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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot, Uncategorized

A Nice Change of Diet

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“Where’s Philomena?”

Rhys Cranham sounded somewhat worried. 

“Up in the attics, I believe,” replied Reggie Upton. “She said something about digging out a few books for Neville Moore.”

Rhys sighed with relief. Ever since Durosimi O’Stoat had managed to open a mysterious portal to who-knows-where, commonly referred to by just about everyone as ‘The Anomaly’, Philomena had taken it upon herself to monitor the site. While Rhys was confident that his wife would take every care, the Anomaly seemed to be spitting out nasty little multi-legged creatures here, there and everywhere. It was all very well for Mr Squash to claim that these were busily eating each other, but common-sense would say that there must be a few particularly well-fed ones strolling around the island (if it’s actually possible to stroll with so many tentacles, that is).

“As I’m the island’s postman,” said Reggie, importantly, ”doubtless Philomena will be asking me to deliver those books to Neville. I’ll go in daylight and be sure to take my sword stick with me, just in case I run I to any of those little horrors that are on the loose.”

“Maybe Tenzin will go with you,” said Rhys. “I hear that he’s a dab-hand with a fighting stick. Besides, I’m sure he’d like to meet Neville.”

“Not forgetting the lovely Lenore, as well,” grinned Reggie.

Regular readers will know that the hermit, Neville Moore, has a pet raven, named Lenore. She is a decrepit old bird who generally perches on the guano streaked statues that are dotted liberally around Neville’s mausoleum-like home. Lenore has the unsettling habit of loudly croaking Neville’s name whenever anyone approaches, although, many have commented that when she rasps  ‘Neville Moore’, the sound is more of a quoth than a croak.

It was later that afternoon when Reggie and Tenzin, the young Buddhist monk, set off for Neville’s house on Ghastly Green. In order to get there, they had to pass very close to the Anomaly, which, by now, was a pulsating obscenity hanging in the air, emitting thin clouds of sickly green mist. 

“Damn and blast you, O’Stoat. When will you learn not to meddle?” muttered Reggie.

Tenzin made a mental note to spin his prayer wheel a few times on behalf of Reggie and his bad language.

Both men carried their weapons in readiness, expecting, at any moment, to be attacked by the nameless, many-legged creatures that dropped from the Anomaly, but none came. In fact, the walk to the hermit’s house was totally uneventful. They didn’t even have their ears assaulted by Lenore’s cackles and caws for, to Tenzin’s great disappointment, she was nowhere to be seen. Ever since coming to Hopeless, and settling at The Squid and Teapot, he had heard much of this ghastly, grim and ancient raven, and was keen to see her for himself. 

“Lenore? Lately she seems to be spending all day perched on the Ravenstone,” said Neville, when asked about the bird’s whereabouts. “I’m surprised you didn’t see her when you walked through.”

“We were too intent on looking out for those little blighters dropping out of the Anomaly,” said Reggie. “In the event, we didn’t see any, thank goodness.”

Neville smiled knowingly.

“Lenore is picking them off as fast as they drop down,” he said. “She must have put on quite a bit of weight since that Anomaly appeared.”

“You mean that she’s eating them?” asked Tenzin.

“She can’t get enough. It’s a nice change of diet for her,” chuckled Neville. “It’s only a pity that she can’t eat that other thing that fell out at the same time.”

“Other thing?” Said Reggie and Tenzin together.

“The Glimmer Man,” explained Neville. “I have been watching him. He was first out, wriggling like a snake. He crawled up the Ravenstone and took on human form. Weirdly, he has all-but faded away now, except for his eyes. They’re like two burning coals.”

“And that’s why he’s called the Glimmer-Man, I suppose,” said Reggie.

“Exactly,” said Neville, “I don’t know what he’s capable of, but it can’t be good. Watch yourself when you go back to The Squid, the daylight’s already beginning to fade.”

“If we see Lenore, I’ll tell her to fly home,” said Reggie. 

“Good luck with that,” muttered Neville.

As the hermit had predicted, Lenore was perched on top of the Ravenstone, her beady eyes scouring the ground for any wayward droppings from the Anomaly. Reggie waved his sword stick encouragingly and suggested that she should fly home. Lenore gave him a disdainful look, eased her position slightly, and added to the already generous number of white streaks decorating the sides of the Ravenstone. 

The two had walked no more than a dozen paces, however, when they heard the flapping of wings, and Lenore lifted herself awkwardly into the sky, heading back in the direction of Ghastly Green. 

“Hah, old Neville underestimated the power of a British army officer’s command,” said Reggie smugly. 

“I’m not so sure that it was you who persuaded her to leave,” said Tenzin uneasily. “Look over there.”

Hanging in the air, next to the Ravenstone, was a pair of glowing orbs, looking like the burning coals that Neville had described. It was just possible to ascertain a faint, man-like form surrounding them.

“It’s the Glimmer-Man,” whispered Tenzin. “I wonder what he wants?”

“I have absolutely no intention of finding out,” said Reggie. “Discretion is the better part of valour, m’lad. Come on, it’s time that we left.“

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Fried Egg Theory

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You can say whatever you want about Durosimi O’Stoat, but he is definitely not a man known to frighten easily. During his lifetime the sorcerer has battled with an assortment of demons, ghouls and night-stalkers, each intent on finding ever more novel means of assisting him to shuffle off his mortal coil in as violent and unpleasant a manner as is possible. 

On the occasion of our tale, however, Durosimi was feeling real fear. His heartbeat was irregular, his legs felt weak, an icy hand gripped his heart and his bowels and bladder were dangerously close to deciding that preparation for flight would be decidedly preferable to fighting. One could be forgiven for not daring to dwell upon the terrifying nature of the creature threatening him. 

Just a few minutes earlier he had been quietly poring over some ancient grimoire when, to his great surprise, the front door had inexplicably blown open, scattering books and parchments all over the room, tipping over his desk and chair, and pinning him to the wall. Filling the space where the door used to hang properly stood an ominous figure, a pale goddess, huge and menacing, with dreadful, merciless eyes. In her right hand she carried a brazen spear that crackled and spat blue fire.

‘Oh no, it’s the Morrigan,” Durosimi whimpered as he slid to the floor, half-dazed. 

When he opened his eyes, a few seconds later, some semblance of normality had returned, although the front door still dangled precariously from one hinge. Standing before him, not wielding a flaming spear, but a rolling pin, was Philomena Bucket.

“Do you have any idea what you have done?” she raged, her usually wan features flushed with anger. “Your meddling has opened the door to all sorts of nightmares.”

Durosimi wilted beneath the force of Philomena’s fury. True, to look at her she appeared small, weak and vulnerable, but this surging wave of vituperation carried upon it the combined might of countless generations of powerful witches, a force that threatened to crush Durosimi into a quivering pulp.

Despite this, Philomena could not help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the wretched man cowering in the corner. After all, plenty of her ancestors had allowed ambition to be their downfall. 

“What did you do, exactly,” asked Philomena, in a more conciliatory tone. “Maybe you… we… can put it right.”

Durosimi shook his head.

“I don’t know what can be done,” he confessed. “The spell was meant to open a portal. There was no clue as to how it can be sealed.”

“And meanwhile,” said Philomena, bitterly, “all sorts of abominations are dropping through it.”

“Maybe your friend the Sasquatch might have an idea,” suggested Durosimi, hopefully. “He seems to be adept at opening and closing portals.”

“Not ones like this,” replied Philomena, “but I suppose it will be worth our while asking Mr Squash.”

“I’ve been studying this new phenomenon,” said Mr Squash enthusiastically, “and it’s rather interesting. I’ve noticed that most of those creatures dropping through it have very short lives, mainly because they are eating each other.”

“Ugh!” spluttered Philomena in disgust. “What about that man-thing that came out first?”

“Oh, you mean the Glimmer-Man?  He has crept off into the forest. I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him, unfortunately.”

“But do you have any idea how we seal the portal?” asked Durosimi.

“No,” said Mr Squash. “And I don’t think that it is a portal, as such.  However, I believe its presence explains a lot about why Hopeless is so strange.”

“Really?” said Durosimi, keen to salvage something worthwhile from this catastrophe.

“I call it my Fried Egg Theory,” said Mr Squash, only too happy to expound.

“Think of Hopeless as the yolk, and the egg-white surrounding it as a realm of Chaos, by and large cocooning the island from the normal laws of time and space. Occasionally people get here from any point in history, and much more rarely, some have been able to escape.”

“What about the Underland?” asked Philomena. “There’s a way out through there.”

“Only to a point,” said the Sasquatch. “As you know only too well, it’s a dead end that will take you so far and no further.’

“But you manage to come and go as you please,” protested Durosimi, not a little enviously.

“That is because I am, what you humans ignorantly refer to as, a cryptid. We travel at will through the dimensions.”

“So could you go to this Chaos place?” asked Philomena. 

“Not willingly,” said Mr Squash, with a shudder. “Anything which ventures into that realm could find itself changed beyond recognition. Our friend the Glimmer-Man is a case in point. He was probably an over-curious sorcerer once.”

Durosimi paled, and suddenly felt the need to sit down.

“As for the anomaly,” said Mr Squash, “in my experience, such things heal up after a short time. Even my portals need remaking every few months. Until then, you’ll just have to put up with those things dropping out of it – but as I said, they tend to devour each other.”

“I wonder if Durosimi  has learned his lesson from all of this?” said Philomena to her husband, Rhys Cranham later that day. They were sitting in the snuggery of the Squid and Teapot. Drury, the skeletal hound, lay snoring in the corner. 

“Do you think that the sinkhole at the bottom of the garden at Poo Corner leads to Chaos?” asked Rhys, who had been the island’s Night-Soil Man until little over a year ago. “It has been the burial place for generations of Night-Soil Men. I’d hate to think that they’d been transformed into something nasty.”

“I really hope not,” said Philomena. “But maybe it’s a tradition that should stop.” 

“There’s also a legend that Killigrew O’Stoat, the very first Night-Soil Man, had a dog,” said Rhys. “When the dog died, Killigrew was so heartbroken that he couldn’t bear to bury it, lest something dug it up and ate the poor animal. To avoid that, he cast the dog’s corpse into the sinkhole.” 

The pair both turned their gaze to Drury, who had been a presence on Hopeless for more years than anyone could guess. He was snuffling and twitching, chasing spoonwalkers across his dreams.

“Maybe something good did come out of it, after all,” smiled Philomena. 

Authors note: The story of Killigrew and his dog can be seen in the tale ‘A Dog’s Life’.

Hopeless

Hopeless people – Martin Pearson

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My guess is that Martin is the person who has written most words about Hopeless. He’s done this steadfastly week by week over many years, with The Squid and Teapot providing the backbone of this blog. 

Hopeless, Maine was a project started by Tom Brown many years ago. Various people have been involved with it in the past. After I (Nimue) got involved, Martin was the next person to make a substantial commitment to the project, and he’s been here ever since, sharing tales.

What I love about The Squid and Teapot stories is how they’ve opened up island life. While some of the characters from the graphic novels show up here and there, the cast in these tales is huge. We get insight into what living on Hopeless is like for its (relatively) normal citizens. Other contributors who have come in to write stories have expanded on this population, but Martin is the one who initially opened up this territory.

There were long stretches when other work pressures and lack of inspiration meant that I wasn’t writing much for the blog. It made a huge difference having this steady supply of stories to keep the blog alive. That I was able to jump back in with Mrs Beaten tales some years ago, and had the motivation to keep the blog viable is very much down to the existence of The Squid and Teapot.

Being the island’s pub, The Squid and Teapot has become an iconic setting that many other contributors have alluded to in their stories. It’s a key part of island life. Martin is also responsible for the existence of the night soil man and the traditions surrounding that job. He’s responsible for the Gydynap hills, and for developing the history of the island as well.

The Squid and Teapot usually goes out on a Tuesday.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Offer

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By Martin Pearson

he reality of his situation was gradually dawning upon Septimus Washwell. At twenty-one years of age he was a married man with a child on the way. Had you told him, just a year ago, that he would be saddled with such responsibility in such a short time, he would have laughed in your face. The Septimus of last year was a confirmed bachelor, a free spirit, with a reputation for fighting his way in and out of trouble with monotonous regularity. And then Mirielle D’Illay, of the dance troupe Les Demoiselles de le Moulin Rouge, had come into his life, and his world was turned upside-down. Mirielle had transformed Septimus’ aggressive tendencies into a passion for dancing, much to the surprise of his parents and the amusement of his six brothers.

“Why do you worry so? The baby is not due until just before Christmas. Everything will be okay.”

Mirielle did not like to see her husband quite so distracted.

“But I do worry,” said Septimus. “Having a baby is big. Really, really big.”

“It will be fine,” reassured Mirielle. “Just keep that drunken quack, Doc Willoughby, well away from me, or I will not be responsible for my actions. Philomena has promised to take care of everything.”

“That’s just as well,” said Septimus, “she has helped deliver a few babies since she’s been on the island. What bothers me is how we’re going to manage.”

“The way everyone else does,” said Mirielle, sounding exasperated. “Mon Dieu, your mother had seven children. Do you think she worried about having to manage?”

“Well I want my kid to have the best of everything,” said Septimus.

Bartholomew Middlestreet stood in the cellar of The Squid and Teapot, surrounded by a variety of barrels of all sizes.

“I’m not used to people asking if they can have a barrel of ale,” he said, “especially people like Durosimi O’Stoat.  I can’t imagine why he wants one so much – he’s not known for throwing parties.”

“How big a barrel does he need?” asked Reggie Upton, whose encounters with Durosimi, to date, had not been memorable for their cordiality.

A firkin – that’s nine gallons, and as small as I’ve got,” replied Bartholomew.

“What was it that my prep school teacher used to tell us? A pint of water weighs a pound and a quarter… why, that’s ninety pounds, plus the weight of the barrel,” said Reggie, doing a rapid calculation.

“I hope you’re not expecting me to lug it along to chez Durosimi,” he added. “I am not the man I once was, y’know. I recall an occasion, just after the battle of Spion Kop…”

“No, of course not,” broke in Bartholomew, keen to derail any long anecdote that Reggie might be planning to inflict upon him. “I’m going to ask young Septimus if he’ll wheel it along in the barrow, later.”

“Good show,” said Reggie, “It will give the lad something to do. He’s been moping around a lot lately. Worried about the trials of parenthood, I’d imagine.”

Septimus stood on Durosimi’s doorstep, plucking up the courage to knock on the door. Like most of those who lived on Hopeless, Maine, he regarded Durosimi with a mixture of fear and awe. What was it that people called him? Sorcerer, or something similar. Warlock as well. Septimus knew what they meant. But Philomena had used words he had not heard before; thaumaturgist and necromancer. Were they good or bad?

While contemplating this, Septimus had not noticed that Durosimi had noiselessly opened the door and was standing in front of him.

“Yes?” it was surprising how much menace could be invested in a single syllable.

“Sorry, Mr O’Stoat. I’ve got your ale from The Squid. Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry that you have my ale?”

“Oh, sorry.”

“For goodness sake, stop apologising man, and bring it along to the kitchen.”

Septimus looked at the mud-splattered barrow and decided that wheeling it through the house might not be the popular thing to do.  

Cradling the firkin in his arms, he dutifully followed after Durosimi.

Over the years, Septimus had visited several houses on the island. There was very little variation in their décor and furnishings. Out of necessity islanders depended upon anything that they could salvage to make their homes as comfortable as possible. This often led to some very odd combinations of furniture and fixtures, but these were generally functional and fulfilled a need. Durosimi’s house, however, was like none he had seen before. There were no sea-stained tables and chairs, upturned orange-boxes or cracked plates and mugs. Everything was pristine. Everything looked new and expensive. Septimus gazed, open mouthed; he had no idea that such opulence existed on Hopeless.

“Come on lad. Put the barrel down in the corner,” said Durosimi, then paused.

“You’re not even breaking a sweat,” he said. “That barrel must weigh eighty pounds, at least.”

“A hundred, according to Reggie Upton,” said Septimus, then paled visibly. He would not want Durosimi to think that he was trying to correct him.

“Indeed? You’re a strong fellow, I’ll give you that,” said Durosimi, sounding uncharacteristically pleasant. “You wouldn’t be wanting a job, by any chance?”

“A job? What sort of job.”

“Working for me occasionally. I could use someone like you,” said Durosimi.

“Someone like me?” said Septimus, warily.

“Someone with a bit of strength. I am not as young as I used to be, and some of my transactions… “

He let the sentence trail off, as though he had said too much.

“Look,” he went on. “I know you’ll have a growing family to support soon…”

“How do you… ?” began Septimus, but Durosimi held up his hand to silence him.

“Just hear me out. I saw you casting covetous eyes over the modest possessions I have in my parlour. Things like those could be yours, for no more than a few hour’s work occasionally.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” said Durosimi. “But you must tell no one. Not even that pretty little French bride of yours.”

The hair on Septimus’ neck prickled. Durosimi seemed to know more about him than he was comfortable with. But all the same…

“What do I need to do?” he asked.

“Nothing at the moment. I’ll send for you in a few days… and yes, I know where you live. I will be in touch with you soon, and remember – tell no one.” 

“He will do nicely,” Durosimi thought to himself, with a mirthless smile, as he watched Septimus make his way down the hill. “Strong in the arm, and not too much in his head. Perfect!”

To   be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

What is The Squid and Teapot?

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If you’re a regular reader of this blog you’ll be aware that Martin Pearson’s Tales from The Squid and Teapot are a Tuesday feature. This has been a thing for such a long time now that it seemed a good idea to take a moment for the project as a whole.

In terms of the island setting, The Squid and Teapot is the name of the pub. Said pub is down near the harbour, and is often the first port of call for people who have survived shipwrecking. It’s a friendly, well meaning sort of space, in that the ghosts are friendly, the tentacles can be very friendly, especially with unsuspecting ankles and oddly enough not everyone feels instantly comfortable with this.

Tales from The Squid and Teapot are a mix of things – some are stories set around this location, and others are the sorts of stories regulars might amuse each other with over a large glass of something murky and fermenting. The tales have their own established cast, and also involve characters from the graphic novel series.

You’ll find The Squid and Teapot in other stories too – while the pub is the invention of Martin Pearson, it’s become an important part of island life and lots of other contributors like to refer to it. This may say some things about the natural affinity Hopeless, Maine people have for places selling that which claims to be beer.

While we do have some photographic evidence of Martin Pearson, his preference is not to have that shared too much, which is also why you haven’t seen him at any of the online festivals. In terms of words on this blog he is without a doubt the most prolific contributor. Zero effort has been made to figure out if that changes when you add in Nimue’s novellas to the equation, but we can say with confidence that it’s not clear.

If you’ve ever read The Squid and Teapot and thought that Martin’s writing style is a bit like Nimue’s, you’d be close. It would be fairer to say that Nimue’s writing style is a bit like Martin’s and that he’s very much been an influence on both her writing style and her interest in getting into writing in the first place.

(The Squid and teapot photo above are also Martin’s.)

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Lapsus Linguae

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Reverend William Spooner, Dean of New College Oxford, was an old and trusted friend of the well-to-do Toadsmoor family. When, one bright morning, he suggested that their youngest daughter, Marjorie, should take the Oxford University entrance examination, the household was gripped by a level of excitement which may have been considered unseemly in some Victorian circles, where a muted “Good show” might be all that was permitted. But excited they were, for this was an historical moment; in this year of 1885, the august university had at last deigned give women the opportunity to study within its hallowed halls of learning.
The family’s proudest moment was shattered and turned to grief just a few weeks later, however, when their brilliant daughter disappeared, never to be seen by them again.

Marjorie Toadsmoor is one of Hopeless, Maine’s newer residents. I have no idea how or why she arrived there, and come to that, neither has she. Like Garfield Lawnside, the city slicker who had designs to buy the island (see the tale ‘The Persian Runner’), she wandered down the wrong street one day and ended up on Hopeless. Finding herself standing in the shadow of a lighthouse and looking out over a wild and foggy sea, struck her as being somewhat bizarre as, just minutes before, she had been walking through Oxford. As you may appreciate, the town of Oxford is very far from being coastal.

It is fortunate that those on Hopeless are not slaves to fashion, or even vaguely aware that such a thing exists. Indeed, Hopeless seems sometimes to hover within its own time, sheltered from all aspects of modernity. I may be wrong (and I frequently am) but if she had been transported from any era, past or future, it would not have mattered to anyone, particularly. I mention this only because Marjorie appeared upon the shores of the island as the very essence of the modern Victorian lady-about-town. As it was, resplendent in bonnet, hooped skirt and carrying a parasol,, she looked no more out of place than anyone else on the island – and with each step she took, all but the most fleeting memories of her past life gradually melted away, like snow upon the water.

Marjorie’s first experience of the strangeness of Hopeless happened within an hour of her arrival. Wandering inadvertently into a narrow alley, she found herself looking at a diminutive, fish like creature, with glowing eyes and tendril – like appendages, foraging among the rubbish. It appeared to propel itself along by employing a pair of silver dessert spoons as stilts. Not being particularly fond of most varieties of fauna at the best of times, Marjorie let out a scream of terror. The creature spun around upon its spoons and glared menacingly at the young woman. It has been reported on several occasions that the stare of a spoonwalker – for spoonwalker it was – can induce madness. Whether this was the case, I do not know but the situation was not helped when, in a bid to escape, it shot beneath her skirt and out of the other side before she could draw breath to scream again.

“Are you alright, miss?” It was Philomena Bucket who found her, crouched upon the floor and shaking like an aspen.
Marjorie looked up and was surprised to see a strangely beautiful woman with white hair and a pale, kind face. An albino! Something rang a distant bell in her mind; she had known an albino, a kindly man who was always getting his words mixed up, but that seemed long ago and far away.
“What was that creature… the one walking on spoons?” she asked.
“Ah, that would be a spoonwalker. Nasty little devils they are, to be sure,” replied Philomena.
“I have been attacked by a spoonwalker… and I am all alone in this strange place. Whatever will become of me?” Marjorie said, miserably, mainly to herself.
Her mind went back to the albino man whom she had known. His affliction had something to do with spoons; she couldn’t recall exactly what it was. Maybe he had been attacked by a spoonwalker, too. That was why he mixed up his words. Yes – he must have fallen foul of a spoonwalker, as she had. That would explain it.
“I fear I have become infected,” she told Philomena. “I can feel the virus coursing through me now, even as we speak. Oh, dear me.What shall I do?”
Philomena had never heard of such a thing before but decided that, if the young woman really believed herself to be ill, she needed to see Doc Willoughby.

The surgery was closed. The sign outside read:
‘Go away. Out on house calls. Back later.’
Philomena correctly surmised that this meant that the Doc was sleeping off a hangover and would not be in business for some hours.
“You’d better come back to the Squid and Teapot with me,” she said. “At least you’ll have somewhere to stay.”
“The Tid and Squeepot? What a strange name for an inn… Oh my gosh… it’s beginning already!”
“What is?” asked Philomena, bemused.
“My speech,” wailed Marjorie. “My meech has become spuddled!”
“Come on,” said Philomena, “let’s get you settled safely in The Squid.”

Once in The Squid and Teapot, Philomena found Marjorie a comfortable room and made her a cup of camomile tea, to soothe her nerves.
“Thank you so much,” said Marjorie, gratefully sipping the tea. “But won’t your employer be angry? I worry that he will be on you like a bun of tricks when he finds out. It would be a blushing crow for you, I’m sure, if he had you chewing a lot of doors as punishment.”
“Not at all,” replied Philomena, quickly catching on to her new friend’s strange way of speaking.
“It was not so long ago that I was a stranger here, too. You can always be sure that there will be a welcome in The Squid and Teapot for newcomers to the island.”
“An island! Gosh, I’ve always had a half-warmed fish to see more of the world,” said Marjorie, suddenly enthusiastic. “Might we go now, and maybe wake our may to the doctor’s surgery later? I’m as mean as custard to have a look around.”

The pair left the inn and had barely walked a dozen yards before Drury, the skeletal hound, spotted Philomena and came bounding up, his bony tail wagging madly.
“Aaargh… oh my goodness! What is that bowel feast?” wailed Marjorie.
“It’s only Drury. You’ll soon get used to him.”
“But he is nothing but bone. Has he no mister or mattress?”
“No. Drury is a free spirit, in every sense of the word,” laughed Philomena.

After they had walked a while, and Philomena had pointed out the orphanage and the brewery, she said, somewhat hesitantly, to Marjorie.
“This speech problem you have… it doesn’t happen all the time?”
“Indeed no.” replied her companion. “I don’t know why but it seems to come in stits and farts.”
Philomena was still stifling a smile when they saw Reverend Davies coming towards them.
“Good afternoon reverend,” said Philomena, with little enthusiasm.
“God afternoon miss um… um…. and who is your delightful young friend?”
Before Philomena could answer, Marjorie dropped Reverend Davies a deep curtsey and gushed.
“Oh, dear vicar, I am Marjorie Toadsmoor. I am so honoured to meet one who is doubtless a shoving leopard to his flock and a lining shite to all on the island.”
Reverend Davies stood quite still, his face puce, his mouth gaping open and the veins on his neck sticking out like knotted ropes.
“Must go, reverend,” said Philomena, propelling Marjorie away with some haste. “Things to do, people to see.”
“He was very rude,” confided Marjorie. “He couldn’t even be bothered to reply. What mad banners.”

“Those are the Gydynaps,” said Philomena, pointing to the hills in the distance. “Drury and I often go walking up there.”
“I can’t do a willy hawk in these shoes,” said Marjorie. “Besides, it looks as though it’s going to roar with pain at any minute.”
Even as she said the words, the skies opened.
“Let’s find some shelter,” said Philomena.
As they hurried through the rain, Philomena crossed her fingers that Marjorie would not comment upon the sign outside the salvage store which proclaimed ‘Free shoes and bags, yours for the asking.’

It was fortuitous that Doc Willoughby had recovered from his hangover sufficiently to have opened the surgery. Philomena and Marjorie burst through the door, shaking the rain from their bonnets and giggling like schoolgirls.
“You must be feeling better,” said Philomena. “Do you still need to see the Doc?”
“I think I do, “said Marjorie, “my words are still getting mixed up, like a sadly made ballad.”
Just then the Doc himself appeared, obviously not in the best of humours. After he had listened to Marjorie’s self-diagnosis he sighed wearily. The Doc, though not as learned as he would have people believe, had heard of Spoonerisms and knew that they had absolutely nothing to do with spoonwalkers. However, being nothing, if not an opportunist, he rarely missed a chance to impress and leaned forward on his desk, steepling his fingers.
“Young lady,” he pronounced gravely, “I fear you have, what we in the medical profession call, Lapsus Linguae.”
“A slip of the tongue?”
‘Dammit, the girl knows Latin. How the hell does she know Latin?’ Doc thought to himself, not a little irritated.
“That, of course, is how we describe it to non-medical people,” he said, back-pedalling like mad. “But it’s much more serious than that. However, I can give you a preparation which should clear it up in a day or two.”
The Doc decanted some coloured water into a medicine bottle and handed it to Marjorie.
“Thank you so much doctor,” she said. “I was concerned that you would think I was telling you a lack of pies.”
“My pleasure, “ said the Doc, unconvincingly, hurriedly ushering the pair to the door.

“I’m feeling better already!” pronounced Marjorie later as she sat in the snug of The Squid, tucking into a slice of starry-grabby pie. Her bottle of coloured water stood half empty beside her.
“By the way, Philomena,” she added, “silly me didn’t catch your surname.”
Philomena smiled, a little uncomfortably.
“Don’t worry about that now,” she said. “It’s probably best we stick to first names until I know you’re really better.”

Hopeless Tales

The Little Drummer Boy

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As has been noted before in these tales, the good folk of Hopeless, Maine, are not renowned for their love of walking. This, in many ways, is understandable. The island is a veritable smorgasbord of hazards, natural, supernatural and downright unnatural. The business of staying alive is tricky enough, without wandering around and taking unnecessary risks and – some would maintain –  unnecessary exercise. Philomena Bucket, however, was the exception to the rule. She loved to walk, especially in the early hours, with Drury, the skeletal hound, more often than not jogging happily along by her side. Despite appearances, Drury was not Philomena’s dog. He had been on the island for as long as anyone could remember and had but one objective in life (or death, depending on your point of view) and that was the pursuit of fun. At that moment, he considered Philomena to be the human most likely to provide the wherewithal to achieve this.

Our tale begins one grey, late summer morning. Summer mornings on Hopeless, it must be admitted, are very much like the mornings of any other season, except that it tends to get light earlier. So, it was almost 6a.m. when the sun finally managed to persuade the fog to let it through, the signal for Philomena to set off for her daily constitutional.

Philomena liked to vary the route she took for her walk. Some days she would wander up into the Gydynap Hills. On others, she might choose to stride out along the headland towards Chapel Rock, or maybe to the secluded part of the island which at that time was unnamed but known in later years as Scilly Point. Today, however, Philomena was feeling bold and decided to walk a particularly  long strip of narrow beach, only accessible at low tide. This was hazardous for a number of reasons. Besides the slimy, many-eyed and tentacled rock dwellers, whom Philomena felt could be avoided with Drury’s help, was the danger posed by ocean itself. While, even at low tide, these waters could be capricious, more worrying still were its denizens. Chief among these was the mighty Kraken, with suckered arms long enough to reach across the waves and drag the unwary into a watery grave. (Some say that the Kraken is as old as the ocean itself. Personally, I cannot believe this, but it is certainly ancient and quite pitiless).

Call Philomena brave, or merely foolhardy, but oblivious to any danger, she resolutely set off along the beach with Drury scampering happily along beside her. Within minutes an obfuscating sea-fog began to roll in, even more relentless than usual, until nothing was discernible beyond more than a dozen feet. Most people might have given up at this point but Philomena was nothing if not stubborn. Even Drury was slightly hesitant to proceed but emboldened by his companion’s determination, soldiered on with a spring (and a rattle) in his step.

Philomena was not able to say how far or for how long she had been walking. Fog tends to do that to the senses. Time and space can become meaningless in that grey cocoon and it is not unusual for one to easily lapse into an almost trance-like state. This was exactly where Philomena’s mind was hovering when she was pulled back to reality. There was a muffled drum-beat coming from somewhere in front of her, further down the beach. She stopped, wondering who, or what, might be making such a noise at this hour of the day. Then, to her surprise, she found herself suddenly confronted by the figure of a child, a boy with a drum marching through the mists.

“Are you lost, young fella,” she asked as he drew closer.

The boy looked at her with large, soulful eyes but said nothing, not missing a beat as he passed her by. He could not have been any more than twelve years old, Philomena reckoned.

“He’s too young to be out alone on such a dangerous spot,” she said to herself, seemingly unaware of her own vulnerability.

“I can’t leave him.”

She turned to Drury.

“Come on Dru’, we’ve got to catch him up, before he gets into real trouble.”

She turned back, following the steady beat of the drum but her eyes were unable to penetrate the fog and see the drummer.

“Hey, slow down, we’ll walk with you,” she called but to no avail. All she could do was follow the rhythmic rat-a-tat-tat of the drum and hope the lad stayed safe.

The tide began to come in, forcing Philomena and Drury to scramble to safety. There was no sound of a drum anymore, just the crash of the waves on the rocks.

“I’d best go to the orphanage, the lad will be one of theirs, I guess.” She had aimed the comment at Drury; by now, however, the dog had lost all interest in the walk and was attempting to extricate a diminutive but somewhat irate gelatinous creature from a crevice in the wall.

 

The office was small and badly lit.  Miss Calder chose to remain standing while Philomena told of her encounter with the drummer boy.

“No, he’s not resident in the orphanage,” Miss Calder said sadly. “Although, I wish he was.”

Philomena rubbed her eyes. The fog must have really upset them for the woman in front of her seemed to waver slightly as she spoke. Once or twice – and this must be a trick of the candlelight, Philomena thought – half of her face even appeared to be little more than a skull.

“I think you were in great danger, Philomena,” Miss Calder said gently. “The Drummer Boy is known to me; a ghost who came to save you. Three fishermen were taken this morning, from just up the beach where you were walking.”

Philomena raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“Ghost? But it was broad daylight… well, except for the fog…”

Miss Calder smiled mischievously.

“Ghosts are all around, Philomena. They don’t need darkness. The very need to manifest is enough.”

Philomena shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“Long ago,” said Miss Calder, “a convict ship left England, bound for Virginia. A terrible storm blew it hundreds of miles off-course and few survived. Those who did settled on Hopeless but not all who made landfall lived to tell the tale. The boy you saw was part of the detachment of marines guarding the convicts – the drummer boy who used his drum to call the marines to quarters, an important role. I don’t know how, exactly, he met his fate, but the story is that, when they landed on Hopeless, he beat his drum to warn the others of a terrible danger – a danger that he did not survive. He has been seen a few times, over the years and generally thought to save only the good and innocent, like himself. You have been fortunate, Philomena.”

Philomena reddened and lowered her eyes. After the briefest moment she looked up to reply but Miss Calder had vanished.

Hopeless Tales

The Indispensable Man

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Ever since the episode with the phonograph – described, you may remember in the tale ‘Ghost in the Machine?’ – Gwydion Bagpath had begun to register the existence of Philomena Bucket. Previously, she had barely caught his attention. As the self-appointed elder of the Commoners, his lofty position had rendered him far too busy to notice her. There had been beachcombing and salvaging expeditions to oversee. In addition to this, he felt that it was his duty to ensure that the Nailsworthy family were attending properly to the venerable elder trees that the community relied upon. Then there was his role as both chairman of the Gydynap Preservation Society and the Common Committee (organisations which met for a liquid lunch, twice yearly in ‘The Crow’). On top of these onerous duties was the business of standing around and looking important; the gravitas that his position required would not cultivate itself. But I digress. Gwydion had noticed Philomena Bucket and realised that, despite her pale skin and white hair, she was an extremely attractive young woman – that is to say, young by Gwydion’s standard. He was at least twice her age, but he was a widower looking for a young wife to comfort him through his old age and Philomena seemed to be perfect for the task. Philomena would be honoured, he felt certain, to be invited to step out with him, with a view to courtship and eventually marriage.

Blissfully unaware of Gwydion’s long-term plans, Philomena was happy enough (if not exactly honoured) to join him occasionally for a brisk stroll along the headland. As ever, Drury, the skeletal dog, would amble along beside her, sniffing everything in his path and chasing shadows.

‘Damned infernal creature,’ thought Gwydion uncharitably, seeing Drury as being less of a dog and more of a passion-killer. Of course, he would never voice this opinion aloud, knowing how fond Philomena was of her strange companion.

In order to win Philomena’s approval, Gwydion would use these walks to inform her of his many qualities. He would speak, at some length, of his altruism, his bravery, his generosity – the man’s virtues knew no bounds, at least in his own mind. Philomena, of course, was no fool and soon realised that she was being played like a fish on a line. She did not dislike Gwydion but the feelings he invoked in her were far from romantic – and she could never love anyone who displayed such obvious coldness towards Drury. She resolved, therefore, to find reasons to avoid these strolls. She would do this gently, however, to avoid hurting Gwydion’s feelings. That was her intention, anyway but being, perhaps, too kind for her own good, she left things too late and found herself, one foggy afternoon, in the position of being subjected to a proposal of marriage.

They had been walking towards the town when Gwydion suddenly dropped down on one knee and asked for her hand in marriage.

“I’m sorry Gwydion, but I can’t possibly marry you,” she stammered.

A pained look passed over the old man’s face and his voice shook.

“Your hand… give me your hand… “

“I told you no…”

“For heaven’s sake, give me your hand, you idiotic woman, and help me up. My back has gone and goodness knows what else. I’m stuck.”

Try as Philomena might, this was to no avail. Gwydion was well and truly locked into a kneeling position and no amount of heaving by Philomena could budge him.

“I’ll get Doc Willoughby,” she said. “He’ll know what to do.”

Doc Willoughby knew exactly what to do. He arranged for a couple of burly lads from the Common to come along and carry Gwydion, still stuck with one knee bent in the time-honoured proposal attitude, back home.

“Silly old fool,” the Doc muttered. “What was he doing down there, anyway?”

“He was proposing marriage,” replied Philomena, simply.

“Well I propose that he stops making himself look ridiculous and give up chasing young women. He must be seventy, if he’s a day.”

Sad to relate, Gwydion never recovered from this latest affliction. Even though he was eventually able to stand normally again, his joints were past their best and his life was never the same. To the relief of everyone concerned, he reluctantly gave up his committees and overseeing duties. The job of Elder of the Commoners was discontinued; most had long realised that elder did not necessarily mean wiser. It came as something of a shock when Gwydion realised that nothing had suffered for his absence and life on the Common progressed as it always had. Before many months had elapsed, he died, a broken man. Little by little the name of Gwydion Bagpath faded from people’s memories.

It was many, many years later that an American soldier named Dwight Eisenhower, (who, I am reliably informed, did quite well for himself in later life) revealed that he always carried in his pocket a copy of the following poem. It’s a pity that Gwydion had not read it…

The Indispensable Man

Sometime when you’re feeling important;

Sometime when your ego’s in bloom

Sometime when you take it for granted

You’re the best qualified in the room,

Sometime when you feel that your going

Would leave an unfillable hole,

Just follow these simple instructions

And see how they humble your soul;

Take a bucket and fill it with water,

Put your hand in it up to the wrist,

Pull it out and the hole that’s remaining

Is a measure of how you’ll be missed.

You can splash all you wish when you enter,

You may stir up the water galore,

But stop and you’ll find that in no time

It looks quite the same as before.

The moral of this quaint example

Is do just the best that you can,

Be proud of yourself but remember,

There’s no Indispensable man.

Story by Martin Pearson-art by Tom Brown

Hopeless Tales

Ghost in the Machine?

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I have no idea how the phonograph survived the storm and subsequent shipwreck – but survive it did. This was, unfortunately, more than could be said for the captain and crew of the ‘Golden Cross’, the merchantman that had set out with the honourable intention of ferrying the new-fangled Edison-Bell machine across an inhospitable ocean to England, only to flounder early on in its journey. It would be not unreasonable to suppose that the fogbank that suddenly loomed in her wake was the downfall of the ‘Golden Cross’, concealing as it did – and still does – the treacherous rocks and unnamed terrors lurking in the waters surrounding the island of Hopeless, Maine.

The crate had looked promising, sitting foursquare on the beach. An address label revealed that the intended consignee was the recently founded Gramophone Company, of Maiden Lane, London, England. This gave no clue whatsoever regarding the contents of the crate to the Nailsworthy brothers, twin boys who had never heard of a gramophone, London or, indeed, England. Despite this, they carried it with great care and not a little difficulty back to the Common, wary not to disobey the large, red stencilled letters, which advised ‘This Way Up’ and ‘Do Not Drop – Fragile’.

Regular readers will know that The Common is home to a small community, originally descended from some of the earliest settlers on the island. These are called Commoners. They are recognised by all on Hopeless for their homely disposition, scavenging prowess and no small amount of inbreeding.

A crowd had gathered, anxious to see the wonder that had been revealed, once an inordinate quantity of packaging and padding had been removed from the crate. What could it be? A polished wooden box with a big brass horn and a handle that seemed to do nothing in particular. This was certainly a conundrum that confounded the brains of the brightest of the Commoners. Although it made no sense, the strange item was treated with a certain amount of awe and reverence; after all, they reasoned, anything that had required such delicacy to transport must be a treasure of some worth. In view of this, the phonograph was set up with great ceremony in the middle of their meeting hall.

It was a week or so later that Philomena Bucket chanced to call by. As ever, Drury, the skeletal dog, was scampering along beside her, rattling happily and attempting to mark his progress with phantom micturitions.

No sooner had she set foot upon the Common than the Nailsworthy brothers appeared and ran excitedly to her.

“Miss Philomena, come and see. Come and see what we’ve found.”

Before Philomena could protest the boys dragged her to the meeting hall and proudly pointed to the mysterious machine.

“Why, it’s a phonograph” she said. “I haven’t seen one of those for ages. I wonder if it still works?”

“D’you know what it does? Can you make it work? Can you… can you? ”  asked Hubert and Osbert Nailsworthy excitedly. “Show us, miss Philomena – pleeease…”

“I think so,” Philomena smiled. “But I need to find some things first. I’ll come back this afternoon.”

It took no time for the word to get around that Philomena Bucket was going to make the machine do something quite wonderful, though no one knew quite what that would be. This did not prevent Gwydion Bagpath, the self-styled elder of the Commoners, speaking knowledgably on the subject, having gleaned whatever information he could from the Nailsworthy boys.

“It is as I guessed,” he said with an air of importance, “I recognised it immediately, of course. It’s called a um… called a…”

Gwydion racked his brain to recall what the boys had said it was.

“Ah yes, it’s called a pornograph I believe”.

Morning wore into afternoon and the excitement in the air was almost palpable as the Commoners waited impatiently for Philomena to return. She, in the meantime, had been ransacking the storeroom of the ‘Squid and Teapot’, looking through the spoils that had been salvaged from the wreck of the ‘Hetty Pegler’, the ship that had brought her to the island several years earlier.

The ship’s skipper, Captain Longdown, had possessed a phonograph exactly like the one salvaged by the Commoners. While Longdown’s phonograph had not survived, some of its cylinders had. Without a phonograph, however, they were quite useless but, thanks to the ‘waste nothing’ philosophy of the island, they had been squirreled away just in case they might come in handy for something one day.

A reverential hush descended upon the meeting hall as Philomena, with Drury at her feet, wound the handle of the spring-gear that powered the machine. She fixed a cylinder in place, positioned the horn for best effect and gently lowered the circular brass reproducer, with its sapphire needle, on to the cylinder’s surface. This began to turn and suddenly, from the depths of the horn, there arose the tinny but unmistakable warblings of a strangulated Irish tenor, who was professing his love for a girl with a wheelbarrow; a girl who apparently sold sea-food.

Philomena gazed wistfully at the Phonograph, her mind transported back to the land of her birth. Her reverie, however, was rudely interrupted by the screams of panic as her audience lapsed into mass-hysteria, believing themselves to have been subjected to all sorts of diabolical witchcraft. Unfazed, Philomena replaced the cylinder with one that played only music. It was Beethoven’s ‘Fur Elise’, a tune beloved by every manufacturer of music-boxes, pretty much since the day that the old boy wrote it. Music-boxes were something that the Commoners could understand. They had seen them before. They knew how they worked. It was generally accepted, by one and all, that music-boxes were definitely not at all diabolical.

One by one the audience drifted back in and Philomena was eventually able to convince even the most sceptical that there was no imp or ghost singing, no demonic voice to ensnare them. Hopeless had its fair share of terrors, this was not one of them. Gingerly, Philomena wound the handle, put the  ‘Molly Malone’ cylinder back on and sang along, her sweet soprano voice mingling with that of the tremulous tenor. Gwydion Bagpath tentatively joined in with the chorus, then, following his lead, another voice picked it up, then another and another until the meeting hall rang with the strains of

‘Alive, alive oh,

Alive, alive oh,

Crying cockles and mussels,

Alive, alive oh.’

By common request the handle was wound and ‘Molly Malone’ was played over and over, more times than anyone could count, until Philomena, quite frankly, felt that she would be happy if she never had to hear the song ever again. Drury, however, was more than content to sit in front of the phonograph’s horn, his head cocked to one side, enjoying every moment. Alive, alive, oh – it was a good thing to be.

Story by Martin Pearson-Art by Tom Brown

 

Hopeless Tales

The Bargain

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A month had passed since Hank had wandered unwittingly into Hopeless. For some days previously he had been searching for the legendary Lost Dutchman’s Gold Mine, deep in the Superstition Mountains of Arizona, when his path led him to a fissure in the rocks, through which daylight and wispy fog issued improbably.

Hank was tall and wiry, two yards of whipcord draped in buckskin. He had had no problem in slipping through the narrow gap, though persuading his bulky backpack to follow had been more of a challenge. Eventually he had emerged, blinking and somewhat confused into the daylight.

You may recall, from the tale ‘Dutchman’s Gold’, how Hank had met Philomena Bucket, who managed, with some difficulty, to convince him that he was not in Hell but in Hopeless, Maine, some two thousand miles from Arizona. Though he accepted Philomena’s assurances, to Hank’s mind, Hell seemed a more likely explanation, not least because of the presence of the skeletal dog, Drury.

With his usual generosity, the landlord of ‘The Squid and Teapot’ had given Hank board and lodgings in exchange for a few chores. While grateful, the prospector was keen to leave the island. He reasoned that if there was one path that could bridge two thousand miles in a hundred paces, there must be another and – dagnabbit! he was going to find it.

Hank said nothing of his plan to leave, either to the landlord or Philomena. As a token of thanks he left his pocket watch on the bar; it was a beautiful, antique half-hunter that he had won in a card game a few weeks before. For a man who had journeyed two thousand miles in twenty seconds, time and space had become irrelevant. The hands of the watch showed seven o’clock and somewhere, high above the ever-present fog of Hopeless, the sun was rising and attempting, with little success, to illuminate the island. Without looking back, Hank closed the door of the inn quietly behind him and set out for the Gydynap Hills, the place where his life on Hopeless had begun.

The path that wound into the heart of the hills was steeper than Hank remembered. A month of being relatively inactive had taken its toll on his stamina and despite the morning chill, he broke out into a sweat.

For hours he wandered the hills, desperately searching for something – anything – that would lead him away from Hopeless. Squatting on the damp ground, Hank gave himself time to get his breath back. The sun was low in the sky by now, ready to drop below the horizon, having given up all hope of penetrating the unforgiving blanket of fog. Stuffing his pipe with his last, precious, twist of tobacco, Hank scanned the area pensively, looking for some likely cave or feature in the landscape that would lead him away from this accursed island forever. There was nothing obvious, nothing that indicated ‘Arizona – this way’. With a heavy heart he was about to give up his quest when a barely discernible movement caught his eye. Dimly, in this half-light, he spotted a small figure tottering unsteadily into a cluster of rocks, no more than twenty feet away, its tendril-like arms and legs clutching more spoons than it could comfortably manage.

“It’s one of them weird things,” Hank said  to himself. “Dam’ nasty little critters that walk along on cutlery.”

What was it that Philomena had called them? Spoonrunners? Something mad like that. As Hank recalled, one such creature had slipped into the doorway that had brought him here, just before it snapped shut. It could be worth following it.

By the time Hank had reached the tumble of rocks, the spoonwalker was long gone. A few yards ahead, however, a dropped spoon was lying on the rocky ground. Hank stopped to pick it up, noticing, as he did, the hole through which the creature had disappeared. Hank gasped. It seemed to be washed in a dim, green light which issued from somewhere deep inside the hill. This was hopeful! The gap  unfortunately, was no more than ten or twelve inches high and of half that in width. Maybe that garish, unearthly glow was some sort of sign that there was a path that could get him back to the Superstition Mountains. Hank looked around for something to prise the rocks apart, but could find nothing remotely suitable to use as a lever. Cursing his luck, Hank sat down, leaned against the cliff wall and closed his eyes.

”Dagnabbit!” he said aloud, “What I wouldn’t give to get to the Dutchman’s gold mine.”

“And what would you give?”

Hank jumped up in alarm, not expecting a response. A tall, pale, almost cadaverous, figure dressed in funereal black was leaning languidly against the rock face.

“Jumping Jehosophat you gave me a turn,” complained Hank, indignantly.

“I repeat… ” said the stranger, firmly, “what would you give to get to the Dutchman’s gold mine.”

Hank eyed his new companion with some disquiet. From the outset he had been convinced that Hopeless was Hell; if that  was the case, this fellow was probably after more than he was prepared to part with.

“Well, you ain’t having my soul, if that’s what you’re after…” he said, angrily.

The cadaverous stranger threw back his head and laughed. It was a hard, mirthless sound.

“Your soul… whatever do you think I would do with your soul? You might as well offer me your unkempt ginger beard or the ridiculous floppy hat that you’re wearing.”

Somewhat offended, Hank grew defensive. He was fond of his hat.

“Well, s’obvious I ain’t got nothing you want, so you might as well go before you get me all riled up and I do something we both regret.”

The stranger smiled. It was not a particularly pleasant smile but in that poor light Hank did not notice.

“How about…” said the stranger, in measured tones, “how about we come to some arrangement when you get to where you’re going?”

Hank was becoming suspicious that there was more to this stranger than he was telling. He had heard tales of what happened to folks in Hopeless after the sun went down.

“And you ain’t a-going to hurt me?”

“My dear fellow, why on earth would I wish you harm? No… no, I give you my word as a gentleman, I will cause you no pain whatsoever. This is purely a business transaction.”

Hank shrugged. If this character was being less than honest with him there was little he could do to avoid it.

“Alrighty,” he said, throwing caution to the wind, “get me to the Dutchman’s gold mine and you can have half of what I’ve got.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed the stranger, giving the cliff face the gentlest of pushes,  “then we’ll go straightaway. Follow me.”

With a faint scraping noise the rocks parted and the two stepped into the lurid green light of the cavern.

Hank had expected the road back to the Superstition Mountains to be rough and narrow. He was quite incorrect on both points. He found himself on a broad thoroughfare that meandered gently down through the belly of the hills. He was feeling better already. That green light – wherever it came from – seemed less sinister now and his travelling companion appeared to be decidedly light-hearted, despite his gaunt appearance. The only niggle that bothered him was the fact that it was taking a darned sight longer to get there than it had to come. A darned sight longer!

“Are we nearly there?” he asked, unwittingly repeating the mantra chanted by every child, ever since the earliest human migrations began.

“Indeed we are,” said the cadaverous stranger. “But first we must stop and eat. I have some particularly delicious cake that I’m sure you will enjoy.”

Hank took the cake gratefully. The stranger was right. It was delicious.

“Ain’t you eating too?” he asked suspiciously.

“No, I have a meal waiting for me at home. It would be a pity to spoil it.”

Hank finished the cake and they walked on for another mile or so. Suddenly the stranger stopped and pointed ahead.

“Look, look – there it is. The Dutchman’s gold mine.”

Hank stared into the cavernous space before him.

“Where? I can’t see nothing.”

“Oh you will.. you will. Here it is – yours to work for all time.”

The words flowed into Hank’s consciousness like a river of honey. He shook his head and sure enough, there was the mine, just as he had imagined. Thick veins of gold ran like ribbons through the rock and the ground was littered with nuggets of every size and shape.

“The Dutchman’s gold!” exclaimed Hank dreamily.

“Ah, yes, the Dutchman’s gold.” said the stranger, soothingly. “Look there are tools on the floor, picks and buckets – everything you need.”

“Everything I need,” echoed Hank in a flat voice, totally lacking in emotion. He bent down and reached for a pick that was not there.

 

Deep beneath the island of Hopeless, Maine, in a cavern wrapped in utter darkness, a figure goes through the motions of excavating gold from a mine that only he can see. Day and night he works, stopping only to drink brackish water and eat the thin shards of the mercifully nameless meat that is left for him. He has been told that it is beer and the best beef that Arizona can offer. He is content. His buckskin clothes are little more than tatters and shreds and his once red beard is now long and grey. Sometimes he sleeps and that is when they come to feed. The stranger told him no lies. There is no pain, no discomfort. Just a numbness as he unwittingly gives half of what he has. He is gradually fading and soon he will be no more than a wraith; only then will the illusion fade and the torment begin.

Story by Martin Pearson- Art by Tom Brown