walls of the crystal cave whispered back the litany of Trickster’s many names.
To her own surprise, Philomena felt no fear or apprehension as the company gathered closer around her. She knew now, in her heart of hearts, that here she was safe, secure in the bosom of her ancient kinfolk. She reached out in an effort to embrace each and every one, but they glided through and past Philomena, becoming no more than a dazzling, yet ever diminishing mass, an imploding star with the strange, dark storm that was Trickster at its core. And then they were gone and the crystal cave was empty.
Outside the entrance, the air seemed to be becoming brighter, as if bathed in the light of a spring morning. That was impossible, she reasoned. But the impossible seemed to be commonplace that day, for Philomena could see her own form quite clearly, as if viewed from afar. She watched herself turn, looking to take her leave. Everything about her glowed, her pale hair and skin reflecting the crystal light.
“I am glimmering,” she murmured to herself, then smiled. Glimmering? Whoever used that word? She had no idea where it had come from.
“Time to go,” she thought, and found herself running through the mouth of the crystal cave and out into the brightening air, redolent with the scent of apple-blossom.
She had no memory of her journey back through the tunnels, or the ascent of the vertical ladder to the inn’s attics. In fact, she had only a vague awareness that something quite wonderful had happened. It felt as though the darkness that had been festering within her had been replaced with a pure white light.
“Your friend, Marigold, gave us a fright. She looked half dead when Rhys left her at our door, but she seems fine now,” said Ariadne Middlestreet, the following morning. “The first thing she said to us, after recovering consciousness, was, ‘Is Philomena alright?’ She will be relieved to know that you are alive and well, that’s for sure. She was quite convinced that whatever it was that had attacked her had decided to set upon you.”
“No, I’m okay, never better,” Philomena smiled, “I wonder whatever put that thought into her head?”
She wandered into the kitchen, rolling her sleeves up. There was plenty to do before the doors of The Squid and Teapot opened for the day. Drury, the skeletal hound, was already there, his tail wagging happily, glad that the worrying version of Philomena, whom he had watched the night before striding purposefully down the Gydynap Hills, seemed to have gone.
As if reading his thoughts, she looked at him and said, thoughtfully,
“You know, Drury, it really feels as though a dark chapter of my life is closed for good. Hopeless is not the easiest place to live, but I’ve got some good friends and that’s worth a lot.”
Drury wagged his tail again, inclined his head to one side and nuzzled Philomena’s hand with his bony face. Philomena closed her eyes and felt a velvet muzzle, and a soft warm tongue brush against her fingers. A single tear ran down her pale cheek.
“Now then, you old rogue, that’s enough of that,” she gently chided. “And these starry-grabby pies won’t make themselves…”
Mrs Beaten washes her windows thoroughly even though she knows that the chickens she keeps will undermine her work as soon as she stops. They are very tall chickens and they have the nasty habit of flicking things around.
“Dirty, disgusting things!” she says to the chickens, who do not care in the slightest about her judging them.
“Filthy creatures.” Which they are, and in their red eyes there are far too knowing looks.
Aside from the chickens, there isn’t a great deal to see from the window in her kitchen. Aside from the chickens, no one looks in through the window except for Mrs Beaten herself. Sometimes she likes to stand outside and view her kitchen as a stranger would see it if they came into her garden for the specific purpose of spying on her.
Today they would see the bones sticking out of the top of her soup pan, and they might wonder what kind of monster had died that there might be broth. Something whose bones were very long, and slender enough to break easily. The imaginary onlooker could take in the gleaming perfection of each kitchen surface, should they so desire.
Of course, standing here she cannot see how she herself might appear to an onlooker. She cannot be both the observer and the observed. On the whole, she dislikes people and wishes they would stay well away from her but there is something appealing in the idea of the remote and silent viewer. To be admired from a significant distance is an idea with some charm. After all, if no one is impressed by her efforts, what exactly is the point? It is essential to have standards for one’s own personal dignity, she thinks. But it would also be pleasing to have those standards seen and respected.
Mrs Beaten catches sight of herself reflected in the glass. Hardly more than a dark shape, she offers little to her own gaze.
“You are wanton,” she says to her own reflection, “Imagining someone looking at you and your beautiful, shining kitchen. How debased!”
There is increasing satisfaction for her in the process of judging herself harshly. But the windows are very clean and ready for no one else to look through them.
While the bone birds look a lot like birds made out of bones, all the theories about them assume them to be neither bones, nor birds. One school of island thought has it that these are in fact demons. Some islanders are confident that bone birds do not exist and will refuse to admit being able to see them. The Hopeless Maine Scientific Society considers them to be some sort of insect. Unlike (other?) demons, bone birds maintain fixed forms and look similar to each other. They gather in small flocks and tend to favour isolated open spaces – hilltops and clifftops especially. They are highly vocal, making unpleasant screeching noises when alarmed, and eerie whispery noises the rest of the time. While they tend to avoid people, they will attack anyone who comes into their nesting sites. During nesting season (which does not come at a coherent frequency), they will also attack you for the contents of your washing basket or laundry line. They take hats, and anything else easily removed, to use as nesting material. They aren’t gentle about this, and while they don’t eat people, they will bite people.
There are those who will tell you that anyone could be a Night-Soil Man, if they were desperate enough for work. What could be easier than wandering around, emptying cess-pools and outdoor privies? The answer is, of course, that most people would not last one night in the role. A Night-Soil Man lives a life of enforced isolation and celibacy, not only doing a job which would make others physically sick, but regularly being beset by challenges which most could not even begin to imagine. Although the noisome stench, which permeates his skin and clothing, keeps most creatures, (including other humans) at bay, confronting the often hideous denizens of Hopeless, Maine, needs an iron nerve and a strong stomach. Even when these qualities are present, without great physical strength, a Night-Soil Man would never be able to complete his tasks or, indeed, stay alive for any length of time.
Miss Calder, the ghostly administrator of the Pallid Rock Orphanage, shimmered faintly in the darkness. She had long entertained certain feelings for Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, and, while aware that such love must be unrequited, watched appreciatively as his burly physique bore the limp body of Marigold Burleigh down the hill, carrying her as if she were as light as a feather. Marigold had collapsed in his arms just minutes earlier, her last words apparently accusing Philomena Bucket of trying to kill her. It was hard to believe, but the truth was that Philomena had been acting really strangely, lately. Rhys could not worry about that, right now, however. He had to get Marigold some help, though he was quite unable to tell if the pretty young nurse was still alive; usually his all-pervading reek would have been as good as smelling-salts to bring someone back to consciousness, but Marigold was showing no signs of life.
Miss Calder subdued her unearthly glow as Rhys drew near, preferring to stay unseen for now. She saw him gently place Marigold on the ground in front of Doc Willoughby’s surgery, bang on the door, then hastily retreat a few yards downwind.
The Doc, wrapped in a dressing gown, opened the door cautiously and peered down at Marigold’s prone form. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Doc Willoughby, sorry I know it’s late, but I didn’t know where else to take her…” Rhys called.
Doc looked across the street, registering the presence of the Night-Soil Man for the first time.
“Get her off my doorstep,” he growled, “The woman’s obviously dead, can’t you see? There’s nothing I can do. Now go away, and take that god-awful stink with you.”
Before Rhys could say a word, the curmudgeonly physician went back inside, slamming the door behind him.
With a heavy heart, he lifted Marigold once more. He had no idea what to do now.
“Rhys… what has happened?”
He turned in surprise at the voice; he was relieved to see Miss Calder gliding towards him.
“I’m not at all sure,” he replied, not wishing to divulge details of Marigold’s accusation until he was certain of the facts. “And I don’t know where to take her body.”
“She’s still alive, Rhys” said Miss Calder, who knew about death better than most. “The Doc was wrong. She just needs looking after.”
“Can you…?” the question died On Rhys’ lips as he realised that, however capable Miss Calder appeared, she remained a ghost; non-corporeal and quite without substance.
Miss Calder shrugged sadly, then an idea occurred to her.
“Get her to The Squid and Teapot,” she said, “Ariadne and Philomena will know what to do.”
Rhys was about to say that Philomena was probably not the best person to be around Marigold at the moment, but thought better of it. He could not believe that the barmaid harboured the girl any ill-feelings, but if there was going to be a problem taking her to The Squid he would worry about it when he arrived there.
“Good idea,” he said. “Will you come with me? They won’t want me being too close when they take her in. You know… the smell…”
Being a wraith, Miss Calder was impervious to the Night-Soil Man’s effluvium. She smiled. Of course she was always very happy to accompany Rhys anywhere. In her excitement, however, she allowed her face to become skull-like for a moment or two. Rhys blanched but said nothing. He didn’t think that he could ever get used to that.
Ariadne Middlestreet opened the door of the inn. It was well past closing time but she and her husband, Bartholomew, always had chores to do once the patrons had left. Tonight had been especially busy, she told them. When Philomena arrived back at The Squid she had not stopped to help clear up, but gone straight upstairs, saying nothing to anyone.
“She has worried me lately,” confided Ariadne to Miss Calder, after Rhys had left. “She has been acting strangely ever since Rhys told her that he had to go back to night-soil work and they couldn’t be married. Anyway, we can’t worry about that now. I’ll get Bartholomew to carry Marigold in and we’ll put her in one of the guest-rooms.”
Philomena Bucket had indeed gone straight upstairs, upon returning to The Squid and Teapot. It was not to her bedroom that she went, however, but to the attics. She had discovered, a year or so earlier, that what appeared to be a sea-chest, squatting in the corner of one of the rooms was, in reality, a cunning skeuomorphic construction, disguising the entrance to a secret passage that would take her down to ground level, then delve deep into the earth, to the Underland, far beneath the surface of the island. It was not clear to her exactly why she needed to get to the Underland, only that it was crucial that she did so. Taking the key from the chain around her neck, where she hung it for safe-keeping, Philomena unlocked the lid and peered down into the gloom. With practised ease she tucked her skirt into the waistband of her inherited industrial-strength Victorian underwear, climbed into the chest and began the vertiginous descent of the vertical ladder, beginning the journey that would take her to the base of the building, then on to whatever mystery awaited her.
This October we’re excited to be taking Hopeless, Maine to Woodchester Mansion in Gloucestershire.
The Mansion is a fantastic gothic building – never finished – but covered in gargoyles and home to many bats. The valley it stands in is haunted. Ravens nest near the building. It’s a perfect backdrop for doing Hopeless things, and an excellent place to visit in its own right.
We’re singing in the evening but not doing any of the shows. Even if you’ve been stalking us very thoroughly these last few years, there will be songs you haven’t heard us do before. We will of course have books. If there’s any original art you are interested in, please contact us ahead of time about it.
Outland Entertainment are publishing the Hopeless, Maine graphic novels in hard cover editions. Some of you lovely folk backed the kickstarter that helped made this possible. Then, sad to say, things got messy.
This wasn’t a problem specific to us, or to Outland. We know of other comics people whose comics did not reach them in a timely. Rail strikes in the US, along with paper supply and distribution problems have caused a lot of issues this year. We 100% support strike action, but it has made life complicated.
Finally, our books are getting into the hands of our splendid kickstarter backers. We’ve seen a few photos on social media already – we love it when people post photos of themselves with our books, so please do that and tag us if you have a moment to spare.
The image above was sent us by the splendid and massively supportive Brenda Nix Lively. Many thanks for that.
“I must be mad,” Trickster thought. “Why did I not recognise what she is?”
He had found himself trapped. Trapped again, if the truth is to be told. How long ago was it? Hundreds… no thousands of years had passed since the last time, but that was no excuse. He should have realised before trying to take such a creature.
Once, a very long time ago, Trickster attempted to possess one of the women of the Tuatha de Danann, the mysterious race who once inhabited the island now known as Ireland. Beguiled by their pale, almost translucent beauty, he had talked himself into believing them to be easy prey. Biding his time, Trickster waited until the Tuatha were driven into the hills by the fierce red-haired invaders, with their bright iron swords. He assumed defeat would have weakened and demoralised them. Oh, how patiently he had watched from the shadows, counting the long years until the race had passed from memory and into myth; until they had come to be thought of as the Faerie folk, their women the feared Bean Side, or Banshee. Women of the Hills. Trickster was as old as anything which had ever crawled upon the earth, but these Old Gods were more ancient still. They were the spirit of the land. What was it that the bard, Amergin had said, when invoking them?
I am the stag of seven tines,
I am a wide flood on a plain,
I am a wind upon deep waters,
I am a shining tear of the sun,
I am a hawk on a cliff,
I am fair among flowers,
I am a god who sets the head afire with smoke.
I am a battle waging spear,
I am a salmon in the pool,
I am a hill of poetry,
I am a ruthless boar,
I am the roar of the sea,
I am the ninth wave of the sea.
Who but I know the secrets of the unhewn dolmen?
Why had he not realised what Amergin was saying? He had been standing next to the man as he spoke the words, but the meaning had eluded him at the time. What a fool he had been. It had taken all of Trickster’s strength and cunning to escape from the enchanted flesh of the Bean Side. And here he was again. Trapped.
Philomena Bucket had no idea that she had a guardian angel. Well, a guardian Night-Soil Man, to be accurate. Rhys Cranham had made it his business to watch out for Philomena whenever she ventured alone into the darkness, which she often did.
Rhys had smiled to himself when he heard her footsteps outside his door, leaving the usual gift of starry-grabby pie and a brace of bottles of Old Colonel. He watched from the window as she disappeared into the dusk, but something was not right. She should have been making her way back to The Squid and Teapot, but instead had headed off towards the Gydynap Hills. You may recall that Philomena had told Bartholomew Middlestreet that she needed some time to herself; just an hour or two to collect her thoughts together. The trauma of recent events, and the disappearance of the ghost of Granny Bucket, had taken its toll upon the usually effervescent barmaid.
“Oh, Philomena, for pity’s sake…!” he muttered, quickly dragging on his boots.
Keeping a safe distance behind, and well downwind, Rhys had followed, with Drury rattling quietly by his side. He watched, with a pained expression on his face, when she buried her face in her hands and wept. He wanted to comfort her but knew that there was nothing he could do, guessing that his malodorous presence would achieve nothing, but only make her troubles worse. While he looked helplessly on, another appeared on the scene and stood next to Philomena. It was Nurse Burleigh, a bright young woman, fairly new to the island. That was good. She would know what to say.
The Night-Soil Man was dismayed, however, when, after a while, the pair began to walk up into the hills, further into the gloom. Stealthily, he followed.
It was an unusually fine night on the island of Hopeless, Maine, and so the storm that suddenly raged about the summit of the highest hill took Rhys by surprise. It was totally unexpected.
Thunder and lightning was common enough, but not on a night like this, and besides, it was the sort of thing that might be reasonably expected to emanate from above. This particular meteorological event appeared to be rising up from the Gydynaps themselves. More worrying was the fact that Philomena and Nurse Burleigh were certain to have been caught in the centre of it. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the storm abated and all was silent, as if nothing had ever disturbed the misty night. Minutes passed, then, to his relief, Rhys saw a pale figure emerge through the folds of darkness. It was Philomena, her pale skin and hair bathed in the meagre moonlight to bone-white. But where was the nurse? Something was very wrong.
Silently, almost ghost-like, Philomena drifted by, no more than a few yards from where Rhys and Drury stood. The old osseous hound growled softly. If he had possessed hackles they would have risen. This was not the usual way in which Drury greeted his friend. Rhys felt uneasy.
Philomena seemed not to hear, or realise that they were there. It was then that Rhys noticed another woman making her way down the hill, some distance behind Philomena. It was Marigold Burleigh, staggering like a drunkard. No, not drunk; she was weak and probably injured. Without heeding his awful smell, Rhys ran towards her, not a moment too soon. Marigold collapsed into his arms. She was obviously in a bad way, her face drained of all colour.
“She’s dying,” he thought, in alarm.
The nurse raised a feeble arm in Philomena’s direction. Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.
“That creature… killing me… killing me,” she gasped.
“Oh, Philomena,” groaned Rhys, “What have you done?”
Crazy Man Michael is a folk rock classic, written by Richard Thompson and Dave Swarbrick. It could have been written for us. This is the simple story of a man who goes to the beach and gets angry with a raven and kills her, only to find out that she was really his true love.
Madness, magic and murder, a corvid and a beach. It’s very us.
I’ve been singing Crazy Man Michael since my teens, so, when we had to find a way of taking a graphic novel series to a book festival, I sang it as part of the set we put together to explore island life. This year, it’s in the Ominous Folk show.
The story in the show hangs between two songs – this one, and the equally beautiful and perplexing response to it written by Talis Kimberly.
