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!
Philomena Bucket wrapped her woolen shawl tightly around her shoulders; despite the chilly air she smiled quietly to herself. She had lived on Hopeless for almost a year and – somewhat uniquely – had fallen in love with the island. Certainly, compared to most places it was dangerous, inhospitable and lacking in the most basic of amenities. On the other hand, it was somewhere where she, an albino, attracted no second glances, no derision. Here she had a home, work, friends and the occasional company of a small, fun-loving dog. Admittedly the dog had been dead for some years and these days was no more than a skeleton but Drury had become as good a companion as anyone could wish to have. For Philomena, living on Hopeless was many times better than the life she had previously known.
One of Philomena’s greatest pleasures was to walk, as she was today, in the Gydynap hills. With their sudden fogs and air of mystery the Gydynaps reminded her of the Nargles Mountains, an area she knew well, a dozen or so miles west of the city of Cork, in her native Ireland. Somehow, she felt safer in the Gydynaps than anywhere else on the island. Whenever Philomena chose to go for a walk, Drury would invariably appear, as if by magic and rattle joyously along beside her, sniffing the air and making a great show of marking his territory (but – for obvious reasons – failing).
The inhabitants of Hopeless are not renowned for their love of walking. A healthy respect for the various dangers, mixed with no small measure of apathy, ensures that few wish to venture an inch further than necessary from their own front door. In view of this, it was a rare day, indeed, that Philomena met anyone else walking the hills. The day of this tale, however, was rare beyond her wildest imaginings.
Philomena was by no means timid but her heart missed a beat when Drury suddenly stopped in mid-gambol and growled. Had he been in receipt of ears to push back and hackles to rise he could not have expressed his guarding instincts any more clearly. Someone, or more likely something, was around; Drury was giving every sign that all was not right and Philomena was uneasy.
For what seemed an age the skeletal dog stayed stock-still, growling ferociously at, what appeared to be, nothing in particular. All around them the mist began to thicken and swirl. Philomena blinked and rubbed her eyes. Her long-sight had never been particularly good but this poor visibility seemed to be playing tricks with her vision. As the mist thinned a little, she could just make out a figure emerging through a narrow cleft in the rocks that Philomena could have sworn had not been there a moment earlier. Drury dropped down on to where his belly would have been and whimpered quietly.
“Howdy ma’am,” the stranger hailed her with a cheery wave.
He was a lanky, ginger-bearded individual, dressed in worn buckskins and a hat with an excessively floppy brim.
“Good afternoon to you sir,” replied Philomena primly.
” I sure didn’t figure on findin’ no ladies up here in the mountains,” drawled the stranger. “You must be a long way from home.”
“A mile or so, sir,” conceded Philomena, softening a little as Drury became visibly more relaxed. The bony dog was always an infallible judge of character and their new companion seemed to meet his approval.
“By the by, I ain’t nobody’s idea of a sir. I’m just plain old Hank.”
The man who called himself Hank squatted down on the ground and opened his knapsack, from which he produced a leather tobacco pouch and a stubby pipe.
“Share a pipe, ma’am?”
Philomena smiled and shook her head.
Hank eyed her, unsure of what to say next. Philomena’s presence was confusing him. He drew on his pipe and said, warily,
“Guess you’re looking for the Dutchman’s Gold Mine, same as me.”
It was Philomena’s turn to be confused.
“No… I’m just out for a walk with Drury, here.”
At the mention of his name Drury clambered to his feet with a series of osseous rattles. Hank involuntarily screamed as he witnessed a pile of bleached bones become suddenly animated.
“Jumpin’ Jehosohat,” he exclaimed. “What in tarnation is THAT?”
“That,” Philomena replied coldly, “is my good and faithful friend Drury – and I would be obliged if you referred to him with a little more respect in future.”
As if to show his utter disdain for Hank, Drury immediately flopped down and sank into a deep and snore-filled slumber.
Hank’s face dropped.
“Then what them Apaches say is true,” he wailed. “There really is a gateway to Hell in the Superstition Mountains.”
“Hell?” said Philomena in surprise. “You’re not in Hell, you’re in Hopeless, Maine.”
“Maine???” Hank’s face whitened noticeably beneath his tan. “Jumpin’ Jehosophat, that’s more than two thousand miles from Arizona.”
Philomena wondered to herself who Jehosophat might be and why he was so addicted to jumping.
“Believe me,” she ventured, “Hopeless is strange – but surely preferable to Hell. Nothing much surprises me about this place any more.”
Hank contemplated what she had said. He had had some strange adventures in his time but this was, by far, the strangest. Stoically, he finished his smoke and lay the pipe on the ground by his side. It did not take a great deal of persuasion on Philomena’s part for Hank to tell her his story.
“There’s a legend that this foreign guy discovered a gold mine in the Superstition Mountains, east of Phoenix. They call it the Dutchman’s gold mine. Folks have been searchin’ for it for years and some of ’em seem to have disappeared into thin air. I rolled up there a day or two ago and thought I’d try my hand at gettin’ rich. Instead I end up in… where did you say?
“Hopeless,” said Philomena, helpfully. “But I don’t think that the others have come here. I’m sure someone would have mentioned it. Maybe you can go back the way you came.”
“Maybe, but I… jumpin’ Jehosophat, what in tarnation is that?”
While they were talking, a spoonwalker had sidled up beside them and picked up the pipe, studying it with curiosity.
“Dagnabbit! What is that thing?”
The sudden commotion had woken Drury. He instinctively leapt for the spoonwalker. who fled the scene with surprising speed and agility, racing along on its cutlery stilts and still clutching Hank’s pipe. It made a beeline for the cleft in the wall, with Drury in hot pursuit.
Philomena watched in horror as her beloved companion hurled himself at the fleeing spoonwalker, just as it disappeared into the opening.
With a crack that echoed around the hills, the cleft snapped shut. Half a second later Drury crashed into the rock face with a force that would have killed an ordinary dog. Happily for Drury, that particular ship had sailed long ago. Instead, he picked himself up from the stony ground, gave a shake and staggered unsteadily over to where Philomena and Hank were sitting.
“As I was saying,” said Philomena. “This is a strange place – and it looks as though you’re stuck with it.”
She took Hank gently by the arm and walked the bewildered newcomer down the hill. Drury, fully recovered by now, ran on in front, his bony tail wagging happily.
“And you’re sure this ain’t Hell?” asked Hank, casting a wary eye at the pale woman and her dead dog.
“Not for me,” said Philomena. “Not for me.”
Author’s note: In the mid nineteenth century, Jacob Waltz, a German immigrant claimed to have discovered a mother lode of gold in the Superstition Mountains of Arizona. He revealed the location of the mine on his death-bed to a boarding-house keeper, Julia Thomas, who, reportedly, later made a living by selling treasure maps for $7 each. Despite this, the mine was never discovered. This is just one of the several legends surrounding the ‘Lost Dutchman’s Gold Mine’ (the words ‘Dutch’ and ‘Deutsch’ being commonly confused in the U.S. at that time).
What is not a legend is that many of those who have searched for the mine have disappeared without a trace.
Interestingly, the Apache Indians of the region have long believed that deep in the Superstition Mountains there exists a portal which gives access to the lower world, their version of hell.
Hopeless has not always been fog-bound and desolate as it is today. Throughout its long history the island has enjoyed occasional but brief interludes of a much more pleasing climate. It was during the most recent of these verdant periods that the Danish settlers arrived.
The warriors came here first, in their long, fiercely elegant dragon-boats. They found the island to be a most agreeable place, with green pastures, bubbling streams and a sparse, timid population that was easily subjugated. It took little time for the invaders to realise that this would be a good island upon which to settle. Many were weary of having to fight. Maybe the Allfather would be kind and let them begin a peaceful existence in this new land.
They sent a longboat back with word of their discovery and over the next months and years a steady trickle of Danes found their way here, bringing with them everything that they needed to survive so many miles from home, including slaves from Britain.
It was high up in the hills, which are now known as the Gydynaps, that there lived a vǫlva – that is a seeress, a shaman, a wielder of the old magic. She was old and proud, only coming down to the village when summoned by the chieftain. In order to gain her favour and that of the gods, the settlers would ensure that she never went cold or hungry, regularly leaving food, furs and firewood at her door, especially on the occasions of the four great religious festivals, Eostre, Lithasblot, Winternights and Jul.
It was on the eve of Lithasblot, or Midsummer, that a slave (who, legend tells us, was one Cadman Negelsleag) was sent with a basket of food and wine to the vǫlva’s house. It was not a particularly arduous task and the day was pleasantly warm. The slave, knowing that his master did not expect him back for some hours, sat down upon a grassy bank and before long drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep.
It was a terrible commotion of squawking and croaking that dragged Cadman rudely from his slumbers. While he had been sleeping, two ravens had come down to inspect the contents of the basket and were quarrelling noisily over its ownership. Some of the food had been strewn on the grass and one of the birds was perched precariously on the edge of the basket, intent on removing the remainder. Without a second thought Cadman picked up a stone and threw it at the raven, hitting it squarely on the back of the head. It instantly dropped to the ground in a tangle of blood and feathers.
An awful dread came over Cadman when he realised what he had done. These birds were sacred to Odin and although the one-eyed deity was not his god, he was well aware of the power that Odin exercised in the minds of the Danes. Suddenly the beautiful summer day disappeared. The sky darkened, filled with threatening clouds. A cold wind shook the trees. The songbirds stilled their voices and an icy hand gripped Cadman’s heart.
There, standing on a ridge, was the vǫlva, her long, grey hair and midnight-dark cloak billowing in the freshening wind. In her hand was a long, ash staff, tipped with brass. The vǫlva’s face was a mask of anger.
“Cursed is he who kills the raven, most beloved of the Allfather,” she screamed, pointing her staff at the hapless slave. The staff crackled and sparked, then sent a cold blue bolt of light that froze his body to the core.
The vǫlva’s eyes glittered and it seemed to Cadman that she grew in stature, towering over him, filling the skies. She pointed to the smitten raven, where it lay on the grass.
“You will pluck just one feather from the bird that you have so wantonly slain,” she commanded.
Like a man in a dream the slave removed a feather from the dead raven.
“It will be upon each Lithasblot-eve, for centuries to come, that you will return to this place and pluck one feather from the raven that you will find here. Not until you have enough feathers to fashion yourself a raven-feather shroud in which to wrap your corpse, may you die. And the oldest man of your line who lives when your task is done, then it will become his burden, and so on, until your descendants are wiped from the face of the earth. Until that distant day you will walk in the shadows, hidden from the sight of men.”
Cadman felt himself slipping away, dragged by unseen hands into an eerie half-life, a shadowy, liminal dimension beyond all mortal understanding.
The island seemed to tremble at its very roots as a cold fog rolled in from the sea. Deep in its darkest caverns, nameless creatures began to stir from their long slumbers.
This, of course is only a legend. There may be no truth in it at all. But how many feathers does it take to make a shroud? Five hundred? Eight hundred? A thousand? If these events occurred at all then almost nine hundred mid-summer eves have passed since the curse was placed upon Cadman Negelsleag. For centuries his descendants have wondered if the legend has any truth and if it has, when might the shroud be complete and the curse passed on? Two hundred years ago the Negelsleag family, along with others, updated their names to something more pronounceable for the newcomers to the island. A curse, however, cannot be cheated; although names may change, blood remains the same. Our current Night Soil Man, the last of his line, knows that Negelsleag became Nailsworthy. Nine hundred years and nine hundred feathers ago it is said that his ancestor killed a raven. Shenandoah is a frightened man; he always stays at home on midsummer-eve and wonders if it will be his last in the mortal realm.
I really hope that this is just another tale, just another island myth – but who is to say? After all, anything can happen on Hopeless, Maine.
