Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Secrets of the Squid

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Norbert Gannicox and Bartholomew Middlestreet appeared to be transfixed by the key that Norbert had placed upon the bar of The Squid and Teapot. It was ornate, obviously old and, until that morning, had spent the previous half-century or more hidden in a damp cupboard, in a dusty corner of the Gannicox Distillery. The box in which the key had been found also contained a mysterious letter, signed by Sebastian Lypiatt (a previous landlord of the inn), who had suggested that it would be preferable for ‘the item’, as he called it, to be kept anywhere other than The Squid and Teapot, and asking Solomon (Norbert’s grandfather) to do the decent thing, and hang on to it.

It was Philomena Bucket who broke the spell, mopping up puddles of spilt beer and rearranging the dust on the floor with a sweeping brush.

“What’s that old thing you’ve got there that’s causing so much interest? “she enquired, casually brushing a shower of pastry crumbs over Norbert’s boots.

“It’s a key to a door we don’t seem to have,” replied Bartholomew, shaking his head. “I know every door in this inn, and I also know what every key to every door looks like, and none of them look like this one.”

“Then maybe it doesn’t belong here at all,” declared Philomena, then added, jokingly, “unless, of course, you’ve not yet found the secret doorway that leads to a treasure chest.”

“I can’t imagine that,” said Bartholomew, although the sudden enthusiastic look on his face told Philomena and Norbert that he certainly could imagine it, and the prospect excited him no end.

“Well, if you don’t look you won’t find anything,” said Philomena, philosophically. “I don’t mind having a poke about, up in the attics, if you like.”

The truth of the matter is that Philomena enjoys nothing more than rummaging around in the attics of The Squid and Teapot, so this was not too arduous a chore for her.

“Yes, alright, if you’re sure, but that’s a big space to cover on your own,” said Bartholomew.

Just then his wife, Ariadne, wandered in and was immediately press-ganged into helping.

“If you two take a look in the attics, Norbert and I will see if there are any secret doors in the cellar,” said Bartholomew, adding pessimistically, “but I don’t expect we’ll find anything.”

The Squid and Teapot is one of the oldest buildings on the island of Hopeless. Originally thought to have been a church, and constructed long before the founding families arrived here, it has changed in shape, size and purpose considerably during its lifetime. Over the years it has been the subject of several building projects, leaving it both impressive in appearance and somewhat eccentric in design.  The inside of The Squid, as it is affectionately known, is no less remarkable. While its cellars contain as many barrels of alcohol as the Ebley Brewery and Gannicox distillery are able to provide, plus anything else vaguely alcoholic that the tide brings in, the spacious attics are an Aladdin’s cave, filled with any spoils of the sea which, for now, are not required for use on the island.

While Bartholomew and Norbert peered and prodded behind the barrels in the cellar, Philomena and Ariadne busied themselves moving boxes away from the attic walls in the hope that they would find the elusive doorway. The light filtering through the small, grimy windows, however, was not particularly good, and their tallow candles illuminated little. It was beginning to look like a lost cause.

“Let’s take a break,” said Ariadne after an hour of fruitless searching, and flopped down on to an old sea-chest that they had found to be too heavy to pull from the far wall.

“What’s kept in there?” asked Philomena. “It looks old.”

“No idea,” replied Ariadne. “It has always been here, as far as I know. We’ve tried to open it in the past, but not even crowbars will prise the lid up. Sadly, it’s locked tight, and we haven’t got the key. “

A meaningful silence filled the room, and the two women looked at each other for what felt like an eternity.

“You don’t think…” said Philomena.

She said no more, but rushed down the stairs, grabbed the ornate key that was still sitting on the bar, and returned, red-faced and breathless.

“What kept you?” grinned Ariadne. She moved off the chest and, with trembling hands, Philomena put the key into the lock. She expected the mechanism to be stiff and unyielding but was surprised by the ease with which it turned.  Gingerly, as if she half-expected something to leap out and attack her, she lifted the lid and peered inside.

“What’s in there?” asked Ariadne, excitedly.

“Nothing at all,” replied Philomena.

“Nothing? Oh for goodness sake…” Ariadne began, but Philomena cut her short.

“No… it’s empty but it goes down forever. There’s a ladder inside and I can’t see the how far it is to the bottom.”

“I don’t understand,” said Ariadne, “how can the chest be bottomless?”

“Because it’s not a chest. Not a real one, anyway. It won’t come from the wall because it’s part of it, a small extension built to look like a sea-chest. It is a secret passage! Come on, let’s see what’s down there,” said Philomena.

“I’m not sure that I can…” said Ariadne, hesitantly.

“Well I will!” replied Philomena, “Give me a candle and hang around up here until you know that I’m safely at the bottom. Will you do that?”

Ariadne nodded, feeling feeble, but unable to face the challenge of a vertical ladder that seemed to descend into nothing but unfathomable darkness.

Philomena tied her skirt into a knot around her waist and put her foot on the top rung, quietly praying that rust had not attacked the metalwork. Ariadne looked on anxiously as her friend disappeared into the gloom.

The shaft was cold and narrow, little wider than the span of Philomena’s shoulders. The smoky candle barely pierced the darkness, which seemed to wrap itself around her like a blanket.

“Can’t be far now,” she thought to herself. Her senses, usually so acute, felt numbed and the short while that she had been on the ladder felt like an eternity. Then her feet touched the floor.

Philomena reached out and felt cold stone all around her. She told herself not to panic; if there was no way out, other than the way she had come, then she’d climb back up. She would be fine.  The problem was that she did not feel fine, encased in what felt like a stone sepulchre. She allowed the meagre light of the candle to play over the unremitting wall of granite, but found no sign of a means of egress, other than via the ladder.

She was about to turn back, ready to face the long and perilous climb to the top, when she noticed the flame waver, a tiny flicker that would have been easy to miss. Raising a pale finger, Philomena traced it against the stonework. There was a definite line to follow, just enough of a crack to allow the tiniest whiff of air to find its way through the otherwise solid wall.

“This must be a door,” she told herself, pushing at the wall, but nothing moved. The candle was almost spent and its flame was growing weaker by the second. Then it went out altogether.

“Blast! I give up,” she moaned, almost in tears, and reached for the ladder. Philomena, however, had lost her bearings in the darkness and instead of touching cold iron, she found her hand leaning against a stone projecting very slightly from the rest of the wall. There was a soft rumble, and a mechanism that had lain idle for at least fifty years was coaxed into life. A second or two later a narrow section of wall slid back, revealing Bartholomew and Norbert. They were happily perched on a couple of beer barrels, and enjoying a quiet pint of Old Colonel.

They stared in surprise at Philomena, who was suddenly conscious of her skirt knotted up around her waist and her pale, bare thighs on show, for all to see.

“Hello there, fellas,” she said, unabashed. “I could really use a drop of that stuff.”

To be continued…

Hopeless

A Semblance of Truth

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We’re delighted to announce that the Kickstarter for Hopeless, Maine Inheritance (Outland editions) has funded and we’re now in the exciting realm of stretch goals. If the project reaches $6k, everyone who backs it will also get a pdf of the novella A Semblance of Truth. Wander this way – https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/hopelessmaine/hopeless-maine-2-inheritance-by-tom-and-nimue-brown

Here’s a bit of that book to tempt you in…

This is not a diary. That would imply an inward focus and a degree of self obsession that I find distasteful. It is to be a record of impressions and insights. While my weekly newssheet, The Hopeless Vendetta permits me to share key moments of local life with my fellow citizens, I feel strongly a need to leave a more lasting and detailed record. There are things I do not know how to speak of publically, but there must be truth, somewhere. For weal or woe, this is my testament.

Why do the Jones’s chickens have three legs, more often than not? Other people’s chickens seem perfectly happy with two. Birds, I have observed, do not generally favour the three legged option and yet, on the Jones farm, there they are. I visited today to record events at their open farm day. Sadly the mutant goat has passed on, so I can no longer observe it. Is there some connection between the three eyes on the goat and the three legs upon the chickens? I cannot conceive of a way of making that connection unless perchance there is something in the air or the soil of that particular spot leading to extra features. However, to the best of my knowledge, that branch of the Jones family remains unafflicted by additional limbs or eyes. It troubles me that I can think of no way to better study or observe these curiosities.

I had considered studying the births and deaths of this island as a separate project, but paper is in short supply. I haven’t heard of a birth for weeks, and by my calculations at this rate we won’t have a population here at all in fifty years time unless a great many more people are shipwrecked. Then there is the matter of death. Millicent Cobbage, 84, dismembered. By whom? There is no apparent evidence, only the gruesome remains. Jobe Mathias, 26 ex-sanguinated . How? I have no idea. The doctor has examined him and there is a remarkable dearth of blood in his body. Regan Higsbottom, 42, missing for two weeks, declared dead. Too many questions and seldom any answers at all. I have published all, and perhaps someone will step forward with insight.

Last night, a bloodstorm swept the island. I saw the first of it fall as the light was fading, the violent red drops cascading from the sky, while the smell of iron hung in the air. I stayed out for as long as I could to make observations. My clothes were badly soiled and will bear the stains for some time to come, I fear. Fortunately I was not wearing my good suit. By dawn today, houses, windows and roads alike were stained with this most disquieting substance. It made for a strange spectacle with the pale orange of the sunlight. By the viscosity and the way in which the liquid soon crusted, I am confident this was indeed blood. I spoke with Doc Willoughby who confirmed my fears but he could not say if it was animal or human in origin. Where did all the blood come from? I think of ex-sanguinated Jobe Mathias and wonder if others shared his fate. But if so, then how was the blood transmitted? Why did it fall from the sky? Does this shocking event represent some unimaginable horror that has happened beyond the boundaries of our beloved island? How could so much blood have become airborne, with no trace of any body parts? Are there monsters in our skies? Perhaps time will present answers. I want to believe that it was no more than colourful dust swept up by a rain cloud, that the iron came from desert sands, a mere illusion of carnage, the horror a product of my own troubled mind. But surely such dust would have washed from my shirt? I cannot get the stains out, no matter how I try.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Key of Solomon

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For the past few years – in fact, ever since a copy of Mark Twain’s ‘Life on the Mississippi’ came ashore in an old sea-chest – the last Tuesday in every month has been designated as being ‘Poker Night’ in the snug of The Squid and Teapot. Don’t ask me why. There is no great significance to the last Tuesday in every month, except that it can never clash with Thanksgiving (which, except for the odd occasion, has been pretty much ignored on Hopeless, anyway).  Although not a particularly exciting affair, the small handful of islanders who choose to play always look forward to poker night as an opportunity to put on whatever passes as their finery; for a fanciful few hours they can imagine themselves gambling on a paddle-driven steamboat, like those so famously evoked by the aforementioned Mr Samuel Langhorne Clemens.

Norbert Gannicox is no exception to this unwritten rule, habitually donning his much-coveted (though slightly too-large and badly sea-stained) Stetson, frilly shirt (that buttons-up the wrong way, on account of it having belonged to his mother), and bootlace tie (made from a real bootlace). Cards in hand, he likes to sit and sip a sarsaparilla or two, for despite being the proprietor of the Gannicox Distillery, Norbert has made it a rule never to touch strong drink, after finding his father drowned in a barrel of moonshine. On the evening of this tale, however, Norbert was panicking. His bootlace tie was missing. He had looked in all of the usual places, turning out drawers and cupboards in desperation, completely forgetting that he had asked his wife to secure a particularly noisy copper pipe which had developed an annoying rattle during the distilling process. A handy bootlace did the job admirably, and, with the pipe firmly secured, the annoying rattle, along with Norbert’s Tuesday-night neckwear, became a thing of the past.

It seems to be a universal truth that, whenever something goes missing, the subsequent search turns up all manner of long-lost items, except the one thing that you have been looking for. Once treasured possessions, generally thought to have been spirited away to whatever place it is that odd socks, teaspoons, broken scissors and loose change are given to migrate, will miraculously appear in locations previously ransacked a dozen times. Invariably, when you eventually find these things, the moment has passed and they have no importance whatsoever in your life anymore. While Norbert’s search did, indeed, throw up all sorts of half-remembered treasures, the battered old tin box he discovered, sitting in the back of a damp cupboard, was completely unfamiliar, and somehow unsettling. The box was closed tight, a thick crust of red rust welding the lid firmly in place. There was no opportunity to prise it open just then, however. Norbert was all too aware that time was getting on, and soon Bartholomew Middlestreet, the inn’s landlord, would be shuffling his venerable pack of dog-eared playing cards in readiness for the evening’s entertainment.  All the same, all through the game his mind kept wandering back to the subject of the tin box, and he found it difficult to concentrate on his cards. Others noticed that he was distracted, and attributed this, and the fact that he had forgotten to wear his tie, to some temporary mental aberration, possibly caused by over-exposure to distillation fumes.

It was the following morning when Norbert eventually found time to get to grips with the box, spraying a fine patina of rust over himself in the process. His initial reaction, however, was one of disappointment; there appeared to be little of interest lurking within its depths. There were a few scribbled notes, all yellowed with age, that seemed to pertain to various, fairly primitive, methods of distillation. He found a letter addressed to Mr. Solomon Gannicox, of the New Gannicox Distillery, from Sebastian Lypiatt, whom Norbert knew to be a former landlord of The Squid and Teapot. There was also a somewhat unpleasant missive from someone called Reverend Crackstone, railing against the production of ‘The Demon Drink’. 

As Norbert lifted the pile of papers out of the box, an envelope dropped on to the table with a resounding clunk. The contents sounded far too heavy to be merely paper. Excitedly, and with trembling hands, Norbert carefully removed the envelope’s red waxed seal. To his surprise he found an iron key nestling inside. The key was obviously old and quite ornate, unlike any Norbert that had seen before. The tin box had clearly been the property of his grandfather, Solomon Gannicox, the founder of the distillery, but why or how Solomon had come in possession of the key was anyone’s guess, and, more to the point, where was the door that it could unlock? Maybe there was another clue that he had missed, hidden somewhere among his grandfather’s papers.

Looking again, and instantly dismissing Reverend Crackstone’s offensive tirade, Norbert noticed that the letter from Sebastian Lypiatt made some intriguing references to Solomon looking after ‘the enclosed item’ which, apparently, was deemed to be a far safer option than it being housed within the walls of The Squid and Teapot. The distiller’s heart missed a beat. This was it, here was the lead that he had been seeking. Although, by no means a fanciful man, Norbert felt that here was an adventure in the making. The riddle of the key of Solomon would only be solved when, with the help of Bartholomew Middlestreet, the location of the door, and whatever lay behind it, was discovered.

To be continued…

(Key by Matt Inkel)

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

The horrifying ladies in the night

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Mrs Beaten dreams of naked ladies. This is awkward because Mrs Beaten has never really seen any ladies who were naked. She has of course looked at her own body, occasionally, in stolen, furtive glances that do more to make her afraid than they do to answer curiosity.

She has some idea of what might occur beneath clothing. The stays and strings and pads and cages, the lobster pots. It would be more comfortable to assume that was everything, just layers of skirts and ropes and pulleys, and no flesh at all.

It’s that last layer that frightens her. The unspeakable, unseeable inside of a garment. Humans were not meant to be naked, she feels strongly. It isn’t natural, or proper.

In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, they come at night. Sometimes alone and pale and loitering. Sometimes with too many teeth in places surely teeth should not be? Some of them dance. Some of them wave parts of themselves around and Mrs Beaten does not know if those parts have names, or even if they are ordinary ladyparts to be possessed of.

In the daylight, she suspects the presence of demons, and murmurs her prayers and charms in the hopes of seeing them off. If all else fails, she gets another lobster pot to go inside her skirts. Somehow there is always room for one more.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Living in the Past

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You may remember that Durosimi O’Stoat’s failed experiment had sent young Freya Draycott hurtling back a thousand years in time, to a green and fertile Hopeless, where a peaceful Danish settlement flourished, and a loving family greeted her with open arms. No one, including Durosimi, had any inkling of where the child might be, but to save face he had fashioned a tableau of thought-forms to give the impression that, on returning to the orphanage, Freya had been lifted into the sky by a huge raptor.

Miss Calder, whose ghostly presence was crucial to the smooth running of the Pallid Rock Orphanage, was incensed regarding the disappearance of Freya. Although the orphan had certainly appeared to have been transported into the heavens by a bird of prey, Miss Calder was convinced that, somehow, Durosimi had a hand in matters, and her preternatural senses smelt a rat, or, in this instance, an O’Stoat. Her eyes were bright to the point of incandescence as she relayed the events of the day to her friends, Philomena Bucket and the ghost of Marjorie Toadsmoor, who both listened, appalled. Marjorie, one of the first women to be admitted to Oxford University, had helped at the orphanage both before and after her untimely death; it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do. At least, it seemed the most natural thing to do on the decidedly strange island of Hopeless, Maine.

Unlike Marjorie, Philomena was not familiar with the word ‘refulgent’. This is a pity, as it would have been useful later that day, when trying describe, to Ariadne Middlestreet, the strange light that had glowed in Miss Calder’s eyes. Whether Ariadne would have been aware of the meaning of the word is, of course, another matter.

“If the O’Stoats are involved – especially Durosimi – you’d be well advised to let things be,” said Ariadne, earnestly. “If Miss Calder wants to take him on, that’s up to her. After all, he can hardly kill her, can he? Whatever other horrors he could inflict on her, though, is anybody’s guess.”

“Yes, you’re right,” agreed Philomena, adding, “but you couldn’t help but love little Freya. I hope that she’s okay, wherever she is.”

Ariadne said nothing. If an overgrown hawk had really snatched the girl, she didn’t give a lot for her chances.

You or I, or indeed, Durosimi O’Stoat, might not know where to start in ascertaining Freya’s whereabouts. Not so, Miss Calder. For all of her attachment to the orphanage, she is, after all, a ghost and, by definition, inhabits a liminal landscape beyond our imagining, where the portal between life and death is a two-way door. It is a realm outside time and space as we know it. This is how she realised that Freya was still alive, for it was clear that the child’s shade had never walked those paths. It took a millennium of listening – a millennium condensed into mere seconds – for her to hear the voice of Helga, the vǫlva, the wise woman of the Danish settlement, welcoming Freya to her village.

It must be remembered that the role of the vǫlva, in Viking society, was much more than that of being a healer and herbalist; she was both revered and feared as a powerful shaman, intimate with the ways of the spirit-world. And so it was, while in a deep shamanic trance, that Helga sensed the presence of Miss Calder, probing the centuries with silver tendrils of esoteric energy, in her search for Freya. Spirit reached out to spirit and, without speech or language, Helga assured Miss Calder that the child was safe, well and very happy.

Miss Calder wasted no time in informing Reverend Davies of Freya’s fate. She was still angry, but grateful that no apparent harm had befallen the child. For his part, the Reverend had been adamant that he had no idea that Durosimi would use the girl in such a way, but that he would remonstrate with the man at the first opportunity. Being somewhat fearful of Durosimi, he effected this by asking Doc Willoughby to “have a quiet word with O’Stoat”.  The Doc, having scant desire to stir up trouble for himself, did little more than drop the issue into general conversation.

“I hear from Reverend Davies that young Freya has been deposited in the distant past,” Doc Willoughby told Durosimi. “Back to the Viking era, or so it appears.”

“Is that a fact?” replied Durosimi, seemingly unconcerned. “I don’t think you can put the blame squarely on my shoulders, Willoughby. After all, you were the one who brought her to me.”

“True… but I distinctly saw that huge bird take her away, and so did Reverend Davies and Miss Calder,” said the Doc, defensively. “It must have somehow dropped her through some wormhole to an earlier age. Obviously this is nothing to do with either of us.”

“Indeed,” agreed Durosimi. “These things happen.”

It was an hour later, after the Doc had left, that Durosimi allowed himself to think about the implications of that which he had done. He was not concerned about the orphan. There were more than enough of those already on Hopeless. Presumably the goat, his first subject, had been sent to that era as well. He was not too worried about that, either. What did give him pause for thought, however, was the half-dozen spoonwalkers that he had trapped and experimented with, while waiting for Freya to be delivered from the orphanage. It was safe to assume that they, too, had been transported to the Danish settlement. As far as he was aware, Hopeless at that time was free of the eternal fog and attendant horrors that haunted it now. It would seem, therefore, that those half-dozen spoonwalkers were, paradoxically, their own ancestors. If this was the case, and looking at things another way, had they not been sent there, no antecedents would have been in evidence to spawn future generations. This confusing state of affairs left Durosimi to conclude that spoonwalkers only existed on Hopeless today because he had sent six of the little nuisances back in time.

“I need a drink,” he thought to himself, massaging his head in an effort to make sense of things.

Meanwhile, and a thousand years earlier, Freya had been getting to grips with a new language, and doing well. Her skills were such that she fully understood when her adopted parents spoke in hushed tones about Lars Pedersen, the spoon-whittler. It seems that when he found that his stock of spoons and collection of gulls eggs had been stolen, he blamed a group of strange little demons that tottered around on stilts.

“Old Lars is definitely going crazy,” said Bendt to his wife, Sigrid. “Demons on stilts, indeed!”

Freya watched as Lars wandered blindly down the dusty road, as if in a trance. She knew all about spoonwalkers, and, like all of the orphans, was all too familiar with the legend of the ghostly Eggless Norseman of Creepy Hollow. Lars was not a ghost yet, she observed, but by the looks of him it would not be too long before he was. For one so young, Freya had a wise head on her shoulders, and decided that it would probably be best to keep this information to herself. After all, who would believe her? No, they would probably think that she was as crazy as Lars.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Tulpa

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Owing to a bungled experiment, conducted by Durosimi O’Stoat, the nine-year old orphan, Freya Draycott, had found herself enjoying a substantial degree of warmth, happiness and traditional Scandinavian family-life, in the distant past of Hopeless, Maine. It was one of those periods in time when the island had shrugged off its default state of fog-strewn horror and, for reasons best known to itself, had adopted a more agreeable aspect. So happy was Freya, that wild spoonwalkers would have been unable to drag her back to her own time, even if they had possessed sturdy enough cutlery to have allowed them to do so. In view of that, it is there that we must leave her.

There was a definite sense of frostiness in the air of the Pallid Rock Orphanage, which had nothing to do with the miserable chill and all-pervading fog of a typical Hopeless day. Miss Calder was no longer on speaking-terms with Reverend Davies, following his decision to allow Durosimi to recruit Freya as an assistant. She fluttered around the orphanage exuding an iciness which had given her wraith a strangely glacial, bluish aspect. For his part, Reverend Davies was somewhat aggrieved that two weeks had passed and there had been no word from Durosimi regarding the child’s welfare. Normally such an omission would not have bothered him too much, but with Miss Calder literally giving him the cold shoulder, he needed to find out what Durosimi was up to.

“I wish I knew what is going on, Willoughby,” he grumbled to the Doc. “Durosimi assured me that the girl would be returned to the orphanage after a few days.”

Doc Willoughby, who disliked being referred to by his surname, disliked even more the fact that Freya had been absent for so long. You may recall that Durosimi had been trying to replicate the spell that had deposited Rhys Cranham back a century or so into the past. Despite living there for two full months, the Night-Soil Man had been restored to present-day Hopeless within a few hours of his leaving. The Doc had reasoned that by flitting back and forth through time in this manner, it would be possible to become virtually immortal. With this in mind, he had secretly conspired with Durosimi to send first a goat, then a human guinea-pig, back in time with instructions to seek out one of the O’Stoat clan. For as long as they had been on Hopeless, the O’Stoats had produced a steady supply of sorcerers, witches, necromancers and tea-leaf readers. There was bound to be an O’Stoat lurking around somewhere on the island with the wherewithal to return the occasional time-traveller. Naturally, the goat lacked the vocal skills to pull this off successfully, but surely, pondered the Doc, the child had been bright enough to carry it through.

“I’ll go and talk to Durosimi myself,” declared the Doc, magnanimously. “I am sure that there is a simple explanation. Why, the girl is probably having such a pleasant vacation that she is in no hurry to get back to that draughty old orphanage of yours at any time soon.”

The Reverend harrumphed and spluttered a little, but was relieved not to have confront O’Stoat himself.

“Very well,” he conceded, “but do try and bring her back. Miss Calder is making my life a misery.”

“What do you mean, she didn’t come back?” demanded the Doc.

“I mean,” said Durosimi, his voice hardening, “that the child did not damned well come back. What else could I have meant, Willoughby?”

The Doc winced under the force of the man’s tone, but was not inclined to give up just yet.

“And do you know why that might be…?” he ventured, nervously.

“Of course I don’t.” Said Durosimi angrily. “The past is a big place. Maybe I put too much mandrake into the mix… she might be riding around on a woolly mammoth for all that I know.”

“Or being eaten by one,” observed the Doc, drily.

“Unlikely. I think you will find that they were herbivores,” said Durosimi, “but that is beside the point. I regret to say that pinpointing a precise period in history and depositing someone there is, at the moment, beyond my ability. At least for now, the experiment is over.”

“But what shall I tell Reverend Davies?” blustered the Doc. “If the girl does not get back, Miss Calder will probably leave the orphanage and seep into the ether, never to return.”

“That would be a shame,” conceded Durosimi. “I have always rather admired Miss Calder, even when she was alive.”

“Is there nothing you can do?” asked the Doc.

Durosimi thought for a moment.

“I can make Freya’s disappearance seem to be an untimely accident, rather than the fault of Reverend Davies or myself? Would that soothe matters?”

“Possibly,” said the Doc, “but how would you do that?”

“Do you know what a tulpa is, Willoughby?”

The Doc hated having to admit ignorance of anything, but was forced to shake his head in bewilderment.

“A tulpa,” said Durosimi, warming to his subject, “is, if you would prefer, a thought-form, of sorts. Creating such a creature would take me a few days to achieve, but yes, I could fashion a facsimile of Freya which should satisfy Miss Calder’s scrutiny… at least from a distance. If the child appears to return to the orphanage, at least Davies and I will be square with each other. After all, I cannot be held responsible for anything that befalls her after she leaves my care.”

Durosimi pondered for a few seconds, then added,

“Tell Reverend Davies to expect her at noon in three days… no, no, on second thoughts, make that a week today. I need there to be a certain degree of drama, or the illusion will fall flat.”

Doc Willoughby had absolutely no idea what Durosimi was planning to do, but had no wish to risk upsetting him any further with needless questions. He returned to the orphanage and conveyed the message that Freya would be returned to them in one week’s time. While Miss Calder was dubious, she allowed her manner to soften a little towards Reverend Davies, and the atmosphere at the orphanage thawed by a degree or two.

Exactly one week later the hall clock announced the fact that it was noon, with twelve jarring clangs. Reverend Davies, the ghostly Miss Calder and a somewhat curious Doc Willoughby were standing in front of the orphanage, eagerly awaiting the promised arrival of Freya. The Reverend allowed himself an audible sigh of relief as a familiar fair-haired figure bobbed into sight, skipping through the fronds of mist towards them. It was definitely Freya, waving happily and looking even a little taller than she had before. Miss Calder clapped her hands with delight and even Doc Willoughby gave a passing semblance of a smile.

All seemed well, until the dark and ominous shape of a huge, eagle-like bird screeched out of the foggy air and scooped Freya up in its talons.

“Pamola!” exclaimed the Reverend, real fear gripping him, “It’s the evil demon, Pamola.”

The Reverend was well aware of the tale of how Pamola, many years earlier, had snatched the orphan, Daniel Rooksmoor, and taken him to his eyrie on Mount Katahdin.

‘No it isn’t,’ thought the Doc, but kept his own counsel. What was it Durosimi had promised to send? A tulpa, that was it. Well, the old boy had surpassed himself, and sent two. No wonder he needed the extra few days to do it.

Miss Calder clasped her hands to her face, which by now had become quite skeletal, as she watched the child being whisked away. Reverend Davies groaned.

“Well, that’s a pity,” said the Doc conversationally. “Still, never mind. It’s no one’s fault, eh?”

Miss Calder looked at him quizzically. The Doc could be brusque and cold-hearted when he wanted to be, but this attitude seemed callous beyond words.

“I suppose you’re right Willoughby,” sighed the Reverend.

Miss Calder watched as the two walked away, deep in conversation.

She had no idea what had just happened, but there was more to this than met the eye. For now, she would give Durosimi the benefit of the doubt, but swore to herself that, before long, she would discover the truth.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Freya

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“Mr O’Stoat is a wise and learned man, Freya. It will be a marvellous opportunity,” said Reverend Davies, encouragingly, his fingers crossed behind his back.

He beamed down at the diminutive figure standing before him. A least, he imagined himself to be beaming. The smile more resembled a somewhat terrifying rictus, which did little to reassure the child.

Looking for a human guinea-pig to send into the past, and hopefully return relatively safely, Durosimi O’Stoat had approached the Reverend, asking for his cooperation in procuring one of the orphans of the Pallid Rock Orphanage to act as his assistant. Fixing Reverend Davies with an intimidating gaze, he had been characteristically vague with regard to the nature of the work involved, but had promised that it would not be at all arduous. His only requirements were that the child must be docile, biddable and not given to being noisy. In the normal course of events the Reverend would have dismissed the request out of hand, not from any moral standpoint, but that these stipulations ruled out virtually all of the youngsters currently in the care of the orphanage. The truth was that, being very wary, not to say fearful, of Durosimi, Reverend Davies was not inclined to upset someone who was more than equipped to make his life extremely difficult.  It was only when his eye alighted upon Freya Draycott, nine years old, pale-skinned, bookish and painfully shy, that his troubles seemed to be over. Freya would fit the bill nicely. He would deliver her to Durosimi himself, that very afternoon.

“You have done what???” The normally placid Miss Calder was literally incandescent with rage. Reverend Davies had never before seen her wraithlike form glow with such a ghastly green intensity. The pleasing face and figure that haunted the corridors of the orphanage had become horribly skeletal and fiery, such was the intensity of her fury.

“Durosimi assured me that Freya would enjoy the best of working conditions…”

“And you trust him?” Miss Calder was almost screaming. “You would leave that defenceless child in the care of such a monster?”

“Oh, come, come, Miss Calder,” said the Reverend, terrified that Durosimi might be within hearing distance. “You have no right to assume…”

“I have every right! I know exactly what that man is capable of. Why does he want her? And don’t say as an assistant!”

Before Reverend Davies could reply she stormed from the room, leaving trails of angry green ectoplasm in her wake.

It was deep into the night when Miss Calder, who had composed herself sufficiently to have reverted to her usual form, stood outside Durosimi’s house. Despite the lateness of the hour, pale light shone through several windows. Summoning her courage, for she had no idea whether Durosimi would have any power over her, she drifted towards the door, knowing that locks and bolts would be no barrier. 

Miss Calder was within touching distance of the house when the shockwaves hit. Her wraith was flung back several yards. Had anyone been watching, they would have been horrified to witness her going through every stage of decomposition, before landing on the ground, where she gradually retained her preferred shape. Flickering unsteadily into a standing position, she commenced to circle the building, aware that some unseen force was preventing her, or anyone else, from getting inside.

“Well, that proves that Durosimi is up to no good,” she said sadly to herself as she fluttered back to the orphanage. Miss Calder vowed never to forgive him, or Reverend Davies, if Freya came to harm.

Freya lay in a comfortable bed and wondered when Mr O’Stoat would need her to do any work. She had been with him for three days and nights, and during that time had been left to her own devices. She had seen very little of her new master. Despite his forbidding appearance, he had not been unkind and gave her the run of much of his house. There were books everywhere, which pleased Freya, though most of them were beyond her understanding. She missed her friends at the orphanage, but all in all, it seemed that she had nothing to complain about.

It was on the fourth night, however, some little time after she had settled down to sleep, that her world was suddenly turned upside down.

Sigrid hummed quietly to herself as she removed the warm loaves from the clay oven. The Allfather had been generous once more; the harvest had been bountiful the previous year. Since settling on this little island, life had been good. There was rich pasture land for the livestock and plenty of wild birds and animals for her husband, Bendt, to hunt. Her only sorrow was her inability to conceive a child. In desperation Sigrid had consulted Helga, the vǫlva, or wise woman, who, for a small payment, cast a handful of runes before slipping into a trance state in order to petition the gods on Sigrid’s behalf. Helga was confident that the plea had been a success, for she had been told that there would, indeed, be a child gracing the Holmen household before the feast of Lithasblot, or Midsummer.

 “Well,” mused Sigrid, still as slender as a willow, “that’s all very well, but spring has arrived and midsummer is just a couple of months away. So much for the intervention of a wise-woman!”

As has been mentioned before in these tales, the climate of Hopeless has not always been as it is today. There have been pockets of time throughout its history when the island has enjoyed warmth, sunshine and general abundance. So attractive was the place to the Norsemen, who arrived in their Dragon Boats, that they sent messengers back, bidding their families to join them. For a century or so, before the fog rolled in with its accompanying horrors, the Vikings lay down their weapons, and lived here in peace and plenty.

Freya awoke to find herself lying on a grassy bank. There was the fragrant smell in the air of sweet meadow flowers, and a golden sun smiled down through faint wisps of cloud. This was a world that Freya had never before seen. She looked around her in awe, then spotted the elderly, but still handsome woman with plaited grey hair who stood motionless, a few yards away.

Helga had watched the child slowly materialise before her startled eyes. This was an unusual spectacle, even for one who spent time, as she did, in the liminal landscape that lies between the realms of flesh and spirit. There could only be one explanation; surely she must have been sent by the gods, as they had promised, the daughter for Sigrid and Bendt. But when Helga spoke to the girl it was clear that she could not understand a word of what was being said. The wise-woman rolled her eyes. Why was she not surprised? The gods were so predictable; so capricious. This was typical of one of their tricks. Well, she could beat them at their own game. The child was young enough to learn.

She put her hand on own her breast and said, “Helga”, then she pointed to the girl.

Freya was quick on the uptake, and realised that she was being asked for her name.

When she heard the reply, Helga’s face broke into a smile,

“Freya… Freyja” she repeated.  

The child’s name was Freyja. Here indeed was a gift from the goddess herself.

Helga extended a hand and Freya took it, instinctively trusting her new friend. She did not care how she had arrived here, or even where she was; this place was so much more pleasant than Hopeless. There was no fog, no eyes in the sky and, so far, no monsters with fangs and tentacles. She knew that she could be happy here, and walked contentedly with Helga in the spring sunshine, out towards the settlement that nestled snugly in the shelter of a range of low hills.

“That’s strange,” Freya thought to herself, eyeing the scene in front of her. “They look just like the Gydynaps.”

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