A wall, are there. Like Black Cat by A. E. Poe. She was inside. (Dr Abbey)
I’ve always wondered about the way old houses fall down once no one is in them. As though it is the faith of the inhabitants holding the walls up. If no one believes that these stones are a house, then the walls also forget, and crumble.
It is normal to put something in the walls, to help a building stand tall. I don’t know why old shoes are popular – perhaps simply because they are easy to come by. Sometimes when old walls tumble, they reveal bones – cats or dogs most often. I like to think these were beloved pets who died of old age and were kept in the walls to be part of the home forever. Not bloody sacrifices slaughtered in barbaric rituals.
There are stories about someone who knew someone who found the bones of a child in the walls. Perhaps these are just stories, or mistakes made with dog bones, It would be fair to say that on this island, unwanted children are as easy to come by as worn out shoes. Easier perhaps, for you have to feed children, whereas worn out shoes can be repurposed in all kinds of ways.
I am not sure how a dead child would help secure the walls. However, who amongst us has not made sacrifices of one sort or another, hoping to appease the nameless, faceless forces that hold sway over our lives?
She was in the walls.
(Story concept and art by Dr Abbey, text by Nimue.)
Unbelievably, a whole year has passed since Rhys Cranham gave up the role of Night-Soil Man, in order to marry the love of his life, Philomena Bucket. It was also at this time that the pair took over the running of The Squid and Teapot, following the retirement of Bartholomew and Ariadne Middlestreet. Much has happened during those twelve months, not least that Rhys and Philomena became the adopted parents of two small children, both of whom arrived on Hopeless under mysterious circumstances.
“You could be forgiven for thinking that they really are brother and sister, they are so alike,” said a beaming Reggie Upton, watching Caitlin and Oswald playing happily together.
“You could,” conceded Philomena Bucket, “but they don’t speak the same language – although they manage to communicate somehow, so neither seems to care.”
Reggie looked at her quizzically.
“I realised that Caitlin was speaking Old Irish from her first day with us,” went on Philomena. “Sadly, that’s gradually disappearing as her English improves. But as for Oswald, I have no idea where he’s from.”
“The few words that I’ve heard him say sound very faintly Scandinavian,” said Reggie, “but I couldn’t swear to it.”
Philomena nodded.
“Hmm… that. could be,” she agreed, “but the trouble with this island is that it brings in people from any point in the past. You and I know that all too well.”
It was true. Reggie was on the wrong side of sixty, and had been born in the middle of the nineteenth century. Philomena, on the other hand, was just thirty years old, but came into this world in the same year as Reggie’s great-grandmother.
“It’s dashed confusing,” said Reggie. “What you’re saying is that young Oswald could have been born anytime during the last two thousand years.”
“If not earlier,” said Philomena.
Oswald, you will remember, was found abandoned on the beach and deposited into the care of the Pallid Rock Orphanage. It took little persuasion for Rhys and Philomena to adopt him, so along with Caitlin, Reggie Upton and the Buddhist monk, Tenzin, young Oswald brought the number of permanent residents living in The Squid and Teapot to a grand total of six. (Note the word ‘living’; this does not include the inn’s two ghosts – Father Ignatius Stamage and Lady Margaret D’Avening – nor, of course, Drury, the skeletal hound).
This might sound like something of a houseful, but remember, with the exception of the orphanage, The Squid and Teapot is possibly the largest building on the island (unless you count the lighthouse, which has a definite vertical advantage). The inn has a number of guest rooms, which are never fully occupied, plus several attics and a spacious cellar, so there is plenty of room for all. However, despite having this generous space, Philomena decided that Caitlin and Oswald could keep each other company by sharing a bedroom.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” said a perplexed Philomena, later that day. “When I go in to tidy up the children’s room, Caitlin’s bed is unmade, and her toys and clothes are all over the floor.”
“There’s nothing new in that,” laughed Rhys. “She’s only two, after all.”
“I know,” replied his wife, “but since his very first night with us, Oswald’s side of the room is spotless. His toys are put away, his clothes are neatly folded and his bed is made. I don’t understand it.”
“Maybe he’s just naturally tidy,” said Rhys, doubtfully.
Philomena rolled her eyes.
“I don’t think so. There’s something funny going on here. I’m going to stay in there tonight, and get to the bottom of it.”
“Remind me to fill a hot water bottle for myself,” muttered Rhys, glumly.
Philomena had been sitting in the corner of the children’s bedroom for hours, determined not to fall asleep. Just when she thought that she would have to give up, and rest her eyes, the door was pushed open and a diminutive figure crept into the room. He was no more than a foot high and sported a red cap and a long grey beard. Philomena watched, astonished, as the little man immediately began to busy himself, tidying up Oswald’s toys and clothing, but steadfastly ignoring Caitlin’s muddles. She was transfixed, hardly daring to breathe, and stayed perfectly still while he completed his work, which took no more than a few minutes.
The following morning, between yawns, she related the incident to Rhys.
“You’ve seen the Tomte,” he said. “You must remember him – he was the guardian of Sven Blomqvist’s old house, or he was until the Middlestreets moved in.”
“That would explain a lot,” said Philomena. “As I recall our Tomte has some controversial views regarding the people he looks after.”
“Ah, yes,” said Rhys.”He deserted the Middlestreets because they weren’t sufficiently Swedish… which can only mean, I guess, that Oswald must be.”
“So what shall we do about this Tomte fellow?” asked Philomena.
“Now that he’s moved in, we’ll need to make sure that he’s fed regularly,” said Rhys, “or all hell could break loose. As I understand it, a Tomte can be excellent as a friend, but really vindictive if you upset them.”
“We’ll see about that!” exclaimed Philomena. “If we’re lumbered with feeding him, he’s going to have to earn every mouthful, and that includes helping everyone in the house who doesn’t happen to be Swedish. Old Mr Tomte and I are going to have a little talk!”
Author’s note:
The Tomte is a gnome-like creature and considered to be a house guardian in Swedish folklore, asking only for a simple bowl of porridge in return for his labours.
In the last few days there have been multiple reports of Hernessa sightings in the woods to the south of the Gyddynap Hills. Several paths now have warning skulls placed clearly upon them. If you see a skull in your path it is strongly recommended that you turn around and go back to wherever you came from.
Hernessa has not been seen for some years, and like most of our active, dangerous folklore, is much debated as an issue. As a longstanding commentator on island issues I am confident that this entity truly exists, unlike The Tablecloth Man and Twitching Bob for whom no actual evidence has evern been found. Whether Hernessa is a non-human entity, or some role or curse passed down from one human generation to the next is unclear.
Hernessa protects the wild places, and is most particularly involved with small furry creatures that squeak. I’ve been trying to persuade people for some years now that it would be more accurate to describe them as murder shrews, but we still seem to be using the long name. Small furry creatures that squeak are fairly harmless on their own, but at certain times amass into large hunting packs. Hernessa’s role in this is unclear, but Hernessa sightings generally tally with evidence of murder shrew hunting packs.
For the time being, stay out of the woods. Stay out of the woods more than you were doing a few weeks ago when we had sightings of The Little Drummer Boy. Really, really stay out of the woods.
I know there are rumours that it is in in fact Steven C Davis who has summoned Hernessa, and it certainly wouldn’t be out of character for him to try. I remain unconvinced that summoning terrifying elder gods is a good answer to the problems caused by the presence of other terrifying elder gods, but no one ever listens to me when it comes to matters of religion, or science, or folklore. I do sometimes wonder why I keep trying to write informative pieces that may save lives. It is the triumph of hope over experience, certainly.
Those you who know the tales told at The Squid and Teapot. will be aware of the legend of the little drummer boy. He’s often appeared as a harbinger of death, or perhaps trying to warn islanders away from dangers hidden in the fog. If you hear his drumming, then you should either follow him to safety, or haste away to safety. None of us know which choice is more likely to prove fatal as reports are awkwardly mixed.
If you hear drums at night, we can now report that you might not be hearing the little drummer boy at all. It might possibly be Steven, who is of perfectly average height and could not, even in a bad light, be mistaken for a child. He does however have a drum. According to Steven, he is using the drum to ‘stop them coming out of the trees.’ He has refused to elaborate on this statement.
The best advice this reporter can offer you is to stay away from the woods at night – which you were almost certainly doing anyway. There is a plentiful supply of eldritch horrors in the trees. Whether any of them are inclined to emerge, or are attracted or repelled by drumming has yet to be established.
You may remember that an elderly and enigmatic resident of Hopeless, Herr Schicklegruber, disappeared under mysterious circumstances on December the fifth, a date which is not only St. Nicholas Eve, but also known as Krampusnacht (see the tale of that name). It is generally believed that Herr Schicklegruber was spirited away by Krampus, which is odd for two reasons: Firstly, the Krampus of legend usually focuses his dark attentions upon misbehaving children and, secondly, although the island is ripe with monsters of all descriptions, as far as anyone knows, this particular Christmas terror has never before been seen on Hopeless.
It has been speculated that Herr Schicklegruber, an Austrian gentleman, had somehow brought Krampus from his distant homeland, as part of his luggage, as it were. This is not beyond the realms of possibility, as the author Mr Neil Gaiman has so ably posited in his novel, ‘American Gods’.
I only mention this, as Rhys Cranham and Reggie Upton recently encountered a strange character who, it seems, came to the island under similar circumstances… but I am jumping ahead.
Regular readers will be aware that, at long last, Philomena Bucket is to marry Rhys Cranham, who will shortly be relinquishing his job as the island’s Night-Soil Man. This is only the second time in the history of Hopeless, Maine, that a Night-Soil Man has retired from his post, the first to do so being Randall Middlestreet, grandfather of the current Landlord of The Squid and Teapot, Bartholomew Middlestreet.
Having lived in The Squid and Teapot ever since her arrival on the island several years earlier, it seemed obvious to Philomena that the time had come to move on, and that she and Rhys should start their married life in their own home. This came as something of a shock to the Middlestreets, and the other resident, Reggie Upton, who expected the newlyweds to live at the inn. Philomena, however, was adamant, but promised that this was to be the only change; she would continue to act as cleaner, cook and barmaid at The Squid for as long as she was able.
“As long as you’re able?” asked Bartholomew, puzzled. “What does that mean?”
A flush came to Philomena’s pale cheeks.
“Well… you never know…” she said, not meeting his eye.
Bartholomew’s wife, Ariadne, gave her a knowing smile.
“If it should be that you cannot help us, be assured, we will certainly help you,” she said.
Bartholomew shook his head in bafflement. These women were talking in riddles as far as he was concerned.
“And when you move away,” he asked, trying to get back on to firmer ground. “Do you have anywhere in mind where you would like to live?”
“There’s an empty cottage out towards Scilly Point,” Philomena said. “No one has lived there for ages. I thought that we might go there.”
“Sven Blomqvist’s old home?” said Ariadne. “He died years ago. Long before you arrived here. It must be a damp and dusty old place after all of this time.”
“That can soon be put right,” Philomena said, confidently. “I haven’t actually been inside yet, but a bit of elbow-grease and a few fires and we’ll soon have it looking homely. In fact, I intend making a start before Rhys gives up his job next week. I want it looking nice for him.”
“I can help you,” said Ariadne, “and I am sure that Reggie will be more than happy to lend Bartholomew a hand while we’re away.”
The following morning the two women walked the half-mile or so to Scilly Point, armed with cleaning cloths and brushes, intent on bringing the abandoned cottage back to somewhere fit for human habitation. When they arrived there, and pushed open the front door, each was suddenly grasped by a feeling of trepidation, and looked anxiously inside.
The scene before them was not what either had expected.
“I think that I have made a mistake,” said Philomena. “Someone obviously lives here. Someone a darn sight tidier than me, too!”
The little parlour was scrupulously clean. Not a speck of dust or strand of cobweb could be seen.
“You don’t think that Mrs Beaton has moved in?” said Ariadne, worriedly. “I imagine that this is how her place must look.”
Philomena shuddered.
“If she has, I don’t want her finding us here… oh, but look… “
She pointed to a small bookcase.
“These books… they’re all in some foreign language,” she said.
“It’s probably Swedish,” said Ariadne, pointing to a map hanging on the wall, which proclaimed itself to be an accurate, if somewhat elderly, representation of Sweden.
“Mrs Beaton is definitely not Swedish,” said Philomena. “I don’t know anyone on the island who is, either.”
“Mr Blomqvist was,” said Ariadne.
That evening, when Rhys Cranham left his cottage to go to the bunkhouse and rouse his apprentice, Winston Oldspot, he noticed a letter pinned to his front door. In the light of his candle lantern he could just make out his name, written in a familiar hand, which made him smile. It was a note from Philomena. He took the paper to read indoors, where there was more light.
A knock came on the door.
“Are you ready, boss?”
It was Winston.
“Um… yes. Are you happy to go down to service the houses at Tragedy Creek? I’ve got something to do over at Scilly Point. I’ll meet up with you later.”
Winston nodded, and left. He was a lad of few words, which was a common trait in Night-Soil Men.
Rhys had barely walked a dozen yards when Reggie Upton slipped out of the shadows. Rhys could have guessed that Philomena would have sent his old friend as moral support.
“Philomena told me about the Blomqvist house,” said Reggie. “It’s all very rum. Apparently the old chap’s been dead for years and his place looks like a palace.”
“Yes, she wrote to me. She thinks someone is living there,” said Rhys.
“I know,” said Reggie. “Then she felt guilty, worried that you’d be confronting heaven knows what. That’s why she asked me to join you.”
Rhys grinned as the old soldier brandished his sword stick menacingly.
The two men had only been standing under the trees for a few minutes when they heard signs of movement around the cottage; it was the unmistakable scrape of a tin bucket, and something being dragged over the cobbled pathway. Then, like something out of a child’s picture-book, a tiny man appeared around the corner, pulling a sack behind him. He was no more than a foot high. He was colourfully dressed, with a loose red cap covering his head, and a long grey beard that reached down to his belt.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie. “What the devil is that?”
“More of a who than a what,” corrected Rhys. “That little fellow is some sort of elf, and is the one responsible for the housework.”
“You honestly think that he’s an elf?” Reggie sounded incredulous. “They don’t exist – they’re the stuff of fairy tales.”
Rhys gave Reggie a long, hard stare.
“You have come to an island where werewolves, shapeshifters and all manner of night-creatures are commonplace, strange little critters totter about, using stolen cutlery for stilts, and you live in an inn where two of your fellow residents are ghosts. How is it that you can’t bring yourself to believe in elves?”
For once in his life Reggie had no answer, all he could say was,
“I’d better report back to Philomena.”
As is so often the case, the answer was discovered in one of the many encyclopaedias littering the attics of The Squid and Teapot.
“The creature is called a Tomte, apparently,” said Reggie, thumbing through a dusty old tome. “Some sort of Swedish gnome, by all accounts. Old Blomqvist must have brought him over in his luggage. It says here that as long as you leave food out for him, he’ll continue to help. The downside is, if he isn’t fed, then he will cause all sorts of trouble for you.”
“Marvellous!” exclaimed Philomena, with a frown. “An angry gnome is all that I need at the moment.”
“Well, he didn’t look as though he’s starving,” said Reggie. “So someone must be leaving food for him – and I have a suspicion that Rhys knows more than he’s saying.”
It was another of those bitterly cold November nights on the island of Hopeless, Maine; its only saving grace was that the cruel, blustery wind that had been raging for days was keeping the rain at bay.
The ferocity of the wind had even kept the regular patrons of The Squid and Teapot away from the inn, leaving only those who lived within its walls to enjoy the quiet camaraderie of the snuggery. There, Bartholomew Middlestreet and his wife, Ariadne, sat enjoying some slightly tipsy conversation with Philomena Bucket and Reggie Upton. Drury, the skeletal hound, slumbered contentedly before a flickering log fire that bathed the room in a rich chiaroscuro wash, rendering the little gathering into a study by Caravaggio.
“Dashed weather,” complained Reggie. “Is this blasted wind ever going to stop? I haven’t been out for a stroll for ages.”
“Moan all you will, but it’s an improvement on last November, “said Philomena. “Do you remember, Ariadne?”
The landlord’s wife nodded.
“We had so much rain that it flooded one of the privies at the orphanage, and brought down the wall,” she said. “It couldn’t be mended until the rain stopped. I remember Reverend Davies commenting that it was hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain.”
Philomena scowled.
“The miserable old so-and-so had the gall to blame me for the weather. He said it was divine retribution for bringing Dr Dee to the island.”
Reggie nearly dropped his tankard of Old Colonel.
“So you were responsible for bringing the alchemist, John Dee, here?” he said. “I know that this island is rum beyond words, but how on earth did you…?”
“It’s a long story,” interrupted Philomena. “Remind me to tell you sometime.”
(Author’s note: For those – and there must be many – who have no idea to what Philomena and Ariadne were referring, they could do worse than look at the tale ‘November Rain’, and any one of several tales in which John Dee has featured, beginning with ‘The Visions of Doctor Dee’)
“Well, let’s be thankful that the bad weather is outside, and we are in here, snug and warm,” said Bartholomew. “I think I’ll put another log on the fire.”
“It’s a jolly good blaze,” observed Reggie.
“So it should be; it’s seasoned ash wood, and burns well,” said Bartholomew. “Seth Washwell lets me have all of the ash off-cuts from the sawmill.”
“Oh yes… now you mention it, I remember hearing that some types of wood make better fires than others,” said Reggie.
“Oh yes,” said Bartholomew, “I’ve learned, over the years that you have to be careful what you’re burning.”
“When I was a girl, Granny Bucket taught me a rhyme about the various types of wood, and what they’re good for.” said Philomena, wistfully.
“Do you remember any of it?” asked Ariadne, more out of politeness than anything else.
“As a matter of fact I do,” said Philomena and, assuming that Ariadne’s question meant that everyone was keen to hear the rhyme, cleared her throat, and began:
“Oak logs will warm you well, If they’re old and dry. Larch logs of pine will smell, But the sparks will fly.
Beech logs for Christmas time, Yew logs heat you well. ‘Scotch’ logs it is a crime, For anyone to sell.
Birch logs will burn too fast, Chestnut scarce at all. Hawthorn logs are good to last, But cut them in the fall.
Holly logs will burn like wax, You should burn them green, Elm logs like smouldering flax, No flame to be seen.
Pear logs and apple logs, They will scent your room, Cherry logs across the dogs, Smell like flowers in bloom
But ash logs, all smooth and grey, Burn them green or old; Buy up all that come your way, They’re worth their weight in gold.”
“Well remembered m’dear,” said Reggie, applauding. “And dashed useful to know, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“But what’s all that about cherry logs on the dogs,” asked Ariadne. “I don’t think Drury would be too pleased about that.”
“It’s the fire-dogs,” said Bartholomew, pointing to where the logs were blazing in the hearth. “Like those iron brackets supporting the grate; they’ve been sitting there since before my grandfather’s time.
“I notice that your rhyme didn’t mention elder wood,” said Reggie. “I have heard that there are lots of superstitions surrounding it.”
“And well founded, too,” said Bartholomew, settling himself down to tell a tale. “Back in the early 1800s, old Corwen Nailsworthy was the community’s apothecary, vintner, distiller and guardian of a little copse of elder trees that grew on the edge of the common. These trees were the source of many of Corwen’s remedies and were hardy enough to put up with the climate. The blossom alone would provide folks with elderflower wine, cordial, tea and when flour was available, fritters. When the flowers were applied to the skin they could help with joint pain, and elderflower water soothed sore eyes. Of course, the ripe berries could be made into elderberry wine, port and syrup for all to enjoy. In one way or another the elder is the most miraculous of all trees, given what it provides.”
“Then why the poor reputation?” asked Reggie, puzzled
“Well, superstitious folks would say that it’s to do with witches, and suchlike,” replied Bartholomew, giving Philomena an awkward sideways look. “There’s more to it than that, though, as Corwen found out.”
Confident now that he had their full attention, Bartholomew took a swig of ale, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and began:
“There was a shipwreck one winter, and half-a-dozen sailors survived and made their way ashore. They were ruffians to a man, and took over a deserted cottage near the common. It wasn’t long before they started stealing and bullying without a second thought. Things came to a head when they cut down one of Corwen’s elders to use as firewood. He begged them not to, told them it didn’t burn well and warned that anyone who tried would find themselves cursed. Of course, they laughed at him and said that they would be back the next day for more. As you can imagine, Corwen was terrified; what could he do against men like that? The next day came and went, and they didn’t return. After a week Corwen plucked up the courage to go to their cottage, hoping that they had left. When he arrived there he found that the doors and windows were sealed in ice, and he could just make out, through the glass, six dead bodies sprawled all around, their faces horribly contorted and discoloured. It seemed as though the curse had taken them, after all.”
“There must be an explanation,” said Reggie uncertainly. He had seen enough strange sights in his army career in India and Africa to know that this was not always the case.
“Oh, there is,” said Bartholomew, then paused for dramatic effect.
“Tell us then,” said Philomena, impatiently.
“Cyanide,” said Bartholomew. “When elder burns it gives off cyanide poison. In their sealed up cottage those sailors signed their death warrants as soon as they decided to set the wood alight.”
“I’ll wager that’s caught many a poor peasant out in days gone by,” said Reggie. “All the superstition that grew up around it at least deterred people from burning it.”
“But don’t write superstitions off,” warned Philomena. “After all, this is Hopeless.”
As she spoke, the ghost of Father Stamage drifted through the room, on his way to meet Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless Lady, who haunted the flushing privy.
The others could only nod in silent agreement.
Author’s note: The full story of Corwen Nailsworthy and his trees can be found in the tale ‘The Elders’.
“We need to talk about the Hand of Glory.” The shadows in Idris Po’s eyes are deep and menacing but his face overall is merely sad.
He sits you down and explains in hushed and urgent tones that the Hand of Glory is not right. He does not explain why you need to know this, or for that matter how he knows that you have seen one.
“The proper folklore has them taken from a hanged man, a criminal, you see. Not to say that there are no hanged men here, only that there will have been no justice in it.”
His own hands are shaking as he pulls a bottle from his pocket and takes a hasty swig.
“And the hand itself, it was only ever meant as a tool for breaking and entering. Justice and injustice you see, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. But not this hand, do you hear me?”
You confirm that you can indeed hear, even though you have no real sense what he means. Not yet.
“These hands are weapons,” he says and you are fairly sure he is talking about his own hands now. “Weapons against the most unspeakable things.”
You nod. He’s just another madman, and who can say whether he speaks a truth won at an awful price, or if he has paid an awful price to know only nonsense.
He drinks from the bottle again. “They hang me, and they take my hands,” he explains. “I keep trying to tell them that’s not how the folklore works, it’s not right. It’s not authentic. I don’t think they even care.”
You try to murmur something comforting.
“Only one hand, once a year. You don’t want to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.” He laughs bitterly. “But it still isn’t proper folk tradition. I can’t tell you how much that offends me.”
The island of Hopeless, Maine has more than its fair share of unusual life-forms. While you might find a certain amount of pleasure in spotting a gentle flock of Gnii, weaving through the night sky, there is little joy to be derived from an encounter with most of the island’s other fauna, or indeed, flora. Not all of the more exotic entities mentioned in the Tales from the Squid and Teapot, however, are indigenous to Hopeless. Indeed, over the years the tales have revealed a surprising amount of creatures, generally believed to exist only in mythology and folklore, to have found their way to the island. It occurred to me that it might be interesting to revisit a few.
Tucked away, high on a shelf behind the bar of The Squid and Teapot, Bartholomew Middlestreet keeps an old, leather-bound journal detailing the visits of these demons and monsters. These accounts have obviously been recorded by several different hands, the years having faded some of the ink to sepia. Fortunately there are plenty of blank pages left for any new arrival to be noted, for the island seems to be a draw for the various weird, but not-particularly wonderful, denizens of earth, sea and sky. Bartholomew has mentioned on several occasions that is a great pity that the journal, unlike the tales, does not benefit from the splendid illustrations supplied by Mr Tom Brown and Mr Clifford Cumber.
Aboo-dom-k’n Sir Fromebridge Whitminster was eaten by a juvenile aboo-dom-k’n, as was mentioned in his Obituary, and more recently, in the tale The Man in Grey. Aboo-dom-k’n, also known as Apotamkin, features in the legends of the Maliseet and Passamaquoddy people. It is generally described as being a giant fanged sea-serpent with long red hair, given to lurking in the Passamaquoddy Bay, with the intention of dragging the unwary into the water and eating them.
Manchachicoj In the tale ‘The Stowaway’ a strange, hideous half-blood demon is brought to the island from Buenos Aires, on a ship called the Annie C Maguire. Manchachicoj hails from the Northwest region of Argentina and was described as being small and deformed, but also seductive, elegant and romantic, which probably explains how he was able to mate with various mermaids and produce some extremely ugly progeny. Manchachicoj’s escape from the Annie C Maguire caused her to capsize when she struck the ledge at Portland Head Light, on Christmas Eve 1886. If you don’t believe me, look it up!
Pamola According to the Penobscot people, Pamola is a bird-spirit who inhabits Katahdin, the tallest Mountain in Maine, and is apparently responsible for making cold weather. He is usually described as having the head of a moose, the body of a man and the wings and feet of an eagle. In the tale that bears his name, Pamola takes the simpler form of a huge bird of prey, having previously been created from bits of vegetables cooked up in an ancient Welsh cauldron, as told in the tale The Unquiet Gravy.
Buer Buer is a most fearsome-looking demon. He has no body, as such, but has a lion’s head, from which radiate five hairy goat legs, which give him the ability to move in all directions. He features in the tale Bog Oak and Brass, where you will find a wonderful, not to say terrifying, depiction of him. He also makes a brief guest appearance towards the end of Baking Bad. In the 16th century grimoire, Pseudomonarchia Daemonum (which means the False Monarchy of Demons), Buer is described as a Great President of Hell, with fifty legions of demons under his command. He usually appears when the sun is in Sagittarius. Editions of this book are still available to purchase, both in paperback and hardback, should you be interested!
Selkie While neither demons nor monsters, at least as far as I am aware, seal, or selkie, folk are certainly as strange as any that you might wish to find. Originating in the folklore of the Northern Isles of Scotland, the Faroes and Iceland, the diaspora of the inhabitants of those islands took their legends across the Atlantic with them, rendering the coast of Maine rich with stories of the seal people. The most common theme is that of a man taking, and eventually losing, a seal wife for whom the lure of the sea is too great to ignore. In the early Tales of the Squid and Teapot, we meet with the eponymous Betty Butterow, who learns, at the age of fifteen, of her selkie heritage. Betty features in many later tales, and a prequel, called People from the Sea, hints at her origins.
The Wendigo A malevolent, flesh-eating spirit found in the folklore of the First Nations, the Wendigo found its way to Hopeless, Maine following the Passamaquoddy trader, Joseph Dreaming-By-The-River-Where-The-Shining-Salmon-Springs. In the tale, simply entitled The W-ndigo, young Randall Middlestreet, the most famous Night-Soil Man (due to the fact that, to date, he is the only one to retire and raise a family) finds himself promoted from his role as an apprentice in a most bloodthirsty and traumatic manner. The W-ndigo has been described as resembling a gaunt skeleton, recently disinterred from the grave, and giving off the odour of death and corruption. The illustration accompanying the tale is the stuff of nightmares. (Also, it is best not to name them so as not to draw their attention)
Kraken A huge creature of cephalopod-like appearance, the Kraken first appears in Scandinavian legends as a sea-monster lurking in the waters off the coasts of Norway and Greenland. Stories of the Kraken travelled across the North Atlantic with the Vikings, and later sailors from the Nordic countries. We first catch sight of this awesome creature in the less-than-likely setting of a cricket match. Unsurprisingly, the tale is called Cricket!
This is an old photo of the Cup full of Tentacles crew, out in the streets of Stroud. Left to right… Susie Roberts, James Weaselgrease, Nimue Brown, Tom Brown.
We’ve got a show with songs – traditional, original and borrowed, Maine folklore and Hopeless Maine oddities… Do come and see us!
On the mist shrouded, grave dark sea, a boat shatters its hull against the malice of rocks. Hungry water sucks the living down, until only one remains, kept afloat by a large tea chest and drifting towards dawn and the shore
James Weaselgrease is a young scientist, who washes up on the island. He doesn’t really believe in vampires, selkies or mermaids. the dustcats are confusing and he fears that he is losing his mind…
Hello people! (and others) The esteemed Jeffrey Tolbert (Editor and co author of -The Folkloresque: Reframing Folklore in a Popular Culture World, has decided to look at Hopeless, Maine and its growing tribe of participants as a topic of study. “an ongoing conversation on the role of folklore and the folkloresque in Hopeless, Maine.” Your participation would be much appreciated.
Topics of interest include the nature/definition of folklore, its connections to place, and the role of digital media in the creation and performance of contemporary folk cultures. We invite you to come and join him and become part of the conversation here- https://folkloresque.net/community/folklore-and-folkloresque/hopeless-maine-folklore-and-the-folkloresque/ You do need to create a log in and password to participate. If you do not get see a confirmation email, check your spam folder (personal experience) This should be very interesting indeed!
Jeffrey happened to us on Twitter last year, we very much like his folkloresque book and he’s been delightful to communicate with. We’ve found his ideas about folklore really interesting and engaging. He’s interested in what people do – in folklore as living tradition, not dusty museum piece. So, very much our sort of chap!
