I’ve never liked fantasy tropes regarding prophecies and chosen ones. Nor am I very keen on the YA trope of special people who can do the things because they were born special. It leaves most of us firmly outside of the story, with little reason to imagine ourselves having agency.
Hopeless, Maine’s Salamandra was brought into existence to serve an agenda. She’s grown up different, and mostly been told this makes her weird and unacceptable. There have also been messages about what she ought to do with her power, often from those who want to use and control her. Over the years, Salamandra has steadfastly resisted any suggestion of being a chosen one, although in the final book she does give it a go.
On the whole she’s not keen to use her power. A lot of that is about not wanting the responsibility. She doesn’t want to have to go round fixing everything for everyone. It’s Owen who has all the inclinations to fix things and rescue people. Usually Owen is the one persuading Salamandra to step up.
It’s important to note that, despite having been born magical, she’s not unique or even standout good at it. Within the graphic novels we have Annamarie Nightshade – a powerful witch, and Lilly-May, who combines making and magic. Meanwhile over at The Squid and Teapot there’s Philomena Bucket, who is remarkably powerful and rather good at figuring out when to use that, and when not to.
I’m a big believer in free will, and resistant to stories about destiny. Whatever power we have, it’s our choice about how to use that which makes most odds.
About four years ago, Dr Abbey started drawing Salamandra with green hair. I wasn’t sure what it meant at the time, only that it belonged to the part of the story that comes after the graphic novels.
We’re in that time frame now. The last graphic novel (Survivors) has been out for a while, and as a community we’re figuring out what island life is like now that the fog has lifted (a bit). The island is still mostly cold, damp, haunted and weird, but people have more options and are finding their own way of doing things.
Hopeless has become a more hopeful sort of place. People are banding together to do what makes sense to them – be that researching the fungi, developing the science, being part of the folklore response squad or trying a bit of piracy. Islanders are getting better at making the most of what they have. Hopeless has become a slightly happier place.
Salamandra has green hair now, because she’s becoming a happier and more playful sort of person. Responsibility doesn’t sit so heavily on her shoulders. Not least because magic washes around the island more than it used to. Philomena Bucket has a lot of power, Lilly May is handling things well, Annamarie Nightshade lives in the sky, there are crow queens, and there’s lots of folk magic out there. Sal doesn’t have to worry so much about what she ought to try and fix, and what she might get wrong.
It’s always been tricky for her. Salamandra is magic, but she’s not always that keen on doing magic. She just wants to be left alone to get on with being herself, and she can do that now. She can be a bit reclusive, but she’s got green hair, and plants to grow, and a desire to live quietly. Whether she’ll be left in peace to do that is a whole other question…
“Not in a million years,” said Salamandra firmly, fixing Doc Willoughby with a terrifying stare.
“Even if I thought that I could, there is no way that I would do what you ask.”
The Doc looked crestfallen. Knowing of her abilities, he had reached out, in some desperation, to Salamandra.
Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, had claimed to have been spirited back into the past, where he had lived for two months. Upon returning, and to his amazement, Rhys discovered that just a single night had elapsed since he had left. When the Doc heard of this, and was assured by Reverend Davies that Rhys was incapable of lying, he became obsessed with the idea. Such a course of action, he reasoned, if frequently repeated, would render a person virtually immortal, and Doc Willoughby had definite designs on being that person. It occurred to him that if anyone on the island could replicate this feat, then it would be one of the O’Stoat clan, a family long entrenched in occult practices. For once in his life the Doc’s instincts were spot on, for it had been the matriarch, Colleen O’Stoat, who had summoned the Night-Soil Man back to her own time.
“But why ever not?” the Doc protested. “What earthly difference would it make to you if I, or indeed anyone, was sent into the past?”
Salamandra regarded him with no small amount of contempt.
“Because,” she said, slowly and pointedly, as if addressing an erring child, “you have no business lurking around in a time which is not your own. Can you not see the damage you could cause with your every action? And you are supposed to be one of the more intelligent specimens of humanity on Hopeless – or so you keep telling everyone! It is indeed fortunate that Rhys Cranham did little else than shovel shit while he was there, or I dread to think what might have happened.”
The Doc winced. Salamandra was not one to mince her words.
“So that’s a definite ‘no’ then?” he asked, warily.
Salamandra did not reply, but gave him a look that would have turned wine to vinegar. She stormed off into the mist, towards the shore, her strips of cloth flapping and writhing as if possessed of a life of their own.
“That went well,” thought the Doc sourly.
He turned, intending to go back into town, when a tall, almost cadaverous, shape emerged from the mists.
“Ah, Willoughby. I thought it was you whom I heard speaking to my daughter.”
The Doc pulled up short and peered at the newcomer with incredulity.
“Durosimi? Really? I thought that you were dead.”
“No, no,” said the other, drily. “I’m sure that I would have noticed.”
Doc Willoughby had known Durosimi O’Stoat for a long time; he was not one to strike up a conversation without a good reason. The Doc wondered what it was that he wanted.
“I get the idea that your discussion with Salamandra turned out to be not quite as productive as you would have liked.”
“You could say that,” agreed the Doc.
“I could not help but overhear your conversation. It sounded… interesting.”
“I thought it was,” said the Doc, “but, like Reverend Davies, your Salamandra thought my plan to be unethical.”
“I don’t know where she gets these ideas from,” said Durosimi, a hint of sympathy in his voice. “Ethics, honestly! Nothing in this world would ever have been achieved if people had allowed ethics to get in the way.”
“So… are you saying that you might be in a position to help?” asked the Doc, hopefully.
“I would be happy to try, certainly, but it would not be without its dangers. You and I are both men of science, Willoughby, and as such, we appreciate the risks of experimentation.”
The Doc made no reply. He knew that this was no more than flattery. His own very basic grasp of medicine shared nothing with the dark arts that Durosmi practiced. However, if it meant that his goals were to be fulfilled, he would have signed away his soul – if, indeed he was in receipt of such a thing – there and then.
“Maybe we can talk about this in my home,” said Durosimi, placing a bony hand on the Doc’s shoulder and leading him towards a nearby building. If he noticed that his companion was crossing his fingers, he did not mention it.
The following morning saw the strangely charming, but totally incongruous, sight of Doc Willoughby walking purposely towards the Gydynap Hills, leading a small black goat on a tether.
Durosimi had assured the Doc, with some confidence, that it was not beyond his ability to send someone back in time… or at least, he could do this, in theory. The Doc was, understandably, more than a little reticent to volunteer himself for this experiment, and so it was agreed that a smallish, and fairly docile animal would be best suited to fulfil this pioneering role. The Doc left the goat to Durosimi’s tender mercies, and waited to hear if and when the experiment had been a success.
A week went by. Nothing. Half-way through the following week the Doc received a cryptic message indicating that the experiment had been successful. Stopping only to throw on his hat and jacket, he made his way to the across the island with unaccustomed speed.
“Congratulations!” exclaimed the Doc, enthusiastically shaking a cold and bony hand, “I knew you would do it. Where is the little fellow?”
Durosimi looked puzzled.
“What little fellow would that be?” he asked.
“Why, the goat of course.”
“Oh, him. He went but hasn’t come back. I don’t quite see how he can.”
“But… but…” stammered the Doc.
“I am sure that if it could speak, the goat would have wasted no time in asking one of my ancestors to get him back here post-haste, but he is a dumb animal, and dumb animals are by definition… dumb. Until I can send a human being it will be something of a one-way street. I have not yet perfected that part of the experiment, I’m afraid.”
“Then that’s that,” said the Doc, somewhat deflated. “No one is going to volunteer for anything as hazardous as this. We don’t even know if the goat survived.”
“Then maybe it’s not a volunteer that we need…” said Durosimi ominously.
The Doc tensed.
“I can’t say that I’m totally comfortable with press-ganging someone,” he said.
“As you will,” said Durosimi. “But be sure to let me know if you change your mind.”
He watched the Doc, a bitterly disappointed man, shuffling miserably down the cobbled footpath.
“You’ve gone soft in your old age, Willoughby… but thanks for the idea,” he muttered to himself. “I’m sorry you didn’t want to see it through.”
Then an idea struck him and a menacing leer spread across his face.
“Why,” he mused, “I think it’s high time that I wandered down to the Pallid Rock Orphanage, and let Reverend Davies know that I am in need of a young assistant.”
Ancestry is very much part of the Hopeless Maine story. The Jones family claims to descend from pirates, while the Frog family show every sign of having originated in Innsmouth. The island celebrates its Founding Families.
Unlike most of America, Hopeless was not occupied prior to the arrival of settlers from further afield. In local indigenous languages it is referred to as The Place We Go When We Are Young And Trying To Prove Something. There are four tribes associated with the Maine area and I’ve tried to be careful around both honouring their existence and not putting this story on to them. The island is a silly place to live, and local people know that. The founding had everything to do with white capitalist exploitation of resources, and since the resources went away, has mostly been populated by people from shipwrecks.
On her father’s side, Salamandra is descended from one of the founding families – The O’Stoats. This is a family with a long tradition of murder, and unpleasant occultism, often combined. Her father – Durosimi, is present in the graphic novels and you can find her paternal grandfather in New England Gothic. The grandmother on this side is a significant absence and I might seek out her story at some point.
Salamandra’s mother, Melisandra, is a bit of a psychopath and we also see her in the graphic novels. We meet Balthazar – Melisandra’s father, but her mother has also existed as a significant absence. I’d suspected for a while that she might be a mermaid.
This year we started looking at the mermaid grandmother in earnest. Her name is Alraune – which is German for mandrake. Dr Abbey named her as part of the project we’re working on together. So far, we have one image of her, although clearly there will be more, and it will be interesting to see more of her mermaid form as we progress. It’s also been interesting exploring the dynamics between three generations of magical women, none of whom really get on with each other.
In the summer of 2020, Dr Abbey started drawing Salamandra with green hair. I knew as soon as I saw these interpretations that there was no way Salamandra could have green hair during the graphics novel arc we have planned. Life is dour on Hopeless, colours are muted, and Salamandra has her attention focused on less-fun things.
I wrote the first draft of the graphic novels more than ten years ago. Since then there have been stories set before and during that time frame. Nothing had previously turned up that belonged after the graphic novels.
One of the things that happens with the island, is that pieces of the story turn up all over the place. They don’t come to me – we’ve got a hugely important story from Merry Debonnaire in the next graphic novel. Hopeless is strange and magical in its own ways, and sometimes it happens to people.
I looked at green haired Salamandra and realised that Dr Abbey could see something of what might come next. So earlier this year I sat him down and started asking about that. He had a lot to tell me!
I’ve been in the exciting process of developing those storylines for some months now. It will be a while before any of it makes it out into the world, but I can confirm that while there are two more graphic novels to come out, the story continues beyond the graphic novel arc.
We have to stop doing graphic novels because they are so labour intensive. We’re going to move into illustrated fiction and maybe poke about in light novel form hereafter, because that will be much more sustainable for us. There are some huge changes on the island by the end of the graphic novels. I feel very comfortable making it obvious that Salamandra survives because I am never going to write a story in which the magical girl does not get to grow up and live long and well.
The island is full of demons. The ones you can see are in many ways easier to deal with because they are outside of your head and you have some reason to think they aren’t you.
The whisperers are the worst. The demons who slide in as thoughts, and tell you that they are your own voice. The demons who say that you are just like them, that you come from the place all demons come from. You are made of demon. Your essence is monstrous. Everything you do is suspect.
The demons tell you not to trust yourself. Sometimes they are the voice of your mother, who was clear that she regretted your existence. She would have killed you if she could. She killed your brother. You are worthless, useless, a disappointment, she says.
Sometimes the demons remind you that you did not save your brother’s life. What good are you? What point is there in you even existing? You fail, and fail again. When it most matters, you fail.
Where does that magic come from? You don’t know. The demons in your head tell you that magic is tainted, dangerous, and theirs. You are theirs. You are just like them. Only you are weak and fearful. That’s why you couldn’t save Sophie Davies, why you had to disappoint your best friend and let him break his heart over his mother dying. You were too weak to save her. Too afraid to really use your power.
In your heart, you know you are evil and that if you aren’t very careful then you will do something awful. Poor Salamandra. Are you saying this to yourself now, or are the demons saying it to you? Poor you. Poor little you.
Remember me?
The one voice that never goes away. Oh, sure, you can lock me in a box, but I’m still in your head and you will always remember me as a little girl with big, tearful eyes, begging you for mercy. I’m here to make sure you never forget that you are the real monster.
I looked at the first question on my list, and experienced a moment of panic. Back home, the questions had seemed perfectly reasonable, but after all the risks I had taken to reach this moment, they seemed trivial, shallow, and mundane. I dearly hoped that Salamandra wouldn’t find them boring.
“Ahum, erm,” I began. “Salamandra. What is your favourite colour?”
Owen laughed. “Seriously? You’ve doomed yourself to Hopeless to ask Sal what her favourite colour is?”
I shrugged apologetically. “They’re readers’ questions, not mine.”
“I like the question.” Salamandra smiled. “My favourite colour is daylight.”
“That’s not a colour,” I objected.
She blazed with sudden fury, her hair rising in an angry cloud. “Now listen, Scribbler. I don’t know how often you’ve seen daylight, but I’ve seen it about four whole times. That makes me quite the expert, and as such, I assure you that daylight is a colour.”
I nodded quickly, reminding myself that my job required me to be an objective observer. “Daylight it is.”
“It better be,” Salamandra declared with satisfaction. “Next.”
“Do you have a favourite book?”
Owen drew a sharp breath.
Salamandra’s face darkened. “I do, and the less that is said about it the better. Next.”
“Alright,” I said, scanning the list, seeking something less likely to cause offence. “This one is from Mrs Albert Baker’s Soup Kitchen in Lancaster, for street urchins and whatnot.”
“Does street urchin soup taste nice?” Salamandra asked. “It sounds prickly and spiky.”
“No, no, Mrs Baker feeds the urchins soup, so she’s always on the look-out for new recipes. She wants to know what your favourite soup is. To feed the urchins.”
“Ah, I see, to fatten them up a bit before serving them. That makes sense. Before your arrival, I would have said Owen’s kyte kidney soup. But I’ve changed my mind on that one, it’s bug chowdah now. Wouldn’t mind trying urchin soup though, for comparison.”
“That’s good,” I said, scribbling away. “As the ingredients for chowder will probably be easier to find in Lancaster than bits of kyte. The urchins are big fans of yours, by the way…”
Owen frowned. “There’s something I don’t understand.”
“Hush,” Salamandra said. “I’m being interviewed, don’t you know.”
“It’s about the interview.” Owen looked pensive. “Ned, you say you know me, know Salamandra. And more people do, because you were sent to ask their questions. How does that work, precisely?”
I was put off by his question, not expecting it because I assumed they knew. “Well, people buy the books…”
“Books?” Salamandra asked. “What books?”
“There’s books about us?” Owen asked.
“Well, yes. The Illustrated Adventures of Salamandra in Hopeless, Maine. Surely you…”
My voice trailed away as Salamandra and Owen exchanged a dark look.
“Must be that Brown fellow,” Owen mused. “And his missus.”
I knew the name of course, for who hasn’t heard of Tom and Nimue Brown? However, it seemed that there was potential turbulence ahead on our current course, so I deemed it wiser to know as little as possible.
“Who?” I asked innocently.
“Two outlanders,” Salamandra answered.
“Regular visitors to Hopeless,” Owen added. “The Aunties only know how they get in and out. They seem quite harmless; just wander about with sketchbooks, notebooks, pens and pencils.”
“Which is why I haven’t changed them into floating newts or spoon walkers,” Salamandra said darkly. “…Yet.”
It occurred to me that I might have got the Browns into a spot of bother.
“Truth be told,” I confessed, determined to take some responsibility. “When I write out your answers to these questions, it will be published in a newspaper, which people will hopefully buy to read more about you…”
“You’ve paid us,” Owen said. “That was the best meal I’ve ever had on Hopeless.”
“Bug chowdah,” Salamandra said dreamily. Then she furrowed her brow. “That Brown fellow better get us something nice to eat, or else…”
“There’s something else I brought for you,” I interrupted her, eager to change the subject. “A gift.”
When Salamandra opened the door, she barely glanced at me, focusing on Owen instead.
Although not any of the many warm welcomes I had imagined, I didn’t mind so much, as it gave me an opportunity to stare at her. She was simultaneously familiar, I had – after all – seen her grow and mature since childhood, while at the same time I realised I didn’t know her at all, as if she was a complete stranger.
Salamandra was clad in a dress made from strips of old bed sheets. Her long dark hair was a myriad of braids which seemed to have a life of their own, swaying this way and that, lending her a frighteningly Medusian aspect. She had a broad mouth, with sensuous lips, and compelling oval eyes, but the most fascinating aspect of her face was the animation of it, changing continuously to convey a kaleidoscope of emotions and moods.
Helter skelter, hurry skurry.
“Where have you been?” Salamandra asked Owen. “I was in dire need of something more compliant than lighthouse walls to fly stuff at.”
“I’m sorry to have missed it.” Owen apologized, scratching the side of his slightly hooked nose. “There was a Blood Rain…”
Salamandra’s eyes lit up. “Did you get there in time?”
Owen grinned, indicated the basket on his back. “Half a kyte kidney…”
“You’re my hero,” Salamandra purred. She turned to me. “I have no idea who or what you are. Please don’t be boring.”
I managed an: “Er”, as well as an “Um.”
“Er-um?” Salamandra asked, her mouth stern, but eyes twinkling. “Sounds medicinal.”
“A few hours ago his name was Ned Twyner,” Owen said, setting down his basket. “An outlander. Says he came to Hopeless out of his own free will.”
Salamandra rolled her eyes. “You should have taken him to see Doctor Hedley Case, not brought him to the lighthouse.”
“I’m quite sane, thank you,” I said.
Salamandra and Owen both raised an eyebrow.
I shrugged. “Reasonably sane.”
Owen addressed Salamandra. “I found him asleep in the loving embrace of a bed of snare-moss, where he decided to rest after barely escaping the clutches of tug-weed. He’s a scribbler, writes stories for something called the Brighton Gazette. Said he’s come to ask you some questions.”
“Questions?” Salamandra frowned.
“An interview,” I said. “If it isn’t inconvenient…”
“It’s inconvenient,” Salamandra declared at once. “I’m terribly busy…”
“I’m sure the china won’t mind if you turn your attention elsewhere for a while…” Owen said dryly.
Salamandra glared at him. “None of it complained…well apart from that goblin cup, that is. I mistook it for an ordinary tea cup. It didn’t like that at all. Nearly screamed my head off.”
“If you’re busy, we could make an appointment…” I began to say.
“Busy, precisely,” Salamandra said. “We’ve got to go catch us some lunch, I’m famished.”
I looked at Owen’s basket.
Owen shook his head. “Tougher than a boiled tree creeper. The kidney needs to be left to decompose for a couple of weeks before we can eat it.”
“Delicious when it goes all gooey,” Salamandra licked her lips.
I slapped my forehead. “What am I thinking?!” I patted my knapsack. “I’ve got enough for all three of us. From the mainland: Bread, cheese, dry sausage, and a pot of bug chowdah.”
Salamandra pouted. “I had bugs for breakfast. They tasted bitter. And bits of their shell got stuck between my teeth.”
Owen shook his head. “If that is what I think it is, you’ll absolutely love it, Sal.”
“We’ll save the time it would have taken you to catch lunch,” I suggested.
“So you can ask me questions.” Salamandra looked at me thoughtfully. “But what if you’re boring? Harder to send you away when we’re eating your food. And I do so hate tedious conversation.”
“He’s rather amusing, actually,” Owen said. “Trust me on this.”
Salamandra relented and invited me into the lighthouse, where I was led to a large table on which I began to deposit the ample contents of my knapsack.
“Courtesy of the Merry Tentacle,” I said proudly.
Owen fetched a few bowls, chipped plates, knives and a single spoon – which he clutched tightly. “We’ve only got one spoon left.”
I brightened, and fished a small rectangular linen bag from my satchel. “Ole Ted asked me to give you this. He said you’d appreciate the gift.”
I shook the little bag, which chinked merrily, then drew open the drawstring, turned it upside down to let the contents spill onto the table.
“NOOOO!” Salamandra cried out.
It was another Christina Rosetti moment. Even before the nine spoons in the bag hit the table, skurries appeared from everywhere: Falling from the ceiling, gliding in through a window, jumping from the top of a rackety cupboard, fluttering through an open door…one even gnawed its way through the considerable thickness of the tabletop.
I froze, staring in amazement as a fierce battle erupted between Salamandra and Owen on the one side, and the skurries on the other. All involved hissed, cursed, spat, growled, clawed, pinched, bit, and poked – as they fought for possession of the spoons. Salamandra and Owen were on the losing side, until a black cat – exuding sinister menace – came to reinforce them, allowing retention of two of the spoons. The other seven, along with the skurries, vanished.
“Thank you, Lamashtu.” Salamandra smiled at the cat.
“You’re welcome,” the cat replied.
“It…it…” I pointed at the cat. “It…spoke…”
Lamashtu glared at me. “I’m well educated, I’ll have you know.”
Salamandra scowled at me. “I don’t think you’re going to last long on Hopeless, Scribbler.”
“Three spoons in total now,” Owen said happily. He poured the bug chowdah into three bowls, then set the container from the Merry Tentacle in front of the cat, which sniffed at it cautiously, before beginning to purr loudly.
Owen held out one of the spoons to me. “Whatever happens, do NOT let go of the spoon.”
I nodded, wondering silently how many more blunders I would make during my stay on Hopeless…and what disastrous consequences might ensue.
During lunch, both Salamandra and Owen reminded me of the images of Hindu deities I had seen in a travelogue, all of them with a multitude of limbs. The arms and hands of my hosts seemed to be everywhere at once, reaching for bread, cutting cheese, and spooning lobster chowder into their mouths even as they wolfed down slices of sausage. They ate more gustily than Free Traders returning from a long, hard run over the English Channel, and demonstrated an equal disregard for table manners.
The chowder was particularly favoured. Salamandra used her index finger to sweep up every last remnant of the lobster stew from the sides of her bowl. Owen held his bowl upturned over his mouth, to catch every drop.
I was caught with indecision as to how to clean my bowl, but that was solved by Lamashtu, whose intense green eyes convinced me that I really wanted to push my bowl towards the cat so that it could lap at the remnants, leaving me to chew on a dry crust of bread – wondering sheepishly who got the better end of the bargain.
“Scrumptious,” Owen declared with satisfaction.
“Indeed,” Salamandra agreed, giving me an amiable look. “A most generous gift. I’m minded to be nicer to you, Scribbler.”
Taking that as my cue, I reached into my satchel, placed blank sheets of paper on the table, unfolded the list of readers’ questions I’d brought across the Atlantic, and dipped my quill into my favourite ink-pot.
“Very well,” Salamandra sighed. “Let’s have your questions then. I’ll do my best to answer them.”
Those of you who have read Volume 3 – Victims – will know there’s a silly bit where Owen and Salamandra are going to a party. Salamandra has always been good at illusions and likes messing about with appearances, so she dresses them up. I was vague with the script, suggesting that Owen’s might be more silly and less flattering. Tom decided to give Salamandra a distinctly Japanese look.
This caught Dr Abbey’s imagination, and below is his take on Sal in her party gear.
Of course it raised questions – not least being why Salamandra chooses to look this way at this moment.
There are outside the story reasons – that this is an aesthetic Tom likes, and that he has always wanted to appeal to a Japanese audience is most of it. Manga has been a big influence on Mr Brown and there’s a desire to offer something back. Also, this is how Tom does things – he draws whatever arrives in his head and then someone else (usually, but not always me) has to work out how that makes any kind of sense.
So, why is Salamandra inclined to look this way? Has she seen an image like this in a book? Was there a dream, or a scrying experience? Is there a slightly disturbing doll of her mother’s somewhere, wearing just this attire?
I don’t know. Maybe you do. If you are the person who knows how this story goes, please do get in touch and tell us!
