Cutlery Detective, Hopeless Tales

The First Cutlery Case

Leave a comment

By Keith Errington

If you have a problem,

if no one else can help,

and if you can find him….

maybe YOU can hire…

The Cutlery Detective

Phillip Fork, The Cutlery Detective, was excited. His new venture in the role of private investigator was only a week old and already his first case was filed away. Well, it wasn’t really a cutlery case, and he did have to refuse it, but nonetheless it was a good omen, he thought.

He had been called to the cottage of Douglas Patch one morning and wasted no time in interviewing the man. Unfortunately, it turned out that Doug’s prize spade had gone missing during the night and he was distraught, in his own words, “It was a lovely digger that one, couldn’t have asked for a better tool. Lovely green handle it had, and a nice matt black blade. Not likely to find the likes of that again – not round here anyway.”

Phillip sympathised, but he had to explain that it simply wasn’t what he did – he was The Cutlery Detective you see, not the Garden Tool Sleuth. The poor man offered him lots of money, but Phillip stood fast – after all, you were never going to succeed in business if you didn’t specialise.

And fortune delivered for Phillip, for within two days he received a message that some spoons had gone missing at no 9 Tendril Drive. The road was a small group of cottages, actually not that far from Mr Patch – maybe he had mentioned the cutlery detective to a neighbour? Phillip thought this was a good sign – if there were that many crimes in such a short space of time in such a small area, then surely there must be hundreds across the island happening every day?

Phillip wasted no time in following up the lead. He found a cottage with a broken gate – half hanging off its hinges, but still with a number on it hanging on by a single screw at the top. Phillip glanced down briefly – saw the number nine – and walked confidently up the path.

He found the front door slightly ajar. How thoughtful, remarked Phillip to himself, they were clearly expecting me. He entered the hallway but was taken aback by the untidiness of the place. A painting was askew on the wall and a Writhing Plant in a small pot had been knocked off its stand.

Phillip righted the stand and carefully avoiding the rustling leaves, put the pot back in place. He then went on to straighten the painting. That’s better he thought.

Phillip thought it odd that there was nobody to meet him, but then he realised they must clearly know of his reputation and therefore trusted him. And obviously, they were thoughtful enough to stay out of the way and let him get on with his work.

He passed a couple of open doors – to his left was a dining room, unremarkable except for broken cabinet containing just empty display stands. These people were both clumsy and untidy thought Phillip. Why there was glass everywhere. He avoided the room and looked through the doorway on the right. On a chair was a middle-aged man, clearly a busy butcher, as he was fast asleep, and his chest was covered in dried blood. Well, a hard-working man deserves his rest, observed Phillip, and moved down the hall to the kitchen at the end.

Now here was a crime scene, thought Phillip – yellow curtains and blue wallpaper – what were they thinking? His eyes caught sight of an open drawer. Aha! It was the cutlery drawer! Phillip drew a breath, flexed his fingers, stretched his hands out and crossed the room.

The drawer was neatly compartmentalised with a section for every item. Disappointing, he mused, not a single spoon was missing, just this empty section here – possibly a large knife? Phillip sighed, he found knives boring – so straight and uninteresting compared with the sexy roundness of a beautifully curved spoon. You could only cut things with a knife but a spoon – well, it just had so many uses.

Nonetheless, there was no denying that a knife was cutlery – even if this one was of some size – possibly even a carving knife. He retraced his steps and took the stairs to the bedroom to see if there were any clues there. But there was nothing, just a bedroom that its owner was clearly in the middle of re-organising – drawers were on the floor, wardrobes were open and clothes strewn all over the bed. Nothing here, noted Phillip and made his way downstairs again.

He went out into the large back garden – a standard place to check when hunting for cutlery. Although this was his first real case, Phillip had obviously thought through the whole idea and had reasoned that many people took cutlery into the garden; a spoon in a mug of tea, a knife to help cut the rhubarb, a fork to prick the night potatoes, or the end of a peeler to ‘dibble’ a hole for dark bulbs. Obviously, many people did a number of tasks in the garden and after a while forgot about the temporary implement they had removed from the kitchen, and thus a common solution to the problem of missing cutlery was delivered.

As Phillip diligently searched the back garden, he noticed a freshly dug patch of ground – maybe there was something nearby. But all he could see was a digging implement lying on the ground. Well, chuckled Phillip to himself, Douglas was wrong, spades with green handles and matt black blades must be very common, for here was another one!

As Phillip continued his search of the large garden, he noticed a shed across the other side to him. Just at that moment, he saw the door open, and a man emerged carrying an old, dusty and almost certainly moth-ridden carpet, rolled-up and over his shoulder. He was headed back to the house. He looked a rough type thought Phillip, dirty, bruised and covered in fresh, dark stains. Clearly the gardener.

Phillip waved. The man stopped, seemingly startled, and dropped the carpet. Phillip hoped the man might know something and started walking towards him, but the gardener looked this way and that, then grabbed a large haversack lying next to the shed, and ran off, jumping over the low fence on the far side of the garden. Well, he must have been late for something mused Phillip. Let’s take a look in that shed.

And there, on the bench was the missing knife. The gardener had clearly borrowed it to harvest some beetroot as its blade was red along with the well-worn handle. Phillip shook his head – this is too easy he thought and took the knife back to the kitchen. Being careful not to wake the sleeping butcher, he carefully cleaned the knife using soap and hot water till it was gleaming again, and then replaced it in the proper place and closed the drawer. 

With a happy smile on his face Phillip left the house, carefully and silently pulling the front door shut behind him, and then closing the rickety gate as he left the property, not noticing the number falling off as he did so. It fell into the mud upright. A number six.

Meanwhile, Mrs Ansty who lived a bit further up Tendril Drive – at number 9 – was slightly annoyed and also disappointed, where was the infernal man? How could she make tea or eat pudding without spoons?

Back at his desk, Philip put his feet up, took a glass out of a drawer and poured some potent looking liquid into it. A good day he thought. He would send a bill along to number 9 tomorrow. Case closed.

Hopeless inhabitants

Mermaid Tales

Leave a comment
Young Salamandra by Tom Brown.

The Mermaid Grandmother

Ancestry is very much part of the Hopeless Maine story. The Jones family claims to descend from pirates, while the Frog family show every sign of having originated in Innsmouth. The island celebrates its Founding Families. 

Unlike most of America, Hopeless was not occupied prior to the arrival of settlers from further afield. In local indigenous languages it is referred to as The Place We Go When We Are Young And Trying To Prove Something. There are four tribes associated with the Maine area and I’ve tried to be careful around both honouring their existence and not putting this story on to them. The island is a silly place to live, and local people know that. The founding had everything to do with white capitalist exploitation of resources, and since the resources went away, has mostly been populated by people from shipwrecks.

On her father’s side, Salamandra is descended from one of the founding families – The O’Stoats. This is a family with a long tradition of murder, and unpleasant occultism, often combined. Her father – Durosimi, is present in the graphic novels and you can find her paternal grandfather in New England Gothic. The grandmother on this side is a significant absence and I might seek out her story at some point.

Salamandra’s mother, Melisandra, is a bit of a psychopath and we also see her in the graphic novels. We meet Balthazar – Melisandra’s father, but her mother has also existed as a significant absence. I’d suspected for a while that she might be a mermaid.

This year we started looking at the mermaid grandmother in earnest. Her name is Alraune – which is German for mandrake. Dr Abbey named her as part of the project we’re working on together. So far, we have one image of her, although clearly there will be more, and it will be interesting to see more of her mermaid form as we progress. It’s also been interesting exploring the dynamics between three generations of magical women, none of whom really get on with each other.

Alraune by Dr Abbey
Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Trickster

Leave a comment

He (I will say ‘he’ for the sake of convenience) is as old as humankind itself. Every race and every culture have known his name, be it Raven, Loki, Robin Goodfellow, Anansi, or one of a thousand more. For he is legion. He is Trickster.

Trickster scowled, wrapped up in his own darkness. There was, he reflected, nothing that he could inflict upon this abysmal island to which it had not already subjected itself. Even the humans had weathered his pranks, with the stoicism of those already saturated in misery… well, maybe not quite all of the humans. The girl had been the exception. Killing herself was more than he had hoped for; the truth to tell, not what he had originally wanted. And as for that wretch, the one who called himself Linus Pinfarthing… he was glad to be rid of him, to slough off that particular meat-suit.

Too late had it occurred to Trickster that, when he first possessed the body and soul of Linus Pinfarthing, he had overlooked a tiny spark of humanity burning deep inside the young man. It was a spark that had lain dormant, failing to be kindled by mayhem or murder, only to be fanned into unexpected flame by love and loss.
From the moment that Linus had first set eyes upon Marjorie Toadsmoor, Trickster, as puppetmaster, decided that she was to be the one. She would be pursued, ensnared and totally, willingly, enslaved by him. Oh, it would have been such a delicious trick to have made this girl Queen of the Island and render every last, miserable inhabitant in thrall to her. What games he might have played.
It had started out well enough. As Linus he had courted her with grace and chivalry, creating an illusion that would not have shamed a May-day picnic on the banks of the Isis, flowing languidly beneath Oxford’s dreaming spires. It was a pity that the Bucket woman had to be there to chaperone them. Things might have been so different. True, Philomena Bucket was pretty enough, but not Trickster’s type; she was far too worldly-wise and knowing.

Those who have read the tale ‘Linus Pinfarthing’ may remember that Philomena and Marjorie awoke, confused, many hours after their luncheon date with Linus. They found themselves lying on the damp slopes of the Gydynap Hills, having no memory of the picnic, or how they had arrived there. Trickster, on the other hand, had used that time well, insinuating himself into Marjorie’s psyche. Little did she know it, but from the moment she awoke from that unnatural slumber, Marjorie would have no choice but to fall in love with Linus Pinfarthing.

The burden of being possessed invariably takes its toll upon body and soul, and Trickster was allowing the young man no rest. By night he stalked abroad, calling up storms and creating chaos and illusion, while during the day he continued to be the affable Linus, the young man adored by virtually everyone on Hopeless. He could frequently be seen walking arm in arm with a fawning Marjorie, the epitome of old-fashioned courtship. Trickster knew that he was burning Linus out; that no human being could live like this for very long.

If you are familiar with any of the various stories told of the Trickster, you will be aware that he frequently overplays his hand, resulting in his plans going awry; this tale is no exception.

Organising a drinking competition in The Crow had seemed like a really good idea at the time. It had to be in The Crow, of course. Trickster knew that, had it been held in The Squid and Teapot, Bartholomew Middlestreet would have kept a stern eye upon the proceedings and imposed his own tedious set of killjoy boundaries. In The Crow, however, anything goes, being a much less respectable establishment; a decidedly Tricksterish sort of place, in fact.
Anyone who was there, and in the unlikely event of their being able to remember quite how the evening unfolded, would tell you that it was raucous in the extreme. The competitors warmed to their task with a relish and enthusiasm rarely encountered on the island, and none more so than Linus Pinfarthing. With the powers of the Trickster flowing through his body he was confident of winning, and set a cracking pace, downing pint after lukewarm pint of the flat, uninspiring concoction that passed for beer in The Crow (so unlike the robust nectar that was ‘Old Colonel’, much beloved by patrons of The Squid).
The evening ended, as Trickster had planned, in bar-fights and violence, generously interspersed with various acts of theft, casual groping and general skulduggery. What was not planned, however, was for Linus to become so horribly drunk that Trickster was unable to control him, thereby allowing the spark of humanity, mentioned earlier, to flicker into dim life.

I have often thought that drunkenness brings out, and magnifies, a person’s true nature. The innately violent may become positively dangerous, while those with an overly amorous nature might be transformed into raging sex-maniacs… you get the idea. Whether I am right or wrong, an excess of alcohol revealed Linus Pinfarthing to be a hopeless romantic, simpering into his beer about the love of his life, the sweet and beautiful Marjorie Toadsmoor. Through his drunken haze, Linus realised that in order to win her – to win her properly, as himself – he needed to be free of Trickster’s power, and alcohol had, for the moment, allowed him that liberty. With this revelation, the little spark grew strong in Linus, and as it did so, Trickster knew that he had lost the young man forever.

As insubstantial now as the swirling fog that surrounded him, the old rogue consoled himself with the knowledge that there would always be others to possess, others to do his work. Oh yes… and also that he would make sure that the traitor, Linus Pinfarthing, would never know of love or contentment ever again.

(Editor’s Note – there may be some bias here, as the proprietors of The Crow, and its regular visitors consider it to be quite the superior eatery, while considering The Squid and Teapot to be a lowly dive.)

Island News

Once upon a Hopeless, Maine

2 Comments

Being some words from The Keith of Mystery

When is a children’s book, not a children’s book? Why, when it’s a Hopeless, Maine children’s book of course.

One of the things I love about the world of Hopeless, Maine is its dark sense of humour. To be honest, I am not a big fan of straight horror, but horror with a twisted sense of fun – yep – that will get me every time! And I love playing with genres, tropes, memes, and subverting people’s expectations – which is basically what the world of Hopeless, Maine does.

And it’s that world, along with its creators Tom & Nimue Brown, that I find endlessly inspiring – responsible for generating so many bonkers ideas in my brain – usually late at night, and sometimes after beer!

So at some point, I was playing around with these random ideas and it occurred to me that the very opposite of the dark, frightening world of Hopeless, Maine, would be a happy, cheery, children’s book.

And then I thought – but what would a Hopeless, Maine children’s book be like? Well, clearly not like any other children’s book, that’s for sure! The idea led to some words, and once I had the story, I felt that I had to realise it in print. Fortunately, when I told Tom and Nimue about it they loved it – I distinctly remember Nimue’s reaction to it, which was to tell me I have a wonderfully warped and twisted mind.

The concept required something new in the way of an illustrative style from Tom – but luckily, he has worked on children’s books before – so he had a style in mind – at least for the beginning of the book. And his drawing, along with Nimue’s colouring, are perfect – wonderfully sweet and darkly dangerous, all at the same time.

I can’t tell you much more – that would give away the plot! But expect a story that starts all nice and fluffy and gradually becomes darker and more demonic!

The book Once upon a Hopeless, Maine is available to order from our Tales of Hopeless, Maine store.

And here’s a little taste of what’s inside…

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

Mrs Beaten’s Cold Hands

Leave a comment

Mrs Beaten’s hands are very cold as she touches your face. It is dark, but you know it is her, those chilled fingertips are distinctive.

You are not sure why she is in your house, much less why she is in your bedroom, touching your face. You breathe slowly, keeping still in case she believes you to be asleep. You have an odd feeling that perhaps this is how she would touch you if she believed you to be dead.

Those cold, cold hands, so light and deft on your skin. As though she is searching for something. Signs of life? Or the absence of signs of life?

You are barely breathing at all now.

What would she do if she assumed you to be dead? Where would those questing fingers go? What might she want from you, in the darkness and the silence?

Your heart seems unnaturally slow. You can hear the faint rustle of her dress as she moves. It is also possible to hear the glide of her fingertips over the bones in your face. Her hands are on your throat now. Can she feel your pulse? Fingertips glide towards your chest and you think if she reaches your heart, that will be the end. All beating will cease.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The White Hare

Leave a comment

The close bond between Philomena Bucket and Drury, the skeletal hound, is surprising, given the manner of their meeting. Regular readers will recall that this was mentioned in the tale ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightdress’, when Drury introduced himself to Philomena by attempting to steal a particularly attractive, and somewhat robust, full-length Victorian Nightdress from her washing basket. Despite this awkward start to their relationship, the pair became great friends and could frequently be seen together, walking on the Gydynap Hills.
Another resident of the island who has taken more than a passing interest in Philomena is Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man. When she first arrived on Hopeless, Philomena was suffering from anosmia (or so Doc Willoughby announced. Most of us would just say that she had lost her sense of smell.) This was brought on by her inhaling cotton pollen while stowing-away aboard the merchant ship, ‘Hetty Pegler’. When the Night-Soil Man saved her life, she promptly fell in love with him, being shielded from his noxious stench by her temporary affliction. The full account can be found in the tale ‘Scents and Sensibility’, but it is sufficient to say that a promising love affair was brought to a tragically abrupt close when her nasal passages were cleared and normal service resumed. Despite this, the two have always carried a torch for each other, albeit from a distance.
During those times when Philomena was rash enough to venture abroad during the hours of darkness, one can guarantee that Drury would be rattling along by her side and, from somewhere safely downwind, Rhys Cranham could be found, keeping a watchful eye upon her.

It was on such an occasion that our tale begins. Philomena, having finished her work at The Squid and Teapot, desperately needed to get outside. The Squid had been unusually crowded and rowdy that evening, upsetting Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless White Lady who haunted the inn’s flushing privy. Lady Margaret tended to regard full-moon nights as her own, and the constant to-ing and fro-ing in and out of her domain had put her quite out of sorts. As much as Philomena liked the White Lady, she had no desire to spend half the night listening to the ghost complaining at length about the Squid’s patrons, and how standards had dropped over the last century. With escape in mind, Philomena had set off towards her beloved Gydynaps, with Drury happily capering by her side. A full moon was riding high in the sky and battling, with some success, to shine her pale beams through the fogs which habitually swathed the island. Somewhere overhead the spectral Mild Hunt could be heard clattering clumsily and noisily through the heavens. The wraiths of the six maiden-ladies, eternally doomed to hunt for some lost pamphlets (as told in the tale ‘Ghost Writers in the Sky’) were always careful to avoid landing anywhere near Drury. Experience had taught them that the osseous hound delighted in harassing their spaniels and exacerbating the irritable bowel syndrome of their famously flatulent mules.
“Blasted ghosts!” thought Philomena. “You don’t get a minute of peace from them when the moon is full.”
It was at that point that she spotted, what she at first believed to be, another apparition on the path before her. Drury saw it too, and if he had been in receipt of hackles, like a living dog, they would have risen.
The creature in front of them was a hare. She sat as motionless as a statue, and glimmering pure white in the moonlight. The barmaid had been on Hopeless for long enough to know that this was no ordinary hare; conventional animals who might find themselves washed up on the island did not stay conventional for long. Tentacles, scales and various novel appendages would generally replace their distinguishing attributes, that is, if they survived long enough for such a metamorphosis to take place.
The white hare gracing the pathway was majestic. There was something otherworldly, magical, even, about her, over which the awful, transforming curse of Hopeless, could have no command. Philomena racked her brains, trying to recall the legends she had heard regarding such creatures, but they all alluded her.

From his vantage point on the rocks, Rhys Cranham could see the hare as well. Being a Hopelessian, born and raised, he had never beheld such a beast, but something deep within his heart was moved by the animal’s poise and quiet dignity. He was surprised that Drury was apparently making no attempt to chase her.

Philomena and Drury watched the white hare for some time. Like Rhys, she had expected Drury to chase her away, but the dog was content to sit quietly by Philomena’s side. It was only when the moon slipped behind the clouds that the spell was broken and the hare vanished into the night.

If you have been following these tales in recent editions of ‘The Vendetta’, you may be forgiven for thinking that this is no more than another prank by the wily Trickster who called himself Linus Pinfarthing. Indeed, traditionally the shape of a hare is one of the Trickster’s preferred disguises. But Linus was in no condition to trick anyone at that precise moment, lying drunk, as he was, on his unmade bed.

Philomena made her way back to The Squid and Teapot, totally unaware of the Night-Soil Man’s protective presence some way behind her. She felt excited and could hardly wait until morning to tell the Middlestreets, and her good friend Marjorie Toadsmoor, all about the vision of the beautiful white hare. On reaching The Squid, however, she was surprised to find lights shining in some of the windows. Normally, at this hour, the inn would be in darkness.
She was met at the door by an ashen-faced Ariadne Middlestreet.
“Oh Philomena…” was all that she said, before falling into her friend’s arms, weeping.
“Whatever is it Ariadne? Tell me.”
Philomena feared that something awful had befallen Bartholomew, but then the landlord of the inn appeared in the doorway. He looked haggard and drawn.
Tenderly he wrapped his arms around both women.
“It’s Marjorie,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “Linus was in a terrible state. He said that he found her lying on the rocks. She’s dead Philomena. Drowned.”
Drury raised his bony face to the moon and howled.

Hopeless inhabitants

Jellyfish women

Leave a comment

Jellyfish women grow from the head down. These creatures begin life as regular jellyfish, with eggs growing into larvae that swim about for a bit and eventually find something to attach themselves to. They feed and grow as anonymous looking tentacled things. These eventually tuck their tentacles in and become small sea creatures. Feeding continues. Feeding and growing. So much feeding. Eventually the jellyfish bell and tentacles start to develop. And sometimes, the bell has a face.

Why certain jellyfish develop human-seeming faces is a bit of a mystery. If the jellyfish survives, it will continue to feed and grow – specifically growing downwards until it takes the form of an adult human female – often wearing a large and elaborate dress. This is clearly because the jellyfish woman incorporates the bell tent of the regular jellyfish form. It may just be an uneasy coincidence that this form exists.

When the jellyfish woman has feet, she finds a location where the depth is just right, and attaches herself to the sea floor again. Once this has been achieved, a jellyfish woman can in theory live forever. The sea depth is vitally important – no more than the head and shoulders of the jellyfish woman should be exposed by low tide. However, it is vital that the head at least is exposed as this is key to how the adult jellyfish woman feeds.

The ability of jellyfish women to learn and deploy human speech is another of their many mysteries. It is theorised that they are psychic and either draw the language from the head of a potential victim in order to speak, or project their words into the human mind. 

The jellyfish woman will use either seduction to lure a victim, or will try to persuade them that she is a normal human at risk of drowning. Once the victim enters the water, the jellyfish woman uses the poison in her tentacles to further entrap her prey. She consumes small amount of blood, but her poison is addictive and causes victims to voluntarily return, craving fresh hits. Feeding over an extended period, coupled with the impact of the poison, will kill the victim.

Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Snow

Leave a comment

A tale from The Squid and Teapot

As most will have gathered by now, Hopeless, Maine is not renowned for its good weather. For much of the year it can be challenging for residents to ascertain exactly which season they might be currently enjoying. Fog-bound, gale-swept winters drift into equally inclement springs, summers and falls, without missing a beat. Sometimes the fog has been known to relent and generously become no more than a semi-opaque sea-mist. While such interludes can never be called halcyon days, they are treasured. In fact, any weather pattern in which fog plays only a secondary role is a welcome distraction. So, when one morning the island woke up to a blanket of snow, the wonder and excitement of many of the islanders knew no bounds.
Being an island, lashed by waves and salt-laden air, the incidence of snow on Hopeless is rare. What makes this particular snowfall even more remarkable, however, is that occurred in mid-August.

Bartholomew Middlestreet stood upon the doorstep of The Squid and Teapot and scratched his head in amazement. The last time that it had snowed was on New Year’s Eve. That was unusual in itself, but its memory had lodged in Bartholomew’s mind for another reason. That had been the night of the bar-fight in The Squid, and he had watched a stranger to the island, the instigator of the brawl, walk out into the snow and not leave any trace of a footprint. Hopeless was an odd island, to be sure, he thought, but lately it had become downright peculiar.

The landlord’s definition of ‘peculiar’ might have been revised several degrees along the scale, had he been with Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, a few hours earlier. Although used to the various horrors who called the island home (if ‘home’ is not too cosy a term for the living nightmares within which most of them dwelt), Rhys particularly disliked Creepy Hollow. The place, in itself, was not awful. It was the possibility of running into the wraith of The Eggless Norseman, Lars Pedersen, that worried Rhys. As ghosts go, the old Viking was harmless enough, but his mad, glaring eyes and gaunt form, little more these days than fading tatters of protoplasm, gave Rhys bad dreams. However, his work had to be done, and every few weeks the residents of Creepy Hollow required his services.
The unseasonal fall of snow had surprised Rhys, but it provided a certain amount of welcome illumination. While used to wandering around in darkness, the Night-Soil Man was grateful that the extra light helped to speed him along.
Intent on getting his Creepy Hollow duties out of the way, Rhys failed to see the lone figure standing in the clearing until he was almost upon it. The thought occurred to him that several things about the tableau made little sense. Usually, his proximity to most other life-forms would cause a certain amount of gagging and nose-holding, but the person in front of him did neither; indeed, it was as if the Night-Soil Man was invisible. Stranger still was the fact that there were no footprints in the snow, other than his own.
Rhys stood perfectly still and watched the figure, which he assumed to be that of a man, standing with arms raised, beckoning skywards with his fingers, as if willing the snow to fall. Seconds, or maybe minutes passed – Rhys had no way of telling – then, with his arms still outstretched, the mysterious stranger began chanting and rocking gently to the rhythm of his own song. Occasionally he would stamp one foot upon the ground. Gradually his movements became more fluid and dance-like. With his back arched and knees bent, he began to turn, and as he turned, so the snowflakes swirled around him. Faster and faster he went until he was little more than a blur within the blizzard that raged around his spinning form. By now Rhys was crouched in the shelter of the trees, his hat pulled down low, and his jacket wrapped tightly around him, and barely able to accept the evidence of his eyes, which were growing heavy. He was becoming lost in the mesmeric thrall of the storm, which raged and howled like a pack of hungry wolves (although Rhys had no way of knowing this, never having seen or heard a wolf in his life). Human shapes and nameless creatures could be seen flickering within the churning tempest, capering and writhing around the dancer, who by now, was almost invisible. Then, as if switched off by some unseen hand, the blizzard abruptly died, and all was still. Nothing was left to be seen but an expanse of snow, unruffled except for the Night-Soil Man’s own footprints.

That night, in the bar of The Squid and Teapot, the talk was all about the freak snowstorm that had swept the island that morning. Not the slightest pile of slush or tiniest sliver of ice now remained, but that did nothing to ease the speculation, oiled as it was by copious pints of ‘Old Colonel’ and shots of the best spirits that the Gannicox Distillery could provide. The unseasonal weather had been blamed upon everything from the Kraken feeling out of sorts, to Les Demoiselles, the French Can-Can troupe, inadvertently doing some manner of rain dance, which had turned to snow.
“It’s a warning to us all. The lewd and sinful dancing that those French girls brought to the island will be our ruin,” mused Seth Washpool, adding, “or so Reverend Davies reckons.”
“There’s nothing wrong with them girls. That man thinks everything is a warning,” said Philomena Bucket impatiently, having little time for the clergy of any denomination.
“Well, whatever the cause, I can’t recall seeing anything like it before,” said Norbert Gannicox, “and never heard tell of such a thing, either.”
Bartholomew Middlestreet kept his own counsel. He had his own suspicions who, or what, might have been responsible.
“You must admit that strange things happen here all the while,” opined Linus Pinfathing. “Hopeless is a weird place on the best of days.”
Some of the others nodded sagely.
A small smile played upon Linus’ lips, as he could not help but add,
“And we certainly seem to be living in Trickster times.”
No one noticed Bartholomew’s glare at these words. He did not like, or trust, Linus.
“We certainly are,” he thought to himself . “We certainly are.”

Hopeless

A future Salamandra

1 Comment

In the summer of 2020, Dr Abbey started drawing Salamandra with green hair. I knew as soon as I saw these interpretations that there was no way Salamandra could have green hair during the graphics novel arc we have planned. Life is dour on Hopeless, colours are muted, and Salamandra has her attention focused on less-fun things.

I wrote the first draft of the graphic novels more than ten years ago. Since then there have been stories set before and during that time frame. Nothing had previously turned up that belonged after the graphic novels.

One of the things that happens with the island, is that pieces of the story turn up all over the place. They don’t come to me – we’ve got a hugely important story from Merry Debonnaire in the next graphic novel. Hopeless is strange and magical in its own ways, and sometimes it happens to people.

I looked at green haired Salamandra and realised that Dr Abbey could see something of what might come next. So earlier this year I sat him down and started asking about that. He had a lot to tell me!

I’ve been in the exciting process of developing those storylines for some months now. It will be a while before any of it makes it out into the world, but I can confirm that while there are two more graphic novels to come out, the story continues beyond the graphic novel arc.

We have to stop doing graphic novels because they are so labour intensive. We’re going to move into illustrated fiction and maybe poke about in light novel form hereafter, because that will be much more sustainable for us. There are some huge changes on the island by the end of the graphic novels. I feel very comfortable making it obvious that Salamandra survives because I am never going to write a story in which the magical girl does not get to grow up and live long and well.

(Green haired Sal by Dr Abbey)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Trapper

1 Comment

A Tale from The Squid and Teapot

Squid and Teapot also by Martin Pearson

“Hey fella. What’s this critter called?”
Linus Pinfarthing stopped in his tracks and turned around slowly. Only one quizzically raised, and somewhat affronted, eyebrow betrayed his annoyance.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said what’s this critter called. Ain’t seen nothin’ like these things before.”
The newcomer, who was dressed in furs and buckskin, was holding up a cage in which an angry spoonwalker tottered around helplessly.
“That sir is a spoonwalker. How did he get to be in there?”
If the other man noticed the ice in Linus’ voice, he chose to ignore it.
“Well, I lured him there. Got me a few more, back in the cave.”
“Indeed? And you are…?”
“Zeke Tyndale, trapper and fur trader. Please to meet you mister.”
Tyndale offered his free hand which Linus reluctantly grasped. He held it for a few seconds, as if deciding whether to shake or no.
For reasons he could not explain, Tyndale shuddered, feeling as if his soul was being laid bare. Then Linus smiled, shook the proffered hand warmly, and said,
“Linus Pinfarthing at your service, sir. My dear fellow, I would love to see the rest of your collection.”
“Happy to,” said Tyndale. “Follow me.”

As the two men walked, Tyndale surprised himself by blurting out his life story to his new companion. He told how he had been a successful trapper, and had plied his trade right across the continent. Upon a whim he decided to try his luck in the far north-east, where, he was assured, he would find plenty of pelts, just waiting to be caught. Unfortunately, his small boat had run aground upon the rocks around Hopeless. Being a practical man, he had set up camp and decided to see if there was any game worth trapping on the island.
“Lucky I’ve still got all my traps and snares,” he confided, “but I ain’t seen nothin’ worth skinnin’ yet, ‘cept some things that look like cats…”
“That would be Dust Cats. You would do well to avoid them,” said Linus gravely. “Besides which, you would never catch one.”
“That sounds like a challenge to me,” laughed Tyndale.

The trapper’s camp was surprisingly orderly, all things considered. He had salvaged the contents of his boat and stacked them neatly against a rock, covering everything with a badly stained tarpaulin. A circular fire-pit sat in front of the mouth of the small cave, which currently served as Tyndale’s temporary abode.
“Home sweet home,” he said, gesturing for Linus to sit on a nearby rock. “Coffee?”
“No thank you,” said Linus, ignoring the invitation to sit. “I am most keen, however, to see your little collection of spoonwalkers.”
Tyndale beamed, happy to display his prowess as a trapper, and strode into the cave, beckoning for Linus to follow.

The cave was small, barely half-a-dozen paces from side to side, and illuminated by the glow of a single hurricane lamp. Tyndale’s bedding lay in an untidy heap.
He carried the cage, and its irate occupant, over to the far corner, where Linus could see, in the dim light, several similar traps, each holding a dejected spoonwalker.

“These critters are goin’ to make my fortune,” declared the trapper proudly. “When I get off this island, I’ll take them to New York. Folks there have never seen nothin’ like these. They’ll give me a blank cheque to get their hands on them. Then no more trappin’ for me. I’m going to be a millionaire!”
“And how do the spoonwalkers feel about this?” asked Linus.
“Why, they’ll be fine and dandy about it, I reckon,” Tyndale guffawed.
Linus sighed.
“Do you know, Mr Tyndale…”
“Call me Zeke.”
“… Mr Tyndale, there are few things more disgusting to me than to see a creature – even creatures such as these – caged for the pleasure and greed of thoughtless humans.”
“Well, that’s as maybe, Mr Pinfarthin’,” said Tyndale brusquely, “but trappin’ is my trade and what I can’t skin I’ll damn’ well sell… and believe me, these little guys will sell on the mainland, no problem.”
“I think not, Mr Tyndale. Maybe you should be caged instead. Or would you prefer to be skinned?”
Linus unlatched the cages and watched the spoonwalkers scuttle away on their cutlery stilts.
“Now you look here, young fella…”
“Young fellow? No, you look, Mr Tyndale…”
Suddenly, the light of the hurricane lamp was dimmed as the cave filled with a swirling, smoke-like dark mist, which seemed to emanate from the body of Linus Pinfarthing. His form was changing, and the affable young man who had walked into the cave had lost all substance. Tyndale cringed as the space was filled with nightmare visions of blood and sacrifice, through which he occasionally glimpsed animal and bird forms. Then, as swiftly as the mist had formed, it dispelled. Pinfarthing was gone. The trapper stood up, wondering what had happened, convinced he had been hallucinating.
Then he saw the hare.
It was sitting in the mouth of the cave, motionless, and looking straight at him. Now, here was a meal and a pelt he could not refuse.
Stealthily, he unhitched his hunting knife from its sheath, never taking his eyes from the hare. Just one throw is all that it would take…
“I gave you a chance,” said the Hare in a voice as deep and dark as the earth itself. “I gave you the opportunity to change your ways.”
Then the hare stretched and grew, and with growing, altered his shape into that of a coyote.
“Do you not know me, even now?” asked Coyote, shaking himself.
By now Tyndale was on his knees, trembling, as he watched Coyote turn black, and shrink once more, growing the feathers and wings of a great raven that tossed its head, and held the orb of the sun within its beak. It was a light that grew in intensity, almost blinding the trapper. Then, in the fierce unearthly glow, it seemed that all three beasts were there before him.
“Fear us now,” chorused the voices of Hare, Coyote and Raven. “We are The Trickster. We are The Guizer. We are The Eldest. We are The First and The Last.”
Tyndale screamed and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, hoping the three would be gone when he opened them again. Seconds passed like hours, or maybe they were hours.
Squatting on the floor of the cave, gibbering and shuddering, he heard the ominous rustle of wings, the padding of light feet on stone and the distant howl of a prairie wolf. He knew that there were no wolves on this island. What was happening to him? Tyndale opened his eyes once more. He was alone, and all of his world, and everything he would ever again know, was held within the cave.

“It’s beyond even my knowledge,” said Doc Willoughby, modestly. “I have never seen anything like this.”
Linus Pinfarthing looked on sympathetically.
“The poor fellow must have suffered some great trauma,” he opined. “You could almost believe he was somehow caged inside himself.”
“Yes, I agree,” said the Doc, nodding. “You may have something there, Linus.”
No one knew exactly how long the wretched figure had been sitting, rocking and whispering to himself in that cave. It was fortunate that Linus had happened upon him a few days earlier. They had tried to leave food and drink, but he appeared to want neither. He was existing on nothing but air, it seemed.

Zeke Tyndale looked through the bars of his cage and saw the thousands of creatures that he had trapped and slaughtered in his lifetime. They clamoured to break the bars down, to drag him away and rip him to pieces. He wished that they would, for death would be a welcome respite. However, Hare, Coyote and Raven, who guarded him day and night, had other plans. He knew that it was their intention that he would live, trapped in this cage for as long as it pleased them, and that would be a long, long time.