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.”

Hopeless

Hopeless on Youtube

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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.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Durosimi

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“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.”