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Pushana & The Knight Possessed in: The Book of Tentacles, Part I

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“Time to see Edgard, I think.”

The legendary witch Pushana appeared to be addressing a suit of armour in the corner of her workroom. Which was odd. But what happened next was even odder. She waved her hand in a spiralling motion with a strange twist at the end and muttered a few words under her breath. In response, the armour made a series of metallic creaks as it awoke. A strange and frightening head emerged from the top of the armour, and inhuman hands appeared at the end of the previously empty arms. Hands with long, pointed purple fingernails. The entity in the armour twisted his head from side to side, as if testing the movement, then two purple flames sprang to life atop his head. “Hello, old friend.” Said Pushana. The Knight Possessed nodded in reply.

They left the cottage quietly. Pushana lived in a remote, wild and uninhabited part of Hopeless, Maine. Despite her significant abilities and her striking appearance, only the storytellers wrote of her existence. And that was pretty much the way she liked it. Living surreptitiously on Hopeless Maine allowed her to carry on with her magical business, undisturbed by the attention she would inevitably receive elsewhere. Islanders shunned the area where she lived as it was fabled for incredibly dangerous beasts, lethal undergrowth, and strange, fatal hauntings. Pushana neither corrected this misconception nor did she stop herself from starting a few rumours for fun.

“Something is coming to the island, something I cannot allow. This place suits me and I do not want to leave, not yet anyway. I fear we may have a battle ahead Sir Knight.”

The Knight Possessed simply shrugged. They walked in silence for a while. It was not far to the shoreline, a twenty-minute walk at most, and the normally threatening wildlife of the island gave the pair a wide berth, so they were not inconveniently waylaid.

They had to walk along the black beach for a while until they came to a break in the cliffs. Looking up, Pushana could see the raggedy rope ladders and steps that led up the rock-face to a ledge on which a ramshackle structure was perched. Whilst it looked small from down here, Pushana knew that the rock shelf went quite a way back into the cliff.

This was Edgard’s home, from where he conducted his business of beachcombing. Many things washed up on the shore of Hopeless, Maine. Many were worthless detritus, it’s true, but amongst the flotsam and jetsam were things of value, things one could trade. Given the ragged rocks, ruthless tides, epic storms, and the horrendous proliferation of monsters living in the sea, it was a dangerous profession, but Edgard seemed both adapted to it and proficient.

Pushana and The Knight carefully climbed up and looked around. The ramshackle occupant of the ramshackle home was not currently about, so Pushana made herself a pot of tea using a kettle she found and a fire she started in an old grate and settled into an old seaweed-strewn chair made of old boxes. The Knight stood behind her silent and immobile. He did that a lot. Presently there was a scrabbling noise, and the creature known as Edgard, or the beachcombing spearman, appeared above the edge of the floor and climbed onto the ledge. He looked at Pushana nervously. “Smell, you do.”

“Hello Edgard” said Pushana calmly.

“Why you here? Hurt me? Him,” he gestured at The Knight, “Him, hurt me?”

“We’re not here to hurt you Edgard. I like you Edgard, remember?” Pushana made a small motion with her hand.

Edgard dipped his head, furrowed his brow, then looked up, “Help me, you did, once. Edgard thanks you. What you want?”

“I know you have something, something washed up recently, a book”

“Many book Edgard have. Some not wet. Some valuable I reckon.” His eyes lit up at the thought and he licked his lips.

“Oh, this book has no value for you. And it might even kill you. I will be doing you a favour taking it off your hands.”

“Kill Edgard?” He looked worried now. “Your book, I think. I get it for you now.”

Without a further word, Edgard shuffled off to the back of the ledge where various piles of ‘treasure’ he had combed from the beaches were laid out. Some were metal objects, some textiles, some unidentified. One was a big pile of books. Edgard walked right past this pile and went to a rickety shelf. He came back with a single book.

“This one, I reckon.” He offered it to Pushana.

She took it and glanced at its cover. “Thank you Edgard. Yes, this is the one. You may not realise it, but I have done you another favour today.”

“Bad feel. The book.” Added Edgard.

Pushana nodded, “I will leave you in peace. Be careful out there Edgard, please let me know if you find any more bad feel books.”

Edgard nodded. “Parting well.”

Pushana took a length of cloth from her coat and wrapped the book carefully. Stood up and left, with The Knight following. Edgard watched them go.

–◊–

Back in her cottage, Pushana laid the wrapped book on a table in the middle of her workspace and then took a jar of powder down from a shelf. Uncorking it, she carefully laid out a line of the slightly shimmering powder, encircling the book. She took some strange blue candles out of a locked box, placing three, one each in a tall candle holder, to form a triangle around the book. When she lit them, they burned with an eerie blue, unflickering flame. Finally, she passed five times clockwise around the table muttering sounds under her breath, and twice anticlockwise muttering the same sounds backwards. Only when she had finished did she unwrap the book.

“Be ready. We should be safe, but I would like you to be ready just in case.” The Knight nodded.

Pushana opened the cover of the book. There was an uncanny noise, like a distant howl. She glanced at the title page. Whatever the script was, it was not English, but Pushana appeared to understand it well enough.

“This is indeed The Book of Tentacles. With this, I should be able to locate the disturbance.”

As Pushana skimmed through the pages there was a louder noise – a sort of a squelch. Then the pages started to rustle of their own accord. Pushana stepped back, and a film of green slime appeared on the edges of the book. The pages became blurry and green, dark and misty. It was hard to make out the words and images as they dissolved into murk. As she watched intently, a green protuberance thrust its way out of the book, followed by another. Thin strands of slime clung to them and stretched out as they pushed through. It was clear now that they were tentacles. There were five now, and they all stopped for a moment and appeared to sense the room. There was a moan, and they started rising again. They were swelling in size, and had very nearly reached the ceiling.

“Enough of this nonsense.” And Pushana waved a hand and incanted some quiet words. The tentacles screeched, but just softly, and stopped moving.

“I cannot let you out. Certainly not here. And not until you do my bidding. I have a purpose, and you will help me. But I promise you, when my mission is over, I will set you free. For now, you must return to your literary prison and bide your time.” She waved her hand once more, and the tentacles retreated. Soon the book was just a book again, just like any other. She extinguished the candles, tidied up the powder carefully back into the jar, and placed the jar back on the shelf. Retrieving the cloth she had used earlier, she re-wrapped the book and tucked it under her arm.

“Come,” she addressed The Knight Possessed again, “We are very short on time.”

Story inspired by artwork from Nicolas Rossert

A witchy woman, a possessed tuis of armour and a book full of tentacles. Original digital art by Fnic, no AI

(art by Fnic, story by Keith Errington)

Hopeless Tales

Pin the Tail

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(By Keith Errington)

Most magic users on the island of Hopeless, Maine, generally practice privately, quietly. This is either because of the public disapproval of magic*, which ranges from malicious tutting to firebrands and pitchforks, or because they have evil intent and wish to be away from prying eyes. Many just want to keep their magical knowledge to themselves and do not want to share it. Good witches don’t want to enable clumsy, unprofessional amateurs who might accidentally cause harm, and evil demons fear a powerful rival might emerge if they share too much.


*Incidentally, public disapproval of magic only extends to public discussion; privately, most islanders will happily turn to magic at the first opportunity if they think it will better their position.


But there will always be one, or two, or perhaps a few whose pursuit of fame will outweigh all these considerations. There are always individuals who will shout from the rooftops their achievements given the opportunity. There are always those who crave the stage, who are addicted to performance and the adulation of their fans.


Malcolm the Mighty actually didn’t have many fans, but he strived for fame nonetheless. And I am almost ashamed to say this, as it is such a storytelling cliché, but… there was a girl… Sheena. She was, perhaps, not the brightest of girls; she hung out with someone called Malcolm the Mighty for a start, but she was pretty and fairly harmless. Malcolm was besotted with her (although neither of them would have understood what the word meant).


Unfortunately for Malcolm, there was a rival, Percy the Powerful. Percy was a slick, silver-tongued boy who, although far from powerful, had caught Sheena’s attention with his good looks, his flowery prose and his large wand.


When I said that Percy was not powerful, that was probably an understatement; the truth was that neither of these wizard wannabes had much magical talent at all. Percy had found a book of magic tricks and the associated props amongst his father’s old belongings; these were parlour amusements no more. But Sheena was impressed with the way he produced flowers from a hat, ‘magically’ unknotted two ropes, and turned water into confetti.


Malcolm, however, was at least the real deal. He was distantly related in some way to a famous witch and was born with a small amount of innate magic, which he had yet to master or even awaken.


Then, one day, things changed. He was in the right place at the right time. An elderly witch fell into a river and was knocked unconscious just as Malcolm was passing, and he dove in and rescued her. In return, she gave him one wish. She told him to think about it carefully and not to think of anything stupid. So he asked for magic beans and… no… wait… that’s not this story, is it? No. Wishes are so lazy. No, what actually happened is that the witch recognised the latent magic in Malcolm and gave him a slight boost, the ability to perform one spell, and only one spell, as many times as he liked. And it would only work if he caused no harm to anyone with it. She asked Malcolm what spell he would like.


Malcolm thought about this for a few seconds: “I have always wanted a flying horse! If I could fly on my horse and pick up Sheena, she was sure to be impressed!”


The Witch gave a snort. “You’ve barely enough talent in you to create a flying ant, young boy. And they can already fly!” She considered him, he seemed like a good lad, and he had just saved her life. “You are lucky I am a powerful witch. I cannot give you a flying horse spell; you do not have the power, but the ability to make another animal fly; I can give you.” And she did, along with a contract to sign, which included a long list of provisos, wherefores, legal clauses and a whole section absolving her of any responsibility for pretty much everything. Malcolm happily signed it. Now he would show that charlatan Percy!


For weeks, Malcolm practised the spell. He started with mice and found that after a little practice, he could make them rise a few inches in the air. Sadly, they did not sprout wings; they just rose up for a few seconds, then fell, and at that point, he would catch them.


After a while, he moved on to bigger creatures. He once levitated a spoonwalker, which was so shocked that it dropped all its spoons on the floor. Malcolm laughed at this, and the spoonwalker fell to the floor. It was unharmed, but it silently gathered up its spoons and left as quickly as it could, clearly grumpy and annoyed.


All the while, Malcolm searched for a horse, but there were none to be found. Not to be deterred, Malcolm searched for other animals that might, at a pinch, serve as a worthy steed for a mighty magician such as himself. Oh, and carry Sheena, too, of course.


Finally, he was ready. He decided the best time to cast the spell would be at dawn, nice and early, to save any public interference. And he had picked a quiet spot round the back of a slate-roofed cottage. There was no smoke issuing forth from the chimneys, so he had assumed that no one was home. As the object of the exercise was to impress Sheena and humiliate Percy, he invited them to see the spectacular feat. He felt strong, he felt magical, he felt… mighty. However, what he actually was, was overconfident.


When Percy and Sheena turned up, they could not believe their eyes. Malcolm had underestimated the comic effect of his set-up. Both Percy and Sheena burst out laughing, for there was Malcolm, sitting on a donkey.


Malcolm went red. Did they not understand how important this was? This was his moment. He waited until they had finished laughing. This took quite a while, as when one stopped, the other’s laughter would set them off again.


“I am about to fly!” Announced Malcolm.


This triggered yet another round of raucous laughter. And Malcolm had to wait again for their attention.


“This is no trickery, no sleight of hand. This is MAGIC!” he announced. More laughter. There is only one thing for it, thought Malcolm, and he said the magic words that he had been given, waved his oakfir wand in his right hand, and gripped the donkey’s mane tightly in the other.


At that point, there was a whoosh, a thud, a thunk and an “Ow” – the latter being Malcom expressing discomfort at having been unseated from the donkey and falling a few feet to the ground. Nobody was quite sure what had happened; magic is not logical, and it has an unsettling effect on the brain and the senses.


“What a waste of time” Sneered Percy. “No flying donkey here!”


“No, wait,” said Sheena wondrously. Where is the donkey? Malcolm has made a donkey disappear! An entire donkey. Oh my!” She looked at Malcolm adoringly as he dusted himself off.


“Well, maybe he used some mirrors or smoke or something. That’s how it’s done, you know” (Percy had clearly never heard of the Magic Circle vow never to divulge how a trick was done.) “I’m going home.” Stated Percy. “Are you coming with me, my princess of the dawn?”


“No.” Said Sheena petulantly, just short of stamping her feet. “I’m staying with Malcolm the Mighty.”


She helped Malcolm up. Suddenly, there was a noise from the cottage, and they both heard a voice shout, “Who’s there?” They both ran away, arm in arm, laughing.


The lady of the cottage came out into her garden in her nightdress and looked up for the source of the strange and unsettling noise she had heard coming from the slates on the roof. There she saw, in the uncanny half-light of an early summer morning, in amongst the chimney pots, a donkey. A donkey. On the roof… her roof. What evil omen could this be? What dark demon had marked her out for this curse? And how the hell had the donkey gotten up there anyway? She shivered, shook herself, and rushed back inside her cottage, bolted the door, went straight back to her bed and pulled the sheets up tightly around her head.

Hopeless inhabitants

Unexpected Airship

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(Image kindly donated by Captain Kuppa T, text by Keith Errington)

Standing by the railing of the Airship Lady Grey, Captain Horatio KuppaT surveyed the skies. It was a beautiful clear day, and he could see from the spires of Oxford right across the Cotswolds. After a few moments, he turned and appraised his craft. It wasn’t a large airship by any means, but in the Captain’s mind, it was a perfectly formed vessel crewed with loyal shipmates. He scanned the deck, checking that everything was suitably airship-shape.

As he was doing so, his first mate, Stoker Sam, popped his head up from below and joined the Captain, who then tutted loudly.

“Captain?” queried Sam, who could see the Captain was not happy.

“Your balls, man!” The Captain said.

“What?” Sam was taken aback and immediately checked his trousers.

“Stow your balls.” The Captain ordered.

“I… err…”

“Your cannonballs, man. They are about to become loose. We can’t have your balls all over the deck – what would Lady Mojo say!”

“Aye, aye, Captain – I’ll get on it straight away.” And Sam went to attend to the task.

As if summoned by the mention of her name, Lady Mojo sauntered across the deck. As always, she was attired in a most colourful and splendid outfit. She exuded grace and charm.

“Good Morning, Captain.” She said. “Everything okay!”

“Oh, Yes. Just talking to Sam about his balls.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh,” the Captain sighed. “Look, err… Never mind. “Are you ready for it?”

“What?” Lady Mojo looked shocked.

“Are you ready for the experiment?”

“I think three people is enough, Captain. I don’t think I could handle one more. Although that waiter the other day was very fit…”

“I’m not talking about the band, Lady Mojo.”

“Neither was I, to be fair.” Countered Lady Mojo, smiling wistfully.

“Are you ready to try the new drive? The experimental airship drive?”

“Oh, yes, Captain – all ready”, replied Lady Mojo, composing herself. “It’s all very exciting, isn’t it?”

Sam had returned from the minor task and was waiting expectantly.

“Stoker Sam, fire up the prototype Oolong drive!” The captain commanded.

It was only a few days ago that the experimental displacement drive had been installed amidships under the watchful eye of the maker, Herr Doktor. The drive was based on an idea dreamed up by Professor Elemental. The Captain was honoured that these two titans of the steampunk world had chosen his airship to test it out. Although, at the back of his mind, he did rather wonder why they didn’t test it themselves. Still, they seemed awfully keen that someone else should have the honour of its maiden voyage, which was very humble of them.

Sam disappeared behind the machinery and a faint rumble issued from the drive.

“Brace yourself!” Warned the Captain.

“We are not doing that again!” said Lady Mojo sternly.

The Captain was about to point out he was only referring to the drive when the whole ship shimmered… no… actually… everything shimmered. The airship, the landscape below them, the clouds and themselves. There was a whoosh, followed by a sucking noise, and then their ears popped, and they appeared to be somewhere else. The blue skies had gone to be replaced by a grey, slightly foggy sky. In between wisps of fog, they could see land below, but it certainly wasn’t England. It was dark and, somehow, menacing.

There was a slight grinding noise as the Captain announced, “It worked! It bally worked!

“Ahem.” Said Sam, who had just run up to the Captain and was now standing to attention.

“We’ve been transported somewhere else!” Said the Captain excitedly. “Well, I must admit I had my doubts, but those two scallywags have actually done it! Total displacement!”

“CAPTAIN!” Sam shouted as the grinding stopped, and the airship lurched slightly.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Sam.” The Captain chided, “Can’t you see this is a significant moment? We are the first people to be displaced!”

“There’s a slight problem…” said Sam.

“Slight?” Asked the Captain.

“Minor, really.”

“How minor?

“The sort of crashing into the ground, minor,” replied Sam.

“Ah… WHAT?”

“Well, the motors that keep the airship moving have failed – and for some reason, the balloon is not keeping us in the air.  We are drifting…

“Aha…”

“And slowly descending.”

“I see. Well, can we use the Oolong drive again? Asked the Captain.

“Not without the motors – they power the Oolong drive too.”

“Oh, cannonballs!” Exclaimed the Captain loudly. “Hmm. Well, in that case, there is only one thing for it.”

“What’s that?” asked Sam.

“I’ll go and put the kettle on.”

“Excellent thinking, Horatio!” affirmed Lady Mojo.

A few minutes later, sipping his tea, the Captain could see they were indeed sinking.

“So where are we, Sam?” Asked the Captain.

“We appear to be above an island, but not one that’s on any map. There seems to be nothing but spikey vegetation directly below us. We are going down. It’s hopeless.”

“Ah. I’ve been thinking.” The Captain stated.

“Is that wise?” Asked Lady Mojo.

Ignoring her gentle chide, the Captain continued, “If we were lighter, we might go up. Which would buy us some time.”

“Yes, Captain.” Agreed Sam.

“Right, start tossing Sam.” Ordered the Captain.

“What? Here? Now?” Sam looked aghast.

Dear Lord, thought the Captain, why did his crew not understand simple English? “Jettison all unessential supplies.”

“Aye, aye!” Sam looked relieved.

Sam did as he was told. Minutes later, it was clear that tossing several crates of supplies overboard had only slowed their descent.

“It’s not enough, Captain!” Sam pointed out.

“I can see that. Quick, find something else we can lose. What’s left?”

“Well, there is one thing…”

“Do it, man! This is life and death here!”

“Are you sure, Captain?”

“Look, just get on with it, will you – no time to waste!”

More crates were tossed overboard. They were perilously close to the ground now. But the airship had finally stopped descending.

“Not sure how long it will last without fixing the motors. If only we could fix them, we could inflate the balloon and get moving again.” Explained Stoker Sam.

“Right, well, yes. I think more tea is called for, don’t you, Lady Mojo?”

“Certainly Horatio. Tea!” Agreed Lady Mojo.

“Ah…” said Sam in a significant way.

“Ah?” queried the Captain.

“Well, the last thing we dumped…”

“Yes?” said the Captain slowly, drawing out the word.

“Was all our tea,” explained Sam.

“My God, man! Are you serious?”

“Yes”

“Why the bally badger would you toss the tea? We’re not colonials, you know. What were you thinking?”

“But you said it was life and death,” Sam protested.

“Be reasonable, man! Tea IS life and death!” The Captain shuddered. “Dear Lord, the situation is worse than I thought. We are in dire need!”

The Captain struck a heroic pose. He found it helped him think. “Right, what’s wrong with the motors?”

“As far as I can tell, the drive belt was displaced by effects of the Oolong drive”.

“Displaced? Where?”

“I don’t know, Captain, somewhere else.”

“Hmm.” The Captain struck a second, even more heroic pose.

After a few seconds, the Captain asked, “How long is it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. This is getting ridiculous. How long is the drive belt?”

“Oh. It’s only a small one – four or five feet maximum.” Answered Sam.

“Aha!” The Captain exclaimed. “Here, take my scarf; it’s made of Unbelievabum – strong as steel!”

“I knitted it myself!” Lady Mojo added proudly.

Sam shook his head but did as he was told. He disappeared, and for a few minutes, there were muffled sounds of work.

Suddenly, there was a low humming that the Captain and Lady Mojo recognised.

“The engines!” They exclaimed together.

“Yes,” said the Captain, “They do seem to be running again.”

Within minutes, the balloon was reinflating, and the ship began to rise. Sam returned to them with a slightly smug look on his face.

“Fantastic!” He said, smiling. “That ridiculous trick with the scarf worked! Thank Goodness. We can go home now.”

The Captain looked appalled. “Are you insane, man? Somewhere down there is the tea. Our tea! We have to find it, land and get it back!

Hopeless Tales

Strictly

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(A tale by Keith Errington)

Being an island with limited resources and somewhat lacking in technology, there were few entertainment options available to the long-suffering islanders of Hopeless, Maine. Apart from drinking in the pub, watching the sea, and spying on the neighbours, the main entertainment was organised by the community. There were many events, festivals and revels on offer throughout the year, from the inane Snipeworm Watch Week, as an example, to the erudite, such as The Philosophy of Near-death Experiences, held on the first Tuesday of the month. Most of these were barely attended and often short-lived. However, there was a very popular type of diversion that had been running for years and was always well-attended by residents. These were the monthly Dance & Social evenings.

Clem Soulby had been living on the island for many years, having been shipwrecked here back in his teens. He had always been a lonely man, kept himself to himself and was, therefore, somewhat lacking in interpersonal skills. He was, however, reasonably good at business, trading in this and that, buying at a keen price and selling on at a profit. He was known as the ‘Go-to Man,’ if you wanted something, especially something unusual, then Clem could probably get it for you… for a price. Thus, he provided himself with a comfortable income, lived in a good-sized house and wanted for very little in terms of practical needs. However, he had reached that point in his life where his heart was unfulfilled. He had started to yearn for companionship, and as they say in the small ads, maybe more.

He had concluded that the only way forward was to attend a Dance and Social, something he had never contemplated before. In fact, the very thought filled him with dread. He felt he could probably handle the social side of the evenings, but he was heavily handicapped in the other element: dance. He could not dance, never learned, never even tried. He knew it would be quite a challenge. He often tripped over his own shoelaces just crossing the street. But just recently, his eye had been caught by a small card on the town notice board:

FERNANDO, Dance Teacher to the Stars.
Learn from the Terpsichorean Master.
No previous experience necessary.
Reasonable rates.

Clem decided to go visit this Fernando and establish just how reasonable his rates were. But first, he needed to look up a certain word in the dictionary.

Clem had a meeting with the maestro, and they agreed on costs and a ten-week programme of instruction.

“By the end of my tuition, you will dance like a butterfly on ice skates – Perfetto!” Fernando declared.

Fernando rented a small hall in the quiet corner of town. He was said to be Spanish by some, others reckoned Italian, and a few thought he might be Swiss. Franky, it was difficult to tell as his accent wavered wildly, and words came from his lips in a variety of different, slightly mangled ways. He was flamboyant and fierce, certainly a force to be reckoned with. He always carried a cane, which he would stamp on the floor with great gusto when emphasising something important or when chiding a pupil. Occasionally he would use it to point out a recalcitrant limb which had not moved in the correct manner, punctuating his forceful admonishments by poking the offending member.

Clem knuckled down and did his best. Fernando would chide him with helpful comments such as “Pah, you move like a badly wounded moth!” or “You are not the graceful matador, but more like the bull with intestinal trouble!” or “You walk like a three-legged, drunken armadillo!” At one point after Clem had fallen over his own feet, Fernando uncharacteristically muttered, “Blimey, this one’s got two left plates on his pins,” before recovering and saying slightly louder, “You are definitely improving señor, your falling to the floor is more graceful this week”.

Despite his trips and his falls, Clem steadily improved, and by the end of the ten weeks, he felt like he was ready. Fernando agreed, or rather, he felt that no amount of further money could recompense him for the anguish of coaching his toughest-ever pupil to a higher level.

But Clem could actually dance. Fernando’s methodical instruction had paid off. The first week, he had concentrated on Clem’s arms, starting with the left side and moving on to the right the following week. Legs were next, and eventually, they put the whole thing together, and Clem glided back and forth and around and around the dance floor.

They said their goodbyes, and Clem set off home. He was so pleased with himself. Finally, he could go to the dance, not make a spectacle of himself, and maybe, just maybe, garner some romantic interest. His loneliness was about to end.

He found himself humming the tune they had used for practice. He thought about the dancing method; left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg, and found himself dancing down the street. Filled with joy, he started singing the song:

You put your left arm in, your left arm out,
In, out, in, out, you shake it all about,
You do the hokey cokey and you turn around
And that’s what it’s all about!

Hopeless inhabitants

An Entertaining Adventure

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Story by Keith Errington, photo by The Cogkneys

Arthur Foot III, one half of the famous music hall act The Cogkneys (available for concerts, weddings, bar mitzvahs, the opening of fetes, and possibly even the opening of an envelope), was knelt down next to an old wooden tea crate in the attic of the meagre, but sufficient dwelling they resided in. “Tilly”, he called, “I’ve got something to show you.”

Tilly Maydme, the other half of the famous music hall act The Cogkneys (available for etc.), shouted up from somewhere below. “Arthur, I am NOT falling for that one again.”

“No, Tilly,” Arthur sighed, “Come up and have a look at these old books.”

“All right, but I’m warning you, Arthur.” She ascended into the roof space to join her partner in crime – the crime in question being music hall entertainment.

“Do you remember old Uncle Gan?’ Asked Arthur.

“The one who wore a big hooded cloak, carried a long mystical staff with a glowing orb on its top and who kept going on about his bus pass?” Replied Tilly.

“Yes, although I don’t think he said bus pass. Anyway, he left behind a whole ton of stuff, most of which I got rid of, but this box of books looked valuable. Look at this one.” He handed Tilly a dusty tome bound in leather.

“Cor, Arthur, that’s heavy. Is it a good story?”

“I don’t think these are stories, Tilly. Look, this small one is some sort of notebook; I think it might have poems in it.”

“Ooh, we can make poems into songs – we could do with some new material.”

“Oh, Tilly, you shouldn’t believe the critics; the old material is still good; we’ve been performing it for years.”

“Arthur, these are dead peculiar sorts of poems. ‘Ere, listen to this one…” And Tilly started reading from the notebook, reciting a strange set of words that seemed to overlap and form a complex rhyme. Her voice was starting to sound very strange. She seemed to be chanting the words now, and her body stiffened. She was entering a trance-like state.

“Er, Tilly. I don’t think that’s a poem. I think, maybe you should stop now. Tilly? TILLY!!” Arthur shook his companion, but as he did so, everything changed, the room faded away and floorboards gave way to grass, the roof became sky, and the darkness of the attic was replaced with daylight.

Without wasting a second, Arthur grabbed the notebook from Tilly’s hands and stuffed it in a pocket for safekeeping. “We’d better not read from that notebook again.”

“Oooh-err, I feel all funny,” said Tilly.

“Save it for the act!” Responded Arthur without thinking.

“No, I feel right peculiar.” She looked around and took note of their surroundings. “’Ere, where are we? What happened?”

“It appears your accidental oration of a powerful incantation invoked a transference conjuncture, relocating our corporal essences to another locus in the space-time continuum.” Arthur elucidated.

“Wot?”

“We’re somewhere else”.

“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so! Sometimes Arthur you can be so inscrotable.”

“Hmm, let’s look around. Maybe we can find some clues as to where we are, or possibly even when we are.” Arthur surveyed the immediate area.

“’Ere, what’s that, Arthur?” Tilly pointed. Arthur followed her finger and saw a strange creature lurking under a bush. There was a quick flash of silver as the light caught something wrapped in the creature’s legs. “Are they spoons?” Asked Tilly.

“And look over there” This time it was Arthur who was pointing. “Those birds over there have translucent bellies and long sharp beaks. You know what this means Tilly?”

“They’re not chickens?” she replied.

“No, it means that we are on a mythical island, full of dangerous creatures and dangerous plants and shrubs, peopled by dangerous characters – smugglers, drunkards and neer-do-wells.”

“Well, it don’t look like the Isle of Wight to me. Honestly, Arthur, you’ve no idea where we are, Arthur, have you? No idea. This is hopeless.”

“Yes, Tilly, yes, it is.”

“What a bloomin’ mess. And us with no idea where we are.”

“No, don’t you see, we are on the island of Hopeless, Maine. I’ve read stories about this. In fact, there was a particularly good one called “The Oddatsea.” I can highly recommend that one. Anyway, we best get to somewhere safer, maybe there’s a town over there – see the smoke?”

So, the music hall pair made their way down a well-worn dirt track towards the distant buildings.

–◊–

After a few minutes walking along the track, it started to narrow. The forest, which had gradually been getting denser, closed in on both sides. Suddenly, there was a shout and a number of oddly dressed men and women armed with knives and makeshift clubs jumped out onto the road. Within seconds, they were surrounded.

“Arthur, we’re surrounded!” exclaimed Tilly.

They were grabbed, and strange-smelling cloths were placed roughly over their mouths. Then it all went black. When they awoke, they were in some sort of warehouse. All their personal effects were gone. They were both tied to chairs facing a small, rough stage on which a man dressed in wispy clothes was standing. He looked down and addressed them.

“We are the Worshippers of The Fog, and you have been chosen!” He shouted at them.

“Oh, in’t that nice Arthur? We must’ve won a competition or somefink.” Tilly looked at Arthur excitedly.

“You have been chosen… to be sacrificed!” announced the fog cultist imperiously.

“Oh dear,” said Arthur.

“What, both of them? We’ve only ever tried to sacrifice one victim before,” came a questioning voice from the throng.

“Silence! Drastic times call for drastic measures. Now that The Fog is gone, we must make a special effort to summon it from beyond. Clearly, The Fog demands a powerful offering! An exceptional sacrifice of extraordinary portent! Unfortunately, these two are all we’ve got, so they will have to do,” Replied the cult leader.

“Ere, whadya mean we will do? I’ll have you know we are The Cogkneys. Music Hall artistes supreme, the toast of London, well, Walthamstow anyway, (available for etc.).” Tilly proclaimed.

“Tilly, we had toast in Walthamstow; it’s not the same thing.” Said Arthur. “And I don’t think this lot really care about music hall; they seem terribly uncultured to me.”

“Uncultured? How dare you! Responded the cult leader angrily. “We appreciate the finer things in life. We are all intelligent, art-loving, refined fanatical cultists!” The milling crowd murmured and nodded in agreement.

“Oh really?” Asked Arthur. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, and we are big fans of the music hall, you know.” Assured the head cultist.

“Right, well, in that case, how about we perform for you, and if you like us, you let us go, proving once and for all you are cultured intellectual high-brow zealots, and if you don’t like what we do, then you can sacrifice us.” Arthur offered.

“Arthur!” Tilly worriedly exclaimed.

“It’s alright, I have a plan.” Whispered Arthur.

“It better be better than all your other plans. Do you remember that time we went to Margate…”

“Shh, Tilly.”

The lead cultist seemed to consider for a moment. “You want to perform for us? And if you entertain us to our satisfaction, we let you go? I don’t know; we still need sacrifices, you know.”

“Look,” countered Arthur, “Are you enlightened, discerning, erudite, intellectual, devotees…”

“What?” interrupted the cultist with a look of incomprehension.

“…Or just stupid yokels fixated on water vapour?” continued Arthur.

“We are not yokels, we represent the finest Hopeless has to offer!” Exclaimed the lead cultist. “Pillars of our society! And we know what’s best for the good of the Island. We accept your challenge. Roger, I mean Fogman Sergeant, untie these two and get them onto the stage.”

“How are we going to perform without our instruments and music? “Asked Tilly of Arthur.

“We will have to do it acapella.” Replied Arthur.

“Bloomin’ ‘eck Arthur, I’m never, not taking my clothes off for nobody,” Tilly said firmly.

“No, Tilly, acapella means… Look, never mind. We will just have to sing unaccompanied.”

“Oh, well, I suppose we could manage.”

“Now, do you still have the notebook?” Arthur asked.

“Nah, them’s took it off me when we were rudely waylaid.” Tilly paused, then giggled.

“What?”

“Waylaid – sounds rude, don’t it? Heh, heh.”

“Tilly, concentrate, for goodness’ sake. Which one took it?”

“I dunno, I was out cold. Look, is that it over there on the table with our other stuff?” Tilly pointed to the back of the room.

“Yes, you’re right. Hmm, this does make it a little more difficult.” Arthur pondered for a moment.

“Wot yer thinkin’ Arthur?”

“Well, Tilly, it was the notebook that transported us here. Maybe there is some verse within it that can take us back home.”

“Oh, that’s just ridiculous, Arthur.” Scoffed Tilly.

“I know, but it’s all the author’s got.” Arthur replied.

“Perform for us, Cockneys!” Demanded the lead cultist.

“It’s COG-kneys, actually.” Said Tilly petulantly.

“NOW”, emphasised the fogman.

Arthur and Tilly went into their well-rehearsed routine and as usual started off with their instrumental theme tune, which they had to perform by going “la, la, la,” and then they introduced themselves with some well-worn, comedic banter.

After a few songs and their usual ribald patter in between, Arthur sensed it wasn’t going particularly well. The audience was sitting down politely listening, but they weren’t laughing much or applauding.

“Tilly, it’s now or never. We are going to have to put my plan into action. I need you to distract them whilst I sneak back and get the notebook. I need you to go all out.”

“Whaddya mean? I told you I ain’t doing burly-esk”

“No Tilly, I need two magnificent big…”

“Arthur!”

“Songs, Tilly, songs. I need you to beguile them, to entrance them, to captivate them with your performance. Two showstoppers!”

“Ah! Well, I’ll does me best. Here goes…”

As Tilly burst into song and belted out a proper soulful ballad, Arthur sneaked off the stage. He had to admit, when Tilly went for it, she was an incredible performer. The cultists appeared enraptured with her voice and her graceful movements on the stage. Arthur knew he had to make good on this excellent distraction. Sidling around the darkened edges of the warehouse, he made it to the table at the back. Pocketing their personal items, he grabbed the notebook and carefully made his way back to the stage.

The audience was so taken with Tilly that they hadn’t noticed his absence, and they burst into spontaneous and sustained applause as she finished the song.

“Now,” announced Arthur, “We’d like to perform a short poem.” He produced the notebook and passed it to Tilly, whispering, “Read – quickly!”

“Which one?” Tilly asked as the cultists shifted nervously in their seats.

“Any one!” Answered Arthur desperately.

Tilly opened the book and started reading. As she did so, the cultists exchanged glances; what was going on?

“Hey, isn’t that the notebook we took off them earlier?” One shouted.

So far, nothing was happening on the stage, ”Quick, try another” urged Arthur.

Tilly flipped to a different page and started reading. The words came out as a chant. Almost at once, a glow appeared in the centre of the warehouse. All the cultists turned to look as a large yellow sofa materialised. The glow stopped.

“But not that one!” Arthur bellowed above the cultists’ shouts. The fog fanatics had been momentarily distracted by the sofa’s appearance, but apart from one or two who were now plumping its cushions and sitting on it, the rest were approaching the stage, menacingly brandishing their clubs and knives.

Tilly flipped another page and once more began reading. Meanwhile the cultists were edging towards them, mounting the steps on each side of the stage.

Then Tilly’s voice became a chant, the words she uttered were mysterious and strange; they passed over one another in a way that unsettled the mind. The cultists stopped – they seemed scared, perhaps because, for the first time in their lives, they had actually encountered something genuinely otherworldly.

“Is it The Fog returning?” asked one with an air of wonder in her voice.

“No, you idiots, they are trying to get away – stop them!” Commanded the lead cultist.

But it was too late. Whatever incantation Tilly had found was working. Their surroundings were getting fainter like a mist had sprung up between them. As the noise of the cultists’ shouts faded away, our valiant music hall duo departed that fateful place.

To the cultists, it was as if a swirling cloud had taken them.

“It’s The Fog!” A man proclaimed.

“The Fog has taken them. It’s a miracle!” said another.

“No” protested the lead cultist, but he was drowned out by a dozen voices shouting, “The Fog! The Fog has claimed them; praise be to THE FOG!”

–◊–

“Cor blimey, thank Victoria that’s over!” Said Tilly, dusting herself off.

“Yes, that was a close one and no mistake. Bit of a scrape eh?” Remarked Arthur.

“Yeah, a proper escape!” Replied Tilly. “But where are we now? Are we home?”

“Hmm, let’s have a look around.”

“Oh, look, it’s all right, we’re a little way from home, but at least we are in England. It’s the Blackpool Tower, Arthur.” Tilly pointed to a large metal construction.

“Erm, Tilly…”

“Yes, Arthur?”

“Unfortunately, that’s the wrong erection.”

“Arthur – you are always being so rude.” Then she smiled at him, ”But I’ll forgive you after what we’ve been through. But just the once, mind.”

“No, Tilly. This is the tower designed and built by Monsieur Eiffel. It’s the the Eiffel Tower. We are in Paris, France.”

“Oh, lawks!”

(You can find the Cogkneys many places online here’s their bandcamp link https://thecogkneys.bandcamp.com/ )

Hopeless Tales

The Thistlebomb

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Story by Keith Errington, art by Nimue Brown

“STOP!” old Jedbrough Smallpinch commanded, and the youngster halted his slow progress along the narrow path to the curious object ahead and turned to face him.

“That there’s a Thistlebomb nest, it’s dangerous,” explained Jedbrough.
“You said everything is dangerous, but despite that, we needed to catalogue everything through careful examination. I was being careful.” His new apprentice responded with an air of petulance in his voice.

“There’s careful examination, and there’s sheer foolhardiness! Come back here, and we’ll find a way around.” Jedbrough was relieved when the young lad did as he was told; he really didn’t want to lose a new signup on the first day.

“Is it really that dangerous?” The young lad asked.

Jedbrough sighed. The impetuousness of youth. This lad will either learn or he won’t. And the won’t is the bit that will involve questions, paperwork, digging and burial. “Yes, it is.”

“Why, what does it do?” the young lad asked.

Jedbrough was going to run out of sighs at this rate; he thought as he sighed once more. But he had to admit it was a good question for a newbie to ask, so, having checked the area around an old log, he beckoned the youth to come and sit and then proceeded to answer
the young lad’s query. “Let me tell you a story…”

◊◊◊

“Thistlebombs were not always dangerous (Jedbrough began). There was a time when they were a wonderful distraction. People even planted them outside their homes or across their garden paths, little realising what was to come. There was little to know about them then.

They seemed to live quite happily on any reasonable soil and grew from a small seed into a nest, just like that one. They were known as Sudden Sprays back then. They always seemed to grow in pairs, on either side of a path or a small stream, or occasionally even in a clearing.

The nests start very small but grow to about the size you see over there. When they are ready, a curious thing happens. Together, somehow, a pair of plants would each launch a large thistle sort of thing up from the nest to a height of about 8 feet in an arc across the path, stream or clearing; at the top of the arc, they would suddenly explode in a mass of seedlings, almost translucent, with beautiful colours and patterns, accompanied by the sweetest of sighs. Somehow, the two sets of sprays would mingle, and everyone figured that this was the way they pollinated.

Only a few of the seedlings would cross paths, sometimes none, but a successful crossing would result in two more nests growing a little further up the path, stream or clearing. Of course, you could never tell when it was going to happen, so it was always a surprising delight if you caught it – there was something very magical about it, and it was considered by some to be good luck to see it.”
“That sounds delightful,” interrupted the youngster, “not dangerous at all.”

“Ah, but that was then, and this is now,” replied Jedbrough cryptically. “Listen to the story, boy, and no more interruptions, or we will be here all night!”

The boy looked sheepish and mumbled an apology.

“It was magic, of course; it’s always magic. Causes more problems than it solves, I reckon. It’s best to stay well away when magic is about. Have you heard of Grandma Kettle?”

The boy nodded – most people on Hopeless, Maine had heard the tales or caught her mentioned in a story.

“Well, Grandma Kettle went by the name Jemima Kettle in those days, and she got herself in a bit of a bind when she was a young lass; the combination of young minds and magic is rarely an untroubled one. She had tried to help a young girl in trouble with her family or some such. Anyway, she was being chased by the menfolk of that family – three in number, I believe it was – though some people tell of ten or twenty. People round here do love to puff up their telling. It was not a particularly fast chase; Grandma Kettle was encumbered by her
choice of skirt she was wearing that day, and the menfolk, well, let’s just say they weren’t the fittest or ablest of men. Despite this, they were a real threat, one carrying a pitchfork, one a heavy spade, and the third a large loofah, so the story goes, not the brightest that one.

They were catching her up, too, when she chose a very deliberate path, not too far from here, as I recall, where many Sudden Sprays were growing. The men were shouting and getting closer, but Grandma Kettle remained calm as she ran down that path. As she did so, she drew a pouch from her garments and took pinches of a powder, spreading it over the plants where she could and uttering something magical as she did so. The men were almost upon her, and they were determined to do her grave harm, I’ve no doubt.

Suddenly, all the Sudden Sprays launched their thistles at once, but these had somehow changed under the influence, no doubt, of Grandma Kettle’s magic. They were all black now, black as the darkest depths of the ocean, and spikier. The men stopped under a cluster, not sure how to react. The thistles exploded, but this time, it wasn’t with a sigh; it was with an awful bang, and shards of razor-sharp seeds rained down upon the men.

The two in front were badly hurt and fell to the ground. Some say they died in agony right there, although others say they took weeks to die. The third was a little way behind, and so he missed the terrible rain of deathly seeds. He dropped his loofah and ran off, and nobody
remembers seeing him after that.

Ever since then, the Sudden Sprays were forever changed; they became known as ThistleBombs, and these dark versions gradually replaced all the wonderful Sudden Sprays on the island. People whose families had planted Sudden Sprays across the entrance to their homes years ago when they were benign now have to climb through their windows to leave their houses.

Getting caught in their deadly rain can kill you – there have been many who have gone that way, and even if they don’t kill you straight away, they are deadly poisonous, and you are likely to have a slow, painful death. Like most deadly things on Hopeless, there is no known cure for their poison. That is why we avoid them; there is no telling when they might go off and end you.” Jedbrough finished.

“Can we go home now?” Asked the young lad.

Jedbrough sighed once more. He was not getting any younger, and his bones were tired from sitting on the cold log. He rose slowly. “Aye me, lad, that’s enough for your first day; let’s get home”.

Hopeless

Hopeless people – Keith Errington

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I first met Keith Errington on a stage at a steampunk event. We hit it off instantly and it was because of him that over those two days I wrote a Hopeless, Maine sea shanty. That was the second song I’d written for the setting – No Hope At All came first. The existence of The Ominous Folk as a project owed a lot to that weekend.

Keith came onboard at some point after then, writing stories for the blog, and getting Hopeless out to events. His Hopeless, Maine radio shows in the style of Garrison Keillor also pre-dated the shows that I wrote and led me towards trying that. Performing at events makes a huge difference to how people see the work and he led the way for us on that.

It was because Keith wrote The Oddatsea and was willing to organise a kickstarter for it that we first got New England Gothic out into the world, too.  Those two books have been published in one volume by Outland Entertainment,

Over the years he’s written songs for the settings, enabled us to do online events, supported Hopeless through Patreon, sung with The Ominous Folk, recorded us, and made a lot of things more feasible. He’s done much of this very quietly. 

Keith is also responsible for a horribly funny children’s book that mostly isn’t for children – Once Upon A Hopeless, Maine.

Last year when things broke down with Tom Brown – who stopped communicating with me about Hopeless, Keith was the person who kept me going. His love of the setting, and his speaking up for the community of people around this project gave me the reasons I needed not to just give up on the whole thing. That things are still happening on Hopeless now is very much thanks to him.

At this point I am fairly confident that if the story of the island is going forward from here, it will be in Keith’s hands next. I’ve got two novellas set after the graphic novels and I need to figure out how best to get those into the world. Those stories bring in some new elements (thanks to Dr Abbey!) that I didn’t know how to take forward, but Keith has a sense of how things might progress from here. And let me tell you, he’s got some pretty darn exciting ideas.

In the coming weeks I’m going to be doing more posts like this to highlight contributions from the wider Hopeless family. There are a lot of people who have significantly contributed to this project over the years, and I want to celebrate that.

Hopeless Tales

Entangled

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By Keith Errington

Dan Crow worked a farm a short way inland, it was a meagre living, but with serious effort and a canny eye, he compelled the begrudging land and its crops to give up enough of their harvest to afford him his house and his living. This was an impressive endeavour, as there are very few plants or animals on the island of Hopeless, Maine that are not incredibly dangerous and probably out to kill you. But some could be handled if you knew how, and Dan’s family had been farming this land for generations now and had handed down a wealth of ancient knowledge and expertise. His craggy face, keen eyes, rough hands and ever-present straggly beard, marked him out as a worker of the land, along with the solid wooden staff he always carried. He was big man, not unkind, but tough, and if he spoke, which was a rare event, it was quietly and with dignity.

Nathanial Veldt, or Nathan to his friends, fished off the shore of Hopeless. There were few more hazardous professions on the island than fishing. The sea creatures in the waters were like no other anywhere in the known world, a mass of vicious, spikey, multi-mouthed, tentacled bundles of hate and spite with more teeth than a saw making factory. The range and number of aquatic killer beasts generally deterred any sane person from venturing onto the beach, let alone into the water. After all, the island’s inhabitants knew only too well the treacherous nature of the seas having arrived there by shipwreck. Nathan, however seemed to be immune to attack or harm, and fished the seas without undue trouble, although this was still a formidable task as the seas and rocks around the island were challenging to the inexperienced sailor. Inexperienced Nathan was not, he had an almost mystical relationship with the sea and which allowed him to catch enough fish to sell in the town. This provided him with a modest living and a reasonable sized shack on the shoreline. Many said of Nathan that he had a witch’s protection, others that he was a benign demon – if there were such a thing – whereas the more fanciful said he was made of the sea itself – whilst not stopping to explain exactly how that might work. Broad shouldered and always wearing his tough sailor’s jacket, he had a mass of hair upon his head, which was mostly hidden under a woolly cap – except for his bushy eyebrows and even bushier beard. He kept himself to himself and was never known to harm anyone.

One afternoon whilst Nathan was casting his net, he noticed a huge commotion on the sea in the distance. An enormous bird, the like of which he had never seen before, was diving down into the water again and again. It was a raptorial beast with sharp angled wings and a beak like a huge spear, it’s end serrated and slightly curved. Suddenly, something rose out of the water and snapped at the bird, clipping a wing and the bird flapped backwards out of range before going in one last time in a fast focussed dive. Nathan could just make out a spreading of red on the surface of the water and the sudden frenzy of a hundred smaller denizens of the sea feasting on fresh flesh. The bird emerged from the water in a great plume of water, clutching a huge chunk of… something, in its beak. Nathan watched transfixed as it flew inland passing directly over his boat.

The bird was struggling to fly and hold onto its prize at the same time. The faltering motion of the bird jarred something loose, which dropped from the sky and landed in the boat. Nathan stooped down to see what he had just gained. The bottom of the boat was a mix of water, fish guts, fish oil and bits of rope, so Nathan had to look hard and close to see. As he peered into the murk, something shot up, tugged at his beard, and seemed to crawl inside. Nathan reeled back, cursing himself for his foolishness. Likely he’d be dead in minutes he thought. But as he sat in his vessel pondering his fate, he realised that nothing seemed to be happening. Cautiously, he felt inside his beard, he could feel nothing untoward – it seemed like just his beard and nothing more. Perhaps he had imagined it? But then, there seemed to be something slightly strange about the texture of his beard hair now.

Dan was out in the fields when he spied a large bird flapping in from the coast. It appeared to be in some trouble, a damaged wing causing it to falter. It was getting lower and lower, and Dan realised it would be down in the next field before long. He kept his distance, but approached the bird carefully as it flapped gracelessly down. At that moment, the bird saw him, struggled a bit and falteringly took off and flew towards the trees on the edge of the farm. Where it had been, Dan could just make out something small lying on the ground. Being a cautious man, Dan took his staff and moved it towards the object. Suddenly there was a rapid movement, and something ran up the stick across his body and into his beard. Dan yelped and pulled at his beard, running his finger through to try and locate and lose the foreign creature. But there didn’t seem to be anything there, just a change in the texture of his beard. In response to such a troubling incident, Dan did the only reasonable thing – he headed for the pub.

Nathan had sat in his old armchair for a while just considering his experience. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders, grabbed his coat and headed out. He needed a drink. As he stepped through the threshold and into sight of the bar he was warmly greeted by the barman – always glad of a customer, “Hello, Mr Veldt.” This was an affectation, the barman knew his first name, but always addressed them by surnames as in a traditional manner. “Pint of Green Heron’s Legs please” requested Nathan. Beer in hand he made his way to a booth near the back of the establishment – not his normal habit, he usually sat at the bar – but he felt like brooding, and that was going to be difficult surrounded by the pub’s custom.

“Hello Mr Crow” the barkeep cheerily shouted across as Dan entered the pub. “Will it be the usual sir?” “Yes, thank you” responded Dan. “Pint of Tine’n’turp, coming up”. Dan picked up his glass and looked around the bar – he felt a strange tingle in his beard and a slight tug, seemingly directing him to the back of the pub. He tried to ignore it, but nevertheless found himself walking back and sitting down at the very same booth as Nathan, taking a chair across the small table. “May I join you?” Dan asked, and received a nod in reply. “Evening”, they both said, almost simultaneously. “Dan Crow isn’t it?’ Asked Nathan. “Yes, and you’re the fisherman – Nathan…” Dan struggled to find the surname. “Veldt” offered Nathan helpfully, and they shook hands.

They sat for a while, two hard-working loners, who seldom said much and for whom small talk was a foreign language. They both sensed they should say something to start a conversation but struggled to find the means. Eventually Nathan spoke, “I, er, had a rather strange experience today…” he offered. Dan looked up, “Oh, so did I actually. Most strange. What happened to you?”

Nathan looked around conspiratorially, he didn’t want too many people thinking he was going mad after all, “Well, I was fishing off the coast this morning…” he said quietly. Rather too quietly, “What?” queried Dan and leaned in closer to hear. At that moment as the two men faced each other, a couple of inches away at most, something emerged from each of their beards and met in the middle, like fine filaments from a spider’s web. They spun around each other and pulled tight. “Weargh!” exclaimed Nathan as his head bumped against Dan’s. “Sorry,” Dan automatically replied without thinking, although the sudden closeness was no more his fault that Nathan’s. The threads pulled tighter bringing the two beards together and then intertwining them. By this point Dan and Nathan were beard to beard, mouth to mouth, nose to nose, and terrified eye to terrified eye. The beards stretched tighter and then, seemingly reaching an equilibrium, they relaxed slightly, but not quite enough to separate the two men’s faces. Some of the other customers were looking over at them, and from the other side of the room, the flamboyant Jason Tredagaire threw them a knowing wink. But then, after a while, it became obvious to the other customers that something wasn’t right. Perhaps it was the awkward body language, or the untouched beer, or maybe it was the muffled noises coming from the mouths of the entrapped pair.

Doc Willoughby was summoned and spent what he felt was a suitably appropriate amount of time scratching his head before pronouncing that he had never seen anything like it, and as they were not dying he would be off to see to some patients who might be.

The two men’s beards could not be separated no matter how hard people tried, or what they tried. And they had to go back to Dan’s farmhouse together.

Over time Nathanial Veldt and Dan Crow became used to their weird Siamese life. They fished together and farmed together, the extra pair of hands making the work easier. Somehow their sentient beard dwellers knew to allow them some respite and loosened their grip enough to let the pair eat and drink when they needed. But sleeping and other activities were always awkward and strained.

At some point they both realised they had a lot in common, that they shared many experiences, and living so close together they developed a relationship and eventually a gentle love began to blossom between them. In the fullness of time, they saw their affliction as a blessing, for never would they have found true companionship without it, and would forever have lived alone.

They became a byword on the island for true love, after all, the two men were literally inseparable, so much so, they became known by just the one name, VeldtCrow.

Hopeless

Once Upon a Hopeless Maine

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This week we have some happy book news as one of our previous projects is now more widely available. 

Once Upon a Hopeless Maine is the brainchild of Keith Errington. This is an evil sort of brainchild, and terribly, horribly funny. Tom Brown did the line drawing for the illustrations, Nimue Brown did the colours. Like all children’s books, it’s a cheery brightly coloured thing. Unlike most children’s books, some of the brightly coloured things are the people the central protagonist has murdered.

Originally there was a kickstarter to put this out into the world. It seemed like a cunning plan to put it on Amazon, from whence it may be acquired by anyone who finds they need a copy.

On the whole this is not a book for children. Although there was one child – already a fan of Drury the skeletal dog – who got his mitts upon it, read the whole thing with a look of utter glee upon his small face and insisted his father buy him a copy. If you know one of *those* children, you may want to get them a copy. If you choose to encourage and support their murderous inclinations, you of course do so at your own risk.

You may have that sort of inner child. We’re not judging you. Of course we aren’t – having made this little book of slaughter, it would seem unreasonable to judge anyone for buying it. Those pennies we get in Amazon royalties definitely won’t go on buying some new knives or a really good spade. Why would we need a spade? It’s not like anyone has bodies to hide or anything.

Hopeless inhabitants

The Coronation

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By Keith Errington

There was something extra magical about the circular grove upon Urthappel Hill. Many things in Hopeless Maine were magical, so most magical things did not tend to stand out in the way that they would on the mainland. But this circle of trees was quietly striking to those who knew the ways. A perfect circle of trees, exactly on top of the hill, with no other trees for quite some distance.

No stranger to magic and wyrdling ways, Lyssa loved this place. Almost every other day she would find some excuse to be out here, purposely diverting from the quickest route to take in the hill. Some days she would sit at the bottom of one of the bigger trees reading a book. Other days she would lie in the middle of the grove looking up at the circular gap in the leaves to the sky beyond. A few times she would take some food in a basket and eat a relaxed lunch in the grove. It always seemed so peaceful to her. Welcoming. She once brought a friend to the hill, but they wouldn’t step near the top, and ran away from her when Lyssa said they were being silly.

Then one evening, Lyssa found herself out later than she expected. The sun was almost down and it cast a mournful glow across the landscape. Walking a well-known path, Lyssa realised it would run close to the hill, so she left the path and set out across the field to reach it.

Have you ever noticed how everything looks different at night? Even the familiar can look strange and unknown. Places that are one way by day, are entirely another when the sun goes down. The hill seemed less welcoming now. A blackness wrapped itself around the grove of trees, a blackness that failed to dissipate as Lyssa drew nearer. Everything was the same only different. Despite the foreboding that now enveloped the place, Lyssa was not afraid. She was not lacking in magic, and this felt more like a warning than a threat – something to scare away the casual interloper. Her curiosity was burning inside her now and she sat down within sight of the grove, but not inside it. Something held her back – a sense that she was here tonight to witness rather than participate.

She was there for a while when she saw the first small lights in the distance, bobbing and weaving. They appeared to be clustered in small groups and were not particularly bright. As they came closer to the grove, she saw them for what they were, night potatoes on the move. She had heard stories and knew that they moved around, but this was the first time she had witnessed such a parade of the creatures. She kept still and silent – she was good at this, something she had had to perfect in the past. In any event they did not seem to notice her.

There was quite a number of the creatures, and they all moved together until they reached the first tree, whereupon they split up – each going to a separate trunk. Lyssa was intrigued – what could they be doing? As if to answer, each night potato started climbing their respective tree. It was clearly a challenging undertaking for them, tendrils barely equal to the task of ascending. Indeed a few fell almost straight away. After which they seemed to shake themselves and then started to climb again. Lyssa was fascinated. Why were they climbing the trees? What could they be doing? She sat for hours whilst the night potatoes continued their seemingly impossible mission. Many had reached the upper branches of the trees and were making their way along boughs that overhung the centre of the grove. Some were still struggling with their climb up the main trunk, and a few were on the ground, seemingly despondent that they had fallen off again.

A small ribbon of red light appeared on the horizon and Lyssa realised she had been there all night and that dawn was about to break. She looked up at the grove – about half of the night potatoes were at the end of branches with more still climbing the trees. Suddenly they all stopped. They all turned as one towards the distant horizon, seemingly sensing the dawn. They all turned back, and again, as one, jumped. Lyssa fell back from her sitting position – she was not expecting this. Why did they jump? What were they trying to achieve?

Many of the potatoes did not survive the fall and moved no longer. Some were carried away by their comrades who had not fallen so far, or were lucky.

And so it came to be that Lyssa became somewhat obsessed with the night potatoes mysterious ritual. It seemed to happen roughly every two weeks, coinciding with half or full moons. She stopped visiting the grove in the daytime – that no longer held any excitement for her. Now, she just came to see the night potatoes climb.

Many times, she saw them climb and many times she saw them fall. She wondered whether she should help in some way, or intervene. She thought about carving steps into the trunks, but that seemed unnatural and she knew the tree spirits would be unhappy with her, besides, that was not her way. She had a strong sense that this was something the night potatoes would have to do for themselves. By now she had realised that they didn’t seem to care that she was there, or didn’t even sense she was there, as she was able to enter the grove and observe them close up.

On one occasion a large proportion of the potatoes managed to complete the climb. At the end of the branches they held out their tendrils – the branches were just close enough that they could hold each other and create a circle – albeit with a few gaps. Just before dawn, they all jumped together – holding tendrils as they fell. Seeing this, Lyssa gasped. What was it all about? She had been standing by one of the bigger trees and knelt down to get a better look at the nearest potatoes. Most were not moving, whilst some were already limping away. A couple of the more mobile ones seemed to suddenly notice her and scuttled away to the nearest patch of darkness. A small one seemed to panic on seeing her and dug itself into the ground.

It was only a few weeks later that Lyssa experienced her transmutation. She had been standing in the grove watching the latest group of night potatoes attempt the circle. They seemed to be doing better than before. At this point there were no stragglers – all were making the climb. Lyssa found herself ridiculously excited – what if they all jumped together? What would happen? She found herself turning around to check on all the participants in the night’s ritual. Higher and higher they climbed. Then out onto the limbs of the trees – moving towards the centre of the grove along narrower and narrower branches. Lyssa was spinning faster now, trying to see when the circle would be closed. Tendrils were reaching out – seeking their potato pals. Laughing, and almost dancing, Lyssa looked up. Before she had a chance to move the circle was complete and the night potatoes had jumped.

There were a few moments when Lyssa was not sure what had happened, but then she felt tendrils in her hair, her ears, her mouth and her nostrils. Strangely, she was not afraid, not weirded out by this, but accepted it. There was a ring of night potatoes around her head, and she could see more night potatoes entering the grove. She felt compelled to pick up a solid branch lying on the ground – it became her staff. A few of the bigger potatoes climbed the staff and settled upon the top. She sensed a calling, a message, a title. The night potatoes around her head withdrew and made their way to the ground. She stood in the centre of the grove, hundreds of Night Potatoes all around. This was her coronation. She had become The Queen of the Night Potatoes.