Videos from our online festival are now on youtube!
Arrival
Finding Hopeless, Maine – Meredith Debonnaire
Upon Arrival in Hopeless – Craig Hallam
The Tentacoils – Penny Blake
Haul Away Joe – Ominous Folk
To Ride a Surf Horse – Pauline Pitchford
Interview with Tom & Nimue Brown,
Flora and Fauna
How it keeps you – written by Mark Lawrence and read by Adam Horovitz
Drawing a Spoonwalker – Cliff Cumber
Dust Moths at my Window / My Mind – Craig Hallam
Starfish Love – Ominous Folk
Flight of the Succubus Wasp / Dance of the Teaselheads – Craig Hallam Of Moon & Dust Cat – Fergus Ryan
Dustcat Puppet – Martin Hayward-Harris
Ode to Hopeless / An Ode to Pulvis – Craig Hallam
Hopeless, Maine Spoonwalker – Gregg McNeill/Nimue Brown
The Bridge of Bottles / The Mermaid’s Song – Craig Hallam
People and Places
Nightshade – Craig Hallam
Melisandra – Suna Dasi
Pallid Rock Orphanage – Craig Hallam
Hopeless Scientific Society – James Weaselgrease and Robin Treefellow
Beneath the Trees of Hopeless – Craig Hallam
The Cargo – written by Jason C Eckhart and read by Phoebe Briggenshaw
Others
The Arrival – written by Madeleine Holly-Rosing and read by Phoebe Briggenshaw
Ycenthwaite – Steve C Davis
Cthulhu Party Political Broadcast – Andy Arbon
Eldritch Artifact – Andy Arbon
HM Tarot – an interview with Laura Perry
The Picnic of Doom – Craig Hallam
Walter Sickert & the Army of Broken Toys!
Into the night
Hopeless Aufhocher – Matt McCall
The Recipe – Professor Elemental
Huge thanks to everyone who took part! And especially hugest of thanks to The Keith Of Mystery who held it all together and did all the technical things.
“Not in a million years,” said Salamandra firmly, fixing Doc Willoughby with a terrifying stare.
“Even if I thought that I could, there is no way that I would do what you ask.”
The Doc looked crestfallen. Knowing of her abilities, he had reached out, in some desperation, to Salamandra.
Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, had claimed to have been spirited back into the past, where he had lived for two months. Upon returning, and to his amazement, Rhys discovered that just a single night had elapsed since he had left. When the Doc heard of this, and was assured by Reverend Davies that Rhys was incapable of lying, he became obsessed with the idea. Such a course of action, he reasoned, if frequently repeated, would render a person virtually immortal, and Doc Willoughby had definite designs on being that person. It occurred to him that if anyone on the island could replicate this feat, then it would be one of the O’Stoat clan, a family long entrenched in occult practices. For once in his life the Doc’s instincts were spot on, for it had been the matriarch, Colleen O’Stoat, who had summoned the Night-Soil Man back to her own time.
“But why ever not?” the Doc protested. “What earthly difference would it make to you if I, or indeed anyone, was sent into the past?”
Salamandra regarded him with no small amount of contempt.
“Because,” she said, slowly and pointedly, as if addressing an erring child, “you have no business lurking around in a time which is not your own. Can you not see the damage you could cause with your every action? And you are supposed to be one of the more intelligent specimens of humanity on Hopeless – or so you keep telling everyone! It is indeed fortunate that Rhys Cranham did little else than shovel shit while he was there, or I dread to think what might have happened.”
The Doc winced. Salamandra was not one to mince her words.
“So that’s a definite ‘no’ then?” he asked, warily.
Salamandra did not reply, but gave him a look that would have turned wine to vinegar. She stormed off into the mist, towards the shore, her strips of cloth flapping and writhing as if possessed of a life of their own.
“That went well,” thought the Doc sourly.
He turned, intending to go back into town, when a tall, almost cadaverous, shape emerged from the mists.
“Ah, Willoughby. I thought it was you whom I heard speaking to my daughter.”
The Doc pulled up short and peered at the newcomer with incredulity.
“Durosimi? Really? I thought that you were dead.”
“No, no,” said the other, drily. “I’m sure that I would have noticed.”
Doc Willoughby had known Durosimi O’Stoat for a long time; he was not one to strike up a conversation without a good reason. The Doc wondered what it was that he wanted.
“I get the idea that your discussion with Salamandra turned out to be not quite as productive as you would have liked.”
“You could say that,” agreed the Doc.
“I could not help but overhear your conversation. It sounded… interesting.”
“I thought it was,” said the Doc, “but, like Reverend Davies, your Salamandra thought my plan to be unethical.”
“I don’t know where she gets these ideas from,” said Durosimi, a hint of sympathy in his voice. “Ethics, honestly! Nothing in this world would ever have been achieved if people had allowed ethics to get in the way.”
“So… are you saying that you might be in a position to help?” asked the Doc, hopefully.
“I would be happy to try, certainly, but it would not be without its dangers. You and I are both men of science, Willoughby, and as such, we appreciate the risks of experimentation.”
The Doc made no reply. He knew that this was no more than flattery. His own very basic grasp of medicine shared nothing with the dark arts that Durosmi practiced. However, if it meant that his goals were to be fulfilled, he would have signed away his soul – if, indeed he was in receipt of such a thing – there and then.
“Maybe we can talk about this in my home,” said Durosimi, placing a bony hand on the Doc’s shoulder and leading him towards a nearby building. If he noticed that his companion was crossing his fingers, he did not mention it.
The following morning saw the strangely charming, but totally incongruous, sight of Doc Willoughby walking purposely towards the Gydynap Hills, leading a small black goat on a tether.
Durosimi had assured the Doc, with some confidence, that it was not beyond his ability to send someone back in time… or at least, he could do this, in theory. The Doc was, understandably, more than a little reticent to volunteer himself for this experiment, and so it was agreed that a smallish, and fairly docile animal would be best suited to fulfil this pioneering role. The Doc left the goat to Durosimi’s tender mercies, and waited to hear if and when the experiment had been a success.
A week went by. Nothing. Half-way through the following week the Doc received a cryptic message indicating that the experiment had been successful. Stopping only to throw on his hat and jacket, he made his way to the across the island with unaccustomed speed.
“Congratulations!” exclaimed the Doc, enthusiastically shaking a cold and bony hand, “I knew you would do it. Where is the little fellow?”
Durosimi looked puzzled.
“What little fellow would that be?” he asked.
“Why, the goat of course.”
“Oh, him. He went but hasn’t come back. I don’t quite see how he can.”
“But… but…” stammered the Doc.
“I am sure that if it could speak, the goat would have wasted no time in asking one of my ancestors to get him back here post-haste, but he is a dumb animal, and dumb animals are by definition… dumb. Until I can send a human being it will be something of a one-way street. I have not yet perfected that part of the experiment, I’m afraid.”
“Then that’s that,” said the Doc, somewhat deflated. “No one is going to volunteer for anything as hazardous as this. We don’t even know if the goat survived.”
“Then maybe it’s not a volunteer that we need…” said Durosimi ominously.
The Doc tensed.
“I can’t say that I’m totally comfortable with press-ganging someone,” he said.
“As you will,” said Durosimi. “But be sure to let me know if you change your mind.”
He watched the Doc, a bitterly disappointed man, shuffling miserably down the cobbled footpath.
“You’ve gone soft in your old age, Willoughby… but thanks for the idea,” he muttered to himself. “I’m sorry you didn’t want to see it through.”
Then an idea struck him and a menacing leer spread across his face.
“Why,” he mused, “I think it’s high time that I wandered down to the Pallid Rock Orphanage, and let Reverend Davies know that I am in need of a young assistant.”
Rhys Cranham was confused. It was not the fact that he had recently been summoned by the spirit of a previous Night-Soil Man back to the Hopeless, Maine, of the late 1870s, or that he had met an ancestor, or even that he had also spent two months servicing the privies of the island’s inhabitants. The cause of his confusion was, upon his return, the discovery that, in his own era, only one night had passed by. Did this mean, he wondered, that he had been given an extra sixty days of life? It was a puzzle that perplexed him greatly, and he needed to talk to someone who might have an answer.
It occurred to Rhys that Reverend Davies, being a man of learning (or so he led everyone to believe), might possibly have a certain amount of insight into the nature of time and space. After all, anyone who claimed to be on pretty-much first name terms with a deity should at least have access to a few odds and ends of inside information. A face-to-face meeting, unfortunately, would be impossible; Davies would never stand close enough to the Night-Soil Man to be able to conduct a conversation. There was one, however, who could act as a go-between, and that was Miss Calder.
It is well known on the island that Miss Calder, doyenne of the Pallid Rock Orphanage, has been dead for quite some time. Despite this, her slender, ghostly shape can frequently be seen flitting efficiently around the old building, keeping the children in order and generally running the place. If the ghost of Miss Calder has a guilty secret, it is that she has something of a crush on Rhys Cranham, though the manner in which she goes out of her way to ‘accidentally’ cross his path at all hours of the day and night indicates, fairly strongly, that Miss Calder is not particularly adept at guarding her secrets.
Rhys was starting his round, and was less than a quarter of a mile from his cottage, when Miss Calder fortuitously hove into view. She shimmered through the mist, lending it a faintly green tinge.
“Ah, Mr Cranham…”
Despite her feelings, the ghost found it impossible to be anything other than formal.
“Miss Calder…” Rhys was not being formal. Despite having known her for years, he had no idea what her name might be.
“Miss Calder,” he continued, “there is something I need to ask you…”
The green light quickened, fluttering in time with Miss Calder’s ghostly heartbeat.
“Oh, certainly Mr Cranham. How may I help?” she said, a little too eagerly.
“I need you to speak to Reverend Davies for me, please.”
For a fleeting second Miss Calder’s disappointment was apparent as her face became disturbingly skull-like. Taken by surprise, Rhys could not help but step back, startled. Then, with each being embarrassed by their own reaction, both began talking at the same time. A full two minutes of mutual apologies passed before Rhys was able to convey his reasons for asking her to speak to the Reverend. Miss Calder agreed, but had less faith in Reverend Davies than Rhys had hoped.
“I can only think that it was the power of the witch, Granny O’Stoat, that took you back to that time. I have never heard of a ghost being able to do such a thing. I will certainly ask Reverend Davies for his views, but quite honestly, Mr Cranham, I doubt very much that he will have a satisfactory answer for you.”
Two mornings later found Reverend Davies deep in conversation with Doc Willoughby. The two men fostered no great fondness, or respect, for each other, but with each knowing where the bodies were buried – both in the literal and metaphorical sense – it gave them a common bond.
“And he claims that he was there for two months, you say?” said Doc Willoughby, incredulously. “Do you believe him?”
“I’ve no reason not to,” replied the Reverend. “I knew Rhys Cranham when he was a child in the orphanage and in all of that time I have never known him to lie. Despite his lowly office, I think him to be as honest as the day is long.”
“If that is the case,” said the Doc slowly, “and if it was the work of an O’Stoat, as you suspect, I see no reason why the feat cannot be repeated. There are enough of them still about. Just think of it, Davies, by going back and forth through time and gaining an extra sixty days on each occasion, would render me… I mean, would render someone, virtually immortal.”
“But would it be ethical?” asked the Reverend irritably. He detested being referred to by only his surname. “After all, we are mortals, and – ipso facto – not intended to be immortal.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” grumbled the Doc. “We’re talking about defying nature and living forever, for goodness sake.”
“Yes… but I could never consent to such an experiment being repeated. As a man of the cloth I cannot be seen to be endorsing something that others would certainly view as being unethical.”
“And that’s your final word?” said the Doc. “You could not be persuaded to look at this in any other way?”
“There is no other way,” said the Reverend, emphatically. “The only way is ethics!”
The Doc picked up his hat and stormed out of the room angrily. Ten seconds later he stormed back in again, having remembered that it was his house that they were in.
“We will not speak of this again,” said Reverend Davies, standing up to leave. “I’ll get a message to the Night-Soil Man that I have no answer to his question; I will tell him that there is no way of knowing.”
Doc Willoughby sat deep in thought for a long time after the Reverend had left. He reached into a drawer and pulled out the repurposed, and slightly sea-stained, desk diary in which the names, addresses and ailments of all of his patients, past and present, were stored. He flicked through the yellowing pages for a few moments, then ran a stubby forefinger down the formidable list of the O’Stoats. The Doc allowed himself a sly smile when he at last located the one name that he had been searching for…
Inheritance is the second half of The Gathering in the Sloth Comics editions of Hopeless, Maine. In the original Archaia editions these were two separate books, and Outland, our American publishers is also doing them separately. These will be large, hardcover editions and so new covers were in order!
Archaia dumped us after two books (boo, hiss…..) but that’s ok because Sloth have been awesome to work with and Outland are shaping up well.
Copies will be available from places that sell books, but there is also a kickstarter in the offing…
Some of you may remember, from earlier tales, that the very first Night-Soil Man on the island of Hopeless, Maine, was Killigrew O’Stoat, a young man whose tragic history drove him to find solace in such lonely and unsociable employment. In those days there was no tradition of a boy from the orphanage acting as an apprentice, a lad to whom the bucket would be unceremoniously passed upon his master’s demise; when Killigrew died his younger brother, Barney, naturally assumed the role, and carried out his duties faithfully until his own death, some years later. Upon finding himself sprawled dead in his favourite armchair, and having no heir apparent, Barney decided to summon a Night-Soil Man from the future to fill the vacancy, until such times as a replacement came forward. That is how Rhys Cranham found himself plunged into the past. If you think that this sounds less than credible, you must remember that these events occurred on that weirdest of islands, Hopeless, Maine, and that the O’Stoat family were – and indeed, are – famously odd.
Rhys had been working as Barney’s replacement for two months. During that period he had befriended Drury, the skeletal hound (for the second time), and had met his grandfather, several times removed, learning something of his family history along the way. Although Hopeless had changed little from his own era, it was not home to Rhys. Most of all, he missed looking out for Philomena Bucket and keeping a watch over her when she embarked upon some of her more inadvisable adventures.
It was rare for Rhys to encounter other people while he was working. The lateness of the hour, and the less pleasant aspects of his labours were generally sufficient reasons for his clients to give him a wide berth. Tonight, however, was different. A stocky young man stood in the moonlight that fought its way through the mist, illuminating the privy of a small, stone cottage.
“We heard that Barney had died,” said the young man in slightly muffled tones, as his hand shielded his mouth and nose. “I suppose you did the honours…?”
Rhys guessed that he meant the disposal of Barney’s corpse. He nodded.
“I’m Dara O’Stoat, and it’s my place – my duty – to take over, now. It must be true, as Granny said so. She also said that it’s time for you to go back.”
“Granny…?” Rhys was puzzled.
“She’s in there, with cousin Harriet – Harriet Butterow. Granny wants to see you. She ain’t got long, so hurry,” said Dara, cryptically.
Feeling strangely obliged to obey, Rhys unstrapped his bucket and placed it on the path, then hesitantly pushed open the door of the cottage. He was not used to entering people’s homes but, on the other hand, was well aware that no one argues with an O’Stoat matriarch. Besides this, he was curious; he was fairly sure that the woman he was about to meet must have arrived with the founding families.
Harriet met him in the parlour, immediately blanched, then covered her mouth and nose with a square of material. Rhys winced, uncomfortable that his malodour should dog his every step. Wordlessly the girl led him to a small, ill-lit chamber where a very old, white-haired woman was lying on a simple wooden pallet. A thin blanket covered her frail form. At the sight of Rhys, her dull eyes suddenly glowed.
“At last,” she said, “I’ve been waiting for you.” Her voice was faint and Rhys could see that she was dying.
“I know who you are, young fella, and where you’re from, but now it is time for you to return. Before you go back, though, I’ve got one final job for you to do.”
If Granny O’Stoat noticed his smell, she did not show it, but her voice was beginning to fail.
“You need to help Granny fulfil her last wish. Her name is Colleen O’Stoat, and the rest of the family will have nothing to do with her,” explained Harriet, who was keeping as far away from the Night-Soil Man as she could. “They call her a witch, a sorceress, which is good, coming from those hypocrites. That is why no one else will do this last thing she’s asking for, not even Dara,” she added, sadly.
“Then I can return to my own time? But how…?”
“She’ll find a way,” said Harriet.
It was just a few hours later that Rhys found himself carrying the lifeless body of Colleen O’Stoat through the grey mists, down to Tragedy Creek. With all the solemnity he could muster, he placed her into the hull of a battered old rowing boat which lay, as Colleen had said, hidden amongst the reeds. He covered the old lady with the threadbare blanket, as though tucking her into bed. Indeed, she looked serene and peaceful, as if asleep. Wading into the shallow water, Rhys turned the bow of the boat to face the open ocean.
His task completed, the Night-Soil Man stepped away. From safely downwind he watched Harriet kiss her grandmother’s brow for one last time. With surprising ease, the girl pushed the tiny craft out to sea. Despite its apparent unseaworthiness, the boat was borne easily upon the waves, drifting eastwards, until it became no more than a speck upon the pale sun that seemed to be rising from the ocean. It was almost as if the very elements themselves were conspiring to respect Colleen’s dying wish, which was to be sent back to the emerald green isle of her birth.
Deep in thought and walking slowly, Rhys made his way back to his cottage. He shivered, feeling the morning grow colder. Suddenly, in marked contrast to the unusually clear conditions of just a few minutes earlier, a heavy sea-fog rolled inland. Even by Hopeless standards, the visibility rapidly became decidedly poor. Rhys could barely see his hand in front of his face. Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the fog cleared to no more than the swirling mist that the island enjoyed with monotonous regularity. As it did so, a familiar rattling and panting made him turn; it was Drury loping joyfully along the path behind him.
A voice cut through the morning air, freezing Rhys in his tracks.
“Well, there’s a sight we don’t see that often, to be sure. Rhys Cranham, skulking about in broad daylight!”
The teasing, playful lilt of Philomema Bucket’s gentle Irish tones made his heart soar. She was a dozen yards away but he could clearly see the broad smile on her pale face.
“Philomena,” he called. “Oh, it’s so good to see you. Have you missed me?”
“Not really,” she laughed.
Rhys was taken aback and not a little disappointed.
“Why the devil should I have missed you?” she continued, laughing. “I only saw you yesterday evening, when I left that starry-grabby pie outside your door, you great lummox.”
It has to get better, we thought. People will be comforted if they know that, we thought. And so we looked, and we could not look away, and we knew terrible, unspeakable things and blood poured from our eyes and we screamed all the time we were writing this. The universe doesn’t love you even a little bit, and it loves us even less.
Capricorn: You keep dreaming about the donkeys on the roof. This year you will start waking up on the roof and it’s only a matter of time before you start wondering if you are a donkey. Some of you have always been donkeys. Some of you are now turning into donkeys. Some of you are only dreaming about it. You will never be able to tell which one of these things applies to you.
Aquarius: You will grow extra parts of yourself and will live in fear of how others will judge you if they see what is happening. You are right to be afraid, you have people around you who will think that ending your pitiful life would be doing you a favour, and you know? They might be right.
Pisces: You are in the thrall of fish, and the water possesses you. Do what the fish tell you to do in order to live. Don’t expect to be glad that you chose this path. You may regret living, but there is no escape for you and even if you die, your ghost will be trapped here forever.
Aries: You will be haunted by strange noises. You will never find out what’s making them or whether they are even real or just a sign of your increasing detachment from reality. You may have to put bells on yourself so you can tell when it is you who is moving.
Taurus: This is the year when you can expect to find out about terrible family secrets. Whether that’s an ancient tale that has cursed your line to this very day, or more recent skeletons in closets remains to be seen.
Gemini: You’ve always known that no one likes you. You’ve always been told you’re just paranoid and delusional. Well, congratulations, this will be the year when you finally get the proof you need. Whether you can survive that proof to be smug about having been right all along remains to be seen, but no one else actually cares what you think anyway.
Cancer: Your obsessions and compulsions get a tighter grip on you this year, forcing you into ever greater extremes. The good news is that you’ll probably have no idea how dangerous this has become until a minute or two before it kills you. Only those of you who are obsessed with avoiding peril at any cost are likely to survive.
Leo: This is the year that old mistakes and betrayals really catch up with you. People are out for retribution, or failing that they’re going to want you to do terrible things to make up for the previous terrible things.
Virgo: You think you’re on top of things, but you’re wrong. You’ve been sowing the seeds for your own downfall for some time now. The only question is how badly it’s all going to go wrong. Don’t imagine you can fix anything, it’s way too late for that now.
Libra: That good advice you’ve been giving people? They’ve finally worked out you have no idea what you’re talking about. There will be consequences. Also, you have no idea what you’re doing and that’s increasingly obvious to everyone else. The demons know that you don’t know what you’re doing. The demons know. Try not to go to sleep.
Scorpio: This is the year you get the wild, passionate romance you’ve always longed for. The trouble is, when they tell you they love you so much they could eat you all up, it’s no sort of metaphor. Something hungry has noticed you. Whether it wants your soul, your flesh or your sanity remains to be seen but think of the fun you’ll have finding out!
Sagittarius: You’ve been trying so hard to get everything right, and to not draw attention to yourself. You never let yourself get too comfortable but you believe it’s possible if you make no mistakes whatsoever that you’ll be ok. You are wrong about this.
Rhys Cranham had found himself mysteriously deposited into the past of Hopeless, Maine, having been summoned there by the ghostly apparition of a previous Night-Soil Man. Although he had no idea, exactly, how far into the history of the island he had been thrust, the absence of the flushing privy, annexed to the rear of The Squid and Teapot, indicated that he was living in the Hopeless of many years earlier. Despite this, there was one face he recognised from his own time, and that was the bony visage of Drury, who had been around for longer than anyone knew. As far as Drury was concerned, of course, Rhys was a newcomer to the island, but the Night-Soil Man was grateful that his old friend was there to keep him company.
The role of the Night-Soil Man has changed little over the years, and Rhys had strapped on the bucket of the previous incumbent as naturally as if it had been his own. (In fact, it was his own. This version looked much newer and less battered, but, in Rhys’ view, lacked a certain amount of character.)
A week passed by uneventfully, or as uneventfully as a week on Hopeless ever gets. There was the usual array of night-stalkers to avoid, but the Night-Soil Man’s distinct odour was usually more than enough to keep them at bay. It was something of a surprise, therefore, when a dark figure arose from the shadows and ambled unconcernedly towards him. Even more surprising was the fact that Drury failed to growl, but instead wagged his tail enthusiastically.
“You must be our new Night-Soil Man,” said the stranger. The news that there was a new holder of the office had obviously travelled quickly. “Poor old Barney, I’ll miss him,” he continued sadly, then added, “but it’s good to meet you…” For most of us, such an exchange would be unremarkable, but for the Night-Soil Man, it was astounding. Not since his brief flirtation with Philomena Bucket (who had temporarily lost her sense of smell) had anyone actually approached him voluntarily. If that was surprising, the words which followed came as even more of a shock. “…I’m Elijah. Elijah Cranham.” It took a moment or two for Rhys to fully appreciate that he was, more than likely, standing in the presence of one of his ancestors. “You can call me Rhys,” he said, niftily avoiding giving his surname. He needed to know more about this man. “But your accent… you don’t sound like a local.” “No, I came to the island from England, via California, Canada and the Northwest… or rather, I should say, the Northeast Passage.” Elijah laughed bitterly at the last remark. As Rhys had never been away from Hopeless, none of these references meant a great deal to him, but he was keen to learn something of his ancestry, which had always been a mystery. “You must be wondering how I can stand so close to you,” said Elijah, hurriedly adding, “no offence intended. It was the Arctic Ocean that did for my sense of smell. I fell overboard three years ago into that icy water, and was lucky to be dragged out alive. I haven’t smelled anything since. Then, after I found myself here, I got friendly with old Barney, the Night-Soil Man. Poor devil had no one to call a friend, as you will appreciate more than most, so he was glad for me to visit and have a chat occasionally.” “And I’d be happy if you did the same with me,” said Rhys. “Call in whenever you want.”
The days unfolded into weeks, and little by little, Rhys was able to piece together some of his family’s history. Elijah, who had been little more than a boy at the time, left England in 1865, having heard about the gold fever that had gripped California over a decade earlier. He was told by reliable sources that there were still fortunes to be made there. Full of optimism, he eventually found himself in the Klamath Mountains of Northwest California, where the gold fields left a lot of men rich, but a greater number, including Elijah, disappointed. Undeterred, when he learned that gold had been discovered on tributaries of the Yukon River, in far-away Alaska, he decided to try his luck there instead, but again, to no avail (little did he know that he was twenty years too early for the gold-rush).
Far from home, and penniless, he heard tell of an expedition guaranteed to make everyone involved rich and famous. The plan was to discover the fabled Northwest Passage, a route linking the North Atlantic Ocean with the Pacific. Many had tried and all, so far, had failed. This expedition, however, would be different – the explorers would set off from the Pacific and sail eastwards, through the chilly Arctic waters, to the Atlantic. It took little persuasion for Elijah to sign up for the trip, certain, this time, that fame and fortune would not elude him.
“And we did it!” exclaimed Elijah. “We bloody well did it, but nobody outside of this island will ever know. We were the first expedition to make it through the Northwest Passage. Then, with victory in our grasp, a terrible storm blew up and, as far as I know, everyone on board drowned, except me, and it looks as though I’m here to stay. No one ever seems to leave this place, so I suppose I’d better make the most of it. Maybe it’s not too late for me to settle down and raise a family. What do you reckon, Rhys?”
Rhys regarded the man who was his grandfather, several times removed, with eyes that were brimming with tears. “I’m sure you will, my friend. I’m sure that you will.”
(and if you don’t have a rousing chorus in your head already, you will soon!)
I first discovered the Hopeless Maine Scientific Society back when I was working on the obituaries. And for those of you who weren’t reading the Vendetta then, let me explain. We did a kickstarter, with obituaries as a perk for the first 100 backers, so I spent an autumn killing people here on the blog. Fun times!
It turned out that the Scientific Society had a high mortality rate for some reason. Hopeless may not be a good place to live if you have a profound attachment to rationalism, confidence in conventional physics and an interest in biology that cannot accommodate random detritus posing as life forms. Further, the pursuit of reason, across a misty cove towards a jellyfish woman, is not a pursuit that tends to end well.
The above image shows some of the gentlemen of the Hopeless Maine Scientific Society, and features in the Optimists volume. All of the gentlemen featured are, in the loosest sense of the term, real. On the right hand side, we have Keith Errington and Keith Healing, both of whom are heavily involved in all things Hopeless. On the left we have James Weaselgrease and Robin Treefellow. These two anarchic scientists will be involved with the Hopeless Maine online festival as they attempt to recruit new members for their society.
Having been missing for several days, remains of Isabelle Myfanwy were unexpectedly discovered late yesterday, inside a glass heron. Due to the whole issue of being inside a glass heron, there will be no burial, but a memorial service of some sort is expected.
At present, the cause of Isabelle’s death remains unknown. As a 14 year old she is unlikely to have been dismembered by the bird who ate her and should really have lost no more than a hand to a glass heron attack. It seems most likely that her remains were already in pieces before the glass heron ingested her. We may never know the truth.
Doc Willoughby said, “The most likely cause of death is gothicism, which is a frequent killer of young ladies. Isabelle had taken to wearing black clothing and dramatic hoods, which is never a good sign. She was probably hanging about in graveyards, and either got herself exsanguinated, or torn apart by werewolves.”
Doc Willpoughy encourages any other young ladies afflicted by gothicism to call in at his surgery after dark where they can admire his collection of unsavoury things in bottles while he undertakes to cure them of their unwholesome inclinations. I am sure this is as reasonable as it sounds.
Friends of the deceased fear that she may have been taken by the island’s black dog, or indeed a werewolf.
“She always did love fluffy things,” one family member told me. “And some of those werewolves can be really fluffy at this time of year.”
