I love you like spoonwalkers love spoons. But there’s only one of you, so I cannot show my adoration by piling you into heaps and then laying my eggs on you.
I love you like the mist loves the island. Clammy and clinging, wanting to wrap myself around you so entirely that my dampness permeates you, right to the depths of your soul. I want to be the reason you can’t see the sun, the reason you shiver at night. Breathe me in, feel me on your skin. I will never leave you.
I love you the way very small cows love hiding under things where there really speaking isn’t enough room for them in the first place.
I love you like donkeys love being on roofs. Some things don’t have to make sense. It isn’t about physics, or physiognomy. It’s the uncanny clatter of hooves at night when there is no sensible way the hooves could have got to a place of clattering. Love is irrational like this.
I do not love you in the way that tentacles love everything. Tentacles are indiscriminate, and will give their attention and affection to absolutely anything. It means nothing, to have the emotional promiscuity of a tentacle. To sneak into everything, as tentacles like to do, writhing shamelessly for anyone to see them. Not like that, then. My love is more subtle and particular, although given half the chance, I would certainly slide, tentacle-like across your face in the darkness. But only your face, no one else’s would do.
(Image and text entirely the responsibility of Nimue Brown.)
In the aftermath of broken bottles and stamped on night potatoes no one was entirely sure what had happened. No one even admitted to having been there. The most anyone would admit was knowing someone who knew someone who had been there. There were no witnesses because no one was willing to admit to having been there and witnessing the event and by mutual unspoken agreement those who had seen others in attendance and been seen themselves never spoke of it directly.
Everyone one was however more than happy to apportion blame, as ever.
In this case though that blame was easy enough apportioned. It was the fault of the newcomer. The man in the red-tailed jacket who had washed up on the shores of the island less than a month before in most unlikely circumstances. Barham P Bingley. Just how he had washed up in a old but well maintained circus wagon bearing his name in salt damaged, peeling paint, no one was entirely sure. The residents of Hopeless were also unsure just how he had convinced them to help tow his wagon up from the beach to a small meadow just along the road from the bridge of bottles. Other things of which they weren’t entirely sure of included why they had parted with coin, food stuff and other odds-n-sods to sit on uncomfortable wooden benches and watch ‘The World’s 2nd Greatest Showman’s’ put on his somewhat limited show for several nights on the trot. Mostly the audience just left each evening feeling a little sad and in no small part sorry for the little man in his faded red coat, with his battered top hat and painted smile.
The shows were however over by early evening and the audience could all repair to the squid and teapot for a couple of pints afterwards. Also the little man and his show was the kind of thing the residents of Hopeless expected to come to some tragic end. If it wasn’t for the fact his name was boldly escribed upon his wagon, it would have had pathos written all over it. And while they might deny it, the folk of Hopeless could never resist watching another calamity happen before their eyes. As such it became something of a vogue to attend the makeshift show for the first few weeks of what the locals laughably referred to as early spring. Which was one of those dismal fog laden moist springs that never quite got the hang of not been a late winter.
After the first couple of shows, and the merger takings from ‘the passing of the hat’ Barham himself began coming to the pub as well, mostly to get out of the fog for a while and nurse what could, if you were being kind and had never tasted the real stuff, be called a small brandy. Whence he would further ‘entertain’ the locals with talk of the many strange places and strange things he had seen. The wonders of his shows in Paris, Milan, New York , London and Dulwich. He also took pains to explain how once his circus once consisted of a dozen elephants, a trio of trained sealions, A pair actual lions and a tiger name King Stripentooth the third.
What had happened to King Stripentooth the second and first he would not say but King Stripentooth the fourth was one of the few animals that had remained in his circus when he arrived, a small domestic tomcat who’s fur had been badly dyed with orange stripes, much of which had washed out by ocean spray. King Stripentooth IV had run off after their second night and not been seen by Barham. However, he took heart in the appearance of the occasional rodent corpse presented at the foot the caravans step each morning which suggested the cat was thriving on the island.
The residents chose not to dissuade him of this notation or mention something else leaving the corpses of dead rodents for the showman to step into each morning was equally possible. This was Hopeless after all.
Late one evening in a near empty bar, after his least successful show so far, Barham was lamenting his lot. The veneer of outgoing upbeat cheerfulness had been chipped away earlier that day when the matinee performance had netted him the princely sum of a half rotten turnip and two carrots that had seen better days. He would not have minded so much if this pitiful return for his endeavours had been placed in the hat in the traditional manner, but hurling rotten vegetables at him seemed both ungracious and somewhat ungrateful of his audience, most of whom for the matinée had been children from the orphanage.
“They must have like the show.” One of the other drinkers, sagely told him. “Poor sods don’t have much to eat up there, though Davies does his best by them.”
There were nods all round at this latter comment. Barham chose to let it pass. His only interaction with the islands resident man of god had been when the Reverend turned up to condemn the painted ladies and heathen gypsy fortune tellers that he knew frequented the circus. He had some wondered off somewhat aggrieved when he had discovered there were none.
Barham suspected Reverend Davies was disappointed by the absence of fallen women he could condemn. He had met such men before.
“I am sure the little scamps were delighted.” Barham said, working up the courage to drink some more of the local brandy.
“Well a whole turnip, that’s fair reward I’m sure,” said another of the sage drinkers.
“Yes well… I would not mind so much but I’m sure one of the ‘delightful little scamps,” nicked the spoon form my coffee mug as well while my back was turned.”
“Now Mr Bailey, there no need to accuse the kids of stealing, poor sods have naff all but they would nay nick a man spoon I’m sure, not around here.” The older of the sages said.
“Nar, that would be one of them spoon-walkers.” His younger compatriot put in.
Several nervous laughs issued forth from other drinkers. The kind of mocking laugh you get from people who know what has just been said is ridiculous and the kind of local legend parents tell kids to make them do the washing up and put the cutlery away. But while they all knew that’s all it was , all of them also knew spoons went walkabout all the time. And everyone had seen a spoon-walker at some point in their life, often after too much night-potato vodka…
“Ha, Spoon-walkers, you gonna tell him about dustcats next?” laughed the older sage.
“Dust-cats..?” Barham half inquired but then said, “No one thing at a time, spoon-walkers, what pray tell is a spoon-walker?”
“Well, they’re like, squidgy things than nick spoons so they can walk about on land without damaging there tenacles.”
“Really?” Barham said, showing more interest in such things than you might expect. But Barham P Baily was a Showman born. Strange creatures were his stock in trade, a stock he was woefully short of at this time. If this miserable island had some interesting fauna then being stranded here for some time may not be the worst thing to have happened after all.
“Aye, and they are dangerous too.” The young sage said, to more bouts of laughter
“Get off with yourself, nothing dangerous about spoon walkers.” The old sage piped up.
“You say that but I heard tell about a huge one a few months back, stamping around causing havoc over on the other side of the island.
“Oh that bat droppings. It was a Walloping Jenny not a spoon walker.” Another drinker put in.
“No I heard it was Spoon-Kong reborn.” Laughed a fourth.
And argument ensued, but Bailey wasn’t listening anymore, he was having visons of strange beasts walking about like stilt walkers. Towering beast. If they walked on spoons naturally then he could train them to walk with larger thing. If they weren’t scary he could make them so, Spoon-walkers, why if he could capture a few of these beasts and teach them to walk with knives… Stand amid them with a bullwhip and a chair, as you always needed a chair. Why lion taming was old hat, it had been done a hundred times over, but a knife-walker tamer. The crowds would flock…
The argument in the squid and teapot was raging for a while before Barham managed to cut through the din with his ringmaster’s voice…
“So tell me, just how exactly would one go about capturing one of these ‘spoon-walkers’?” he asked.
This, it was determined afterwards by the sage drinkers of drink, was the point at which things started to go wrong for Barham P Bailey.
They weren’t real spoons, they were damaged mechanical parts that had been torn from the guts of some ill-fated ship. But they looked like spoons. Really big spoons. There is something that happens inside the ponderous mind of a spoonwalker when they encounter something they think is a spoon, and everyone likes a big one, even if they can’t handle it.
Of course, the bigger the spoon is, the heavier it is, and the harder it is to lift, and even if you can get it upright actually walking with a big heavy spoon takes an insane amount of effort.
But they were such very big spoons.
And so it was that the little spoonwalker puffed and panted, swore and sweated and struggled… for an absolutely unreasonable amount of time. No doubt it was all the straining that resulted in the little spikes pushing up out of his head. Normally sponwalkers aren’t spikey. Normally their eyes do not gleam with an infernal light.
But these were very big spoons, and very big spoons can have implications, and consequences.
Fate rewards the bold and all that kind of positivity cliche. Our little spoonwalker grew in might and muscle. He rose, on that which looked like spoons, but was not really spoons, and he strode out into the world, towering over other spoonwalkers, over chickens and very modestly sized plants. Other spoonwalkers quailed before him, and the chickens hesitated to try and eat him, and the modestly sized plants trembled at his passing.
Perhaps it was the scale of the effort that drove him mad, or the intoxication of walking on such very large spoons. Perhaps he was inspired – as so many human residents are – to try and escape from this island. Whatever the reasons, Spoonzilla strode out into the sea, the water boiling around him as he went. He disappeared under the waves as the water churned and steamed.
Those amongst us who believe in sequels are pretty sure that won’t be the end of the matter.
Tracey is a spoonwhisperer. She started this curious practice in childhood, with an uncanny ability to find missing spoons. According to Tracey, when she whispers to the spoons, they often reply. By this means she is able to locate then when they’ve simply fallen into or behind something. It also enables her to find spoon caches in abandoned spoonwalker nests.
Spoonwalkers, as everyone knows, are keen on spoons and like to use them as stilts. They prefer to pick up matching sets, but getting four spoons of equal length and weight is no easy matter. It also doesn’t help that spoonwalkers aren’t terribly good at counting and show now signs of being able to manage a multiplication table. As a consequence, when a spoonwalker lays eggs, it cannot simply multiply the number of eggs by four and thus deduce the number of spoons the offspring will need when they are ready to leave the nest. For this reason, expectant spoonwalkers simply grab all of the spoons they can get, and make a nest with those. It does also give the young spoonwalkers a better hope of finding spoons that make decent sets as they wobble their way out into the wider world. It may well be that spoonwalkers like to keep caches of spoons for future use, or because a spoon hoard has some kind of significance to them.
When a nest is abandoned, rejected spoons may be left behind. Other spoonwalkers may of course find them, unless Tracey gets there first. By this means, Tracey is able to sell spoons back to the spoon-deprived population of the island.
There have been speculations that Tracey is really a spoonwalker whisperer with the uncanny power to get spoonwalkers to steal spoons and bring them back to her for resale. That all seems a bit far-fetched though, especially the idea that anyone could persuade a spoonwalker to relinquish a spoon it had found. On having their spoons removed, spoonwalkers generally set off with a terrible keening noise and will flop around behind you until you give them the spoon back. It really isn’t worth the effort. As Tracey isn’t perpetually hounded by disgruntled spoonwalkers, it seems reasonable to conclude that it really is the spoons she whispers to, although what she says to them, she isn’t prepared to reveal.
James Weaselgrease has been with the Hopeless, Maine project for some time now. He’s in book 1, as the child Salamandra gives the bear to. He’s helped out at events, helped lug books onto trains, and he’s been part of the performance side from almost the start. He was singing with us before the idea of singing as part of the Hopeless, Maine project occurred to anyone.
The picture above is James in Ominous Folk mode, or possibly as Jamesthulhu. There may well be an eldritch monstrosity pretending to be his hair.
This autumn, our James started a course learning how to make computer games. He’d been at it about a week when he made this little beasty. We bring you the first spoonwalker in motion, confident that there is more of this to come. We anticipate that there will be Hopeless, Maine computer games in our not too distant futures!
We, at Hopeless, Maine headquarters (There is joke here somewhere, given the title…) are excited to announce the the very maker of the official headwear of the Bishop of Squid, one Tracey Abrahams by name, is in the process of creating a Spoonwalker hat! She has fallen under the influence of the island and plans severa; projects based on the strange fauna of the island. If you’d like to see more of her work (Probably to include updates on the Hopeless, Maine based projects, please visit here.
If you would like a spoonwalker hat of your very own, you can message Tracey via her Instagram page and start a (strange) conversation!
Just a regular scene from ordinary life on Hopeless, Maine.
The spoonwalker was lovingly raised in Herr Döktor’s Laboratory, is currently living its best life with Gregg NcNeill, and has aspirations of becoming a film star.
Still life arrangement and photo by Gregg McNeill – you can find more about his fabulous Dark Box photography over here – https://www.darkboximages.com/
“Hey fella. What’s this critter called?” Linus Pinfarthing stopped in his tracks and turned around slowly. Only one quizzically raised, and somewhat affronted, eyebrow betrayed his annoyance. “I beg your pardon?” “I said what’s this critter called. Ain’t seen nothin’ like these things before.” The newcomer, who was dressed in furs and buckskin, was holding up a cage in which an angry spoonwalker tottered around helplessly. “That sir is a spoonwalker. How did he get to be in there?” If the other man noticed the ice in Linus’ voice, he chose to ignore it. “Well, I lured him there. Got me a few more, back in the cave.” “Indeed? And you are…?” “Zeke Tyndale, trapper and fur trader. Please to meet you mister.” Tyndale offered his free hand which Linus reluctantly grasped. He held it for a few seconds, as if deciding whether to shake or no. For reasons he could not explain, Tyndale shuddered, feeling as if his soul was being laid bare. Then Linus smiled, shook the proffered hand warmly, and said, “Linus Pinfarthing at your service, sir. My dear fellow, I would love to see the rest of your collection.” “Happy to,” said Tyndale. “Follow me.”
As the two men walked, Tyndale surprised himself by blurting out his life story to his new companion. He told how he had been a successful trapper, and had plied his trade right across the continent. Upon a whim he decided to try his luck in the far north-east, where, he was assured, he would find plenty of pelts, just waiting to be caught. Unfortunately, his small boat had run aground upon the rocks around Hopeless. Being a practical man, he had set up camp and decided to see if there was any game worth trapping on the island. “Lucky I’ve still got all my traps and snares,” he confided, “but I ain’t seen nothin’ worth skinnin’ yet, ‘cept some things that look like cats…” “That would be Dust Cats. You would do well to avoid them,” said Linus gravely. “Besides which, you would never catch one.” “That sounds like a challenge to me,” laughed Tyndale.
The trapper’s camp was surprisingly orderly, all things considered. He had salvaged the contents of his boat and stacked them neatly against a rock, covering everything with a badly stained tarpaulin. A circular fire-pit sat in front of the mouth of the small cave, which currently served as Tyndale’s temporary abode. “Home sweet home,” he said, gesturing for Linus to sit on a nearby rock. “Coffee?” “No thank you,” said Linus, ignoring the invitation to sit. “I am most keen, however, to see your little collection of spoonwalkers.” Tyndale beamed, happy to display his prowess as a trapper, and strode into the cave, beckoning for Linus to follow.
The cave was small, barely half-a-dozen paces from side to side, and illuminated by the glow of a single hurricane lamp. Tyndale’s bedding lay in an untidy heap. He carried the cage, and its irate occupant, over to the far corner, where Linus could see, in the dim light, several similar traps, each holding a dejected spoonwalker.
“These critters are goin’ to make my fortune,” declared the trapper proudly. “When I get off this island, I’ll take them to New York. Folks there have never seen nothin’ like these. They’ll give me a blank cheque to get their hands on them. Then no more trappin’ for me. I’m going to be a millionaire!” “And how do the spoonwalkers feel about this?” asked Linus. “Why, they’ll be fine and dandy about it, I reckon,” Tyndale guffawed. Linus sighed. “Do you know, Mr Tyndale…” “Call me Zeke.” “… Mr Tyndale, there are few things more disgusting to me than to see a creature – even creatures such as these – caged for the pleasure and greed of thoughtless humans.” “Well, that’s as maybe, Mr Pinfarthin’,” said Tyndale brusquely, “but trappin’ is my trade and what I can’t skin I’ll damn’ well sell… and believe me, these little guys will sell on the mainland, no problem.” “I think not, Mr Tyndale. Maybe you should be caged instead. Or would you prefer to be skinned?” Linus unlatched the cages and watched the spoonwalkers scuttle away on their cutlery stilts. “Now you look here, young fella…” “Young fellow? No, you look, Mr Tyndale…” Suddenly, the light of the hurricane lamp was dimmed as the cave filled with a swirling, smoke-like dark mist, which seemed to emanate from the body of Linus Pinfarthing. His form was changing, and the affable young man who had walked into the cave had lost all substance. Tyndale cringed as the space was filled with nightmare visions of blood and sacrifice, through which he occasionally glimpsed animal and bird forms. Then, as swiftly as the mist had formed, it dispelled. Pinfarthing was gone. The trapper stood up, wondering what had happened, convinced he had been hallucinating. Then he saw the hare. It was sitting in the mouth of the cave, motionless, and looking straight at him. Now, here was a meal and a pelt he could not refuse. Stealthily, he unhitched his hunting knife from its sheath, never taking his eyes from the hare. Just one throw is all that it would take… “I gave you a chance,” said the Hare in a voice as deep and dark as the earth itself. “I gave you the opportunity to change your ways.” Then the hare stretched and grew, and with growing, altered his shape into that of a coyote. “Do you not know me, even now?” asked Coyote, shaking himself. By now Tyndale was on his knees, trembling, as he watched Coyote turn black, and shrink once more, growing the feathers and wings of a great raven that tossed its head, and held the orb of the sun within its beak. It was a light that grew in intensity, almost blinding the trapper. Then, in the fierce unearthly glow, it seemed that all three beasts were there before him. “Fear us now,” chorused the voices of Hare, Coyote and Raven. “We are The Trickster. We are The Guizer. We are The Eldest. We are The First and The Last.” Tyndale screamed and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, hoping the three would be gone when he opened them again. Seconds passed like hours, or maybe they were hours. Squatting on the floor of the cave, gibbering and shuddering, he heard the ominous rustle of wings, the padding of light feet on stone and the distant howl of a prairie wolf. He knew that there were no wolves on this island. What was happening to him? Tyndale opened his eyes once more. He was alone, and all of his world, and everything he would ever again know, was held within the cave.
“It’s beyond even my knowledge,” said Doc Willoughby, modestly. “I have never seen anything like this.” Linus Pinfarthing looked on sympathetically. “The poor fellow must have suffered some great trauma,” he opined. “You could almost believe he was somehow caged inside himself.” “Yes, I agree,” said the Doc, nodding. “You may have something there, Linus.” No one knew exactly how long the wretched figure had been sitting, rocking and whispering to himself in that cave. It was fortunate that Linus had happened upon him a few days earlier. They had tried to leave food and drink, but he appeared to want neither. He was existing on nothing but air, it seemed.
Zeke Tyndale looked through the bars of his cage and saw the thousands of creatures that he had trapped and slaughtered in his lifetime. They clamoured to break the bars down, to drag him away and rip him to pieces. He wished that they would, for death would be a welcome respite. However, Hare, Coyote and Raven, who guarded him day and night, had other plans. He knew that it was their intention that he would live, trapped in this cage for as long as it pleased them, and that would be a long, long time.
Steampunk maker and creator Andy Arbon is making a spoonwalker nest! It’s a glorious work in progress…
Andy tells us… “the spoonwalkers have discovered this long-abandoned cutlery case in the corner of a cellar on the island and made it their home, laying three eggs. The nest is made using spoons in the same way a bird would use twigs, so if you have lost your teaspoons the chances are they are here. The eggs begin to glow green shortly before hatching. Practically this is part finished, I still need to add a mother spoonwalker and make a few improvements to the painting on the eggs.”
