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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

On the Beach

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“Ah! Good old Hopeless fog. By Jove, you cannot imagine just how much I’ve missed it.”

Reggie Upton inhaled the damp morning air with the brisk appreciation of someone contemplating exercise in an expensive Swiss health resort.

“We were gone for less than a day,” Philomena Bucket commented drily. “And it was your idea to go looking for sunshine, after all.”

“I won’t be doing that again in a hurry,” said Reggie.

Their brief sojourn in Tudor London, courtesy of Durosimi O’Stoat’s passage through the Underland, had seen Reggie being bundled into a priest-hole to avoid being burned as a heretic. All in all, the trip had been less than successful; it had, however, apparently cured him of any desire to be anywhere other than on the island of Hopeless, Maine, which he now considered to be his home.

“I must say, the London of the sixteenth century was a bit of a disappointment,” added Reggie. “All that filth and squalor! Not to mention having to make sure that one was batting for the right religion. So much for Merrie England!”

Drury, the skeletal dog, wandered in and sniffed the air, hoping that they had brought some of those interesting smells back with them. Disappointed, he shook himself noisily and settled into his favourite corner spot with a clatter.

“Don’t get too comfortable old chap,” said Reggie, “I was hoping that you might accompany me in a spot of beachcombing today.”

Always ready for an adventure, Drury leapt back up, wagging his bony tail happily.

“It will be good to be able to wander around unmolested, free to belong to any religion, or none, and blaspheme without fear or favour.”

Philomena rolled her eyes.

“He’s not going to let this go,” she thought to herself.

“Well, just make sure that Father Stamage doesn’t hear you,” she said. “If you start blaspheming in front of him, he won’t be too happy.”

“I’ll keep away from whichever bit of The Squid he’s currently haunting,” promised Reggie. “After all, I wouldn’t want to upset our resident holy ghost.”

As if to test the sincerity of Reggie’s newly-found fondness for all things fog related, the visibility along the beach that morning was down to just a few yards. The heavy mist rolling in from the sea blanketed everything, muting colours and sounds. Even the waves, relentlessly pounding the rocks, seemed quieter than usual. Reggie could not help but think that the atmosphere was decidedly eerie, even by Hopeless standards, which began to bother him a little. Drury, on the other hand, was completely unfazed, and trotted in front with his tail held high, a bone-white beacon for his companion to follow.

 Under the circumstances, it was hardly surprising that Drury failed to see the upturned boat. He clattered awkwardly over its hull, to descend on the other side into an unseemly pile of bones and festooned in seaweed.

“Dashed bad luck, old chap,” said Reggie, quietly thankful that Drury had been the one leading the way.

The osseous hound clambered to his feet and shook himself vigorously, broadcasting bits of seaweed everywhere. He then proceeded to sniff the boat.

“Have you found something, my friend,” asked Reggie, as the dog began to dig furiously in the sand.

“They have been gone an awfully long time,” said Philomena to her husband, Rhys. “The mood Reggie was in this morning could get him into trouble in some places.”

“Aren’t they beachcombing? I can’t imagine them running into difficulties doing that,” replied Rhys, “especially as Drury is with him. I don’t mind taking a stroll along the beach, though, if it would make you feel happier.”

“Let’s go together,” said Philomena, grabbing his arm. “It will be just like when we were courting.”

 *

“I am jolly glad to see you two,” said Reggie as Philomena and Rhys emerged through the mist. “Drury seems convinced that there is someone or something trapped under this boat, but I am dashed if I can turn it over on my own.”

Rhys grinned. His previous role as Night-Soil Man had bestowed muscles upon him that were the envy of every young man on the island. It was the work of seconds for him to turn the boat over, and expose whatever it had been concealing.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie.

 The child lying on the sand was no more than two or three years old. She was still alive, but breathing shallowly.

Philomena could not take her eyes away from the girl, whose hair was long and matted, but so fair as to be almost white in colour, as was her skin.

“Albino,” she whispered to herself.

“The poor child,” said Reggie. “We must get her to the orphanage. Miss Calder will know what to do.”

“No,” said Philomena, urgently. She gave Rhys a long and lingering look.

“Can we?” she mouthed, soundlessly.

Rhys wiped an uncharacteristic tear from the corner of his eye.

“She looks enough like you to be your daughter,” he said, a tremor in his voice.

Philomena knelt down and scooped the girl into her arms.

“Our daughter,” she corrected him. “And it’s time to take her home.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Tale of the Tales

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There is something a little different this week…

 On Good Friday, 2017, which happened to fall on April 14th, I was asked if I might be interested in contributing a little something to ‘The Hopeless Vendetta’. At the time I was enjoying a pub lunch, so I can only imagine that it was the heady combination of warm beer and Stilton cheese that prompted me to agree, saying that I would produce a few words in time for the next edition.

Appropriately for the island of Hopeless, Maine, my first effort was to write an obituary for an elderly actor manager of the Henry Irving variety, named Sir Fromebridge Whitminster. This proved to be an historic moment in the annals of Hopeless, bringing to public attention for the very first time an inn called ‘The Squid and Teapot’, Sir Fromebridge’s favourite watering hole. I think it was generally acknowledged that ‘The Squid’ would somehow take on a life of its own, and so the following week saw my scribblings appear under the banner ‘Tales from the Squid and Teapot’, and featured no less than W.S. Gilbert, of Gilbert & Sullivan fame (in ‘The Sound of the Cutlery Moving’). Gilbert was the first of several well known people to visit, including the blues musician Robert Leroy Johnson and his friend, Johnny Shines (ln ‘Spoonwalker Blues’) – after all, where better than Hopeless to meet the devil on the crossroads? Other guest appearances came from the ocean-going saints, Brendan and Malo (in ‘No Country for Old Mendicants); Captain Edward Smith of the R.M.S. Titanic (in ‘Scilly Point’); the Elizabethen alchemist Doctor John Dee (in ‘The Visions of Doctor Dee’ plus several other tales), along with his friend Edward Kelley and a brief appearance by a young Will Shakespeare (in ‘The Little Ship of Horrors, part 2’). The latest, and less obvious, famous face to be on the island is Adolf Hitler, who had turned up on Hopeless at some point, and had quite forgotten his past, reverting to the family name of Schicklgruber, which his father had changed to ‘Hitler’ in the 1870s. In the tale ‘Krampusnacht,’ Herr Schicklgruber is violently spirited away by the Christmas bogey-man Krampus, so, albeit belatedly, justice was seen to be done.

Occasionally, real-life events have inspired the tales, such as the Centralia mine fire, in Pennsylvania, which has been burning for over sixty years (in ‘Hell’s Mouth’); The legend of the Dutchman’s Gold, which was cited in the tale of that name. In ‘The Persian Runner’, a businessman named Garfield Lawnside attempts to buy Hopeless, not unlike the way in which Donald Trump had designs on purchasing Greenland in 2019.

 Several characters have arrived on the island, only to perish fairly soon afterwards. With this being Hopeless, of course, death is rarely the end and not always a disadvantage. Although disappointed and a little perplexed that things did not turn out as expected, the Jesuit priest, Father Ignatius Stamage, seems quite happy to haunt anywhere his hat is hung. When an attempt was made to bring Sir Fromebridge Whitminster back to haunt his scarf, however, he had to decline as he had taken up a position as the ghostly Man in Grey, the spirit who famously haunts London’s Lyceum Theatre (in ‘The Man in Grey’).

 Hopeless has experienced its share of fantastic beasts in the tales. Besides the ubiquitous ghouls, vampires and werewolves, the island has seen the terrifying Aboo-dom-k’n, who apparently consumed Sir Fromebridge; the Kraken, on numerous occasions; various Selkies (In ‘People from the sea’ and other tales); the charming, but hideous Argentinian monster, Manchachicoj (in ‘The Stowaway’); the native-American bird-god, Pamola (who  my spell-check, annoyingly, insisted on amending to Pamela); the demon, Buer, straight from the 16th-century grimoire, Pseudomonarchia Daemonum, with his lion’s head, from which five legs radiated like the spokes of a wheel (in ‘Bog Oak and Brass’ among other tales) and, most recently, Mr Squash, the eloquent Sasquatch, or Bigfoot, who is visiting Hopeless.

 Part of the pleasure, and indeed the pain,  in creating these tales is the research – honestly, some of them do require quite a lot of research. Before writing for The Vendetta I knew little or nothing about the people of the Passaquamoddy tribe; Selkies; The workings of the Edison-Bell phonograph; The procedure required for distilling absinthe and other spirits; The Brendan Voyage; Francis Younghusband and the British invasion of Tibet; The Quest for the fabled North-West Passage; Night-Soil Men (yes, they really did exist); Downeasters; Balloonists; The Pseudomonarchia Daemonum; The haunted Salamanca caves of Argentina; The Danse Apache and the Can-Can – which, you may imagine, obviously took a great deal of YouTube research! (incidentally, some of you may have noticed that the name of the Can-can troupe who are shipwrecked on the island, Les Demoiselles de Moulin Rouge, is a direct steal from Picasso’s painting, Les Demoiselles D’Avignon). I could go on, but after seven years the list seems endless.

 I was fortunate in inheriting, from Tom and Nimue’s original vision, a wealth of marvellous characters, whom they kindly allowed me to use and abuse as I pleased. Best, of all of these for me, is Drury, the skeletal hound. Drury is a gift for any dog-lover to write. He has also given me what I consider to be my best tale-title so far, being ‘The Curious Case of the Dog in the Nightdress,’ which describes his first meeting with Philomena Bucket. No one on the island knows anything of Drury’s origins, but I did attempt to suggest how things might have been in the tale ‘A Dog’s Life,’ which, I confess, reduced me to tears in the writing.

 So, I am writing this on the fourteenth of April 2024, exactly seven years after being first approached to contribute ‘a little something’ to The Vendetta. There have been a couple of short breaks during that period, but I reckon there must be about three hundred tales told in the series, so far. Occasionally, in the vague hope of continuity, I dig an early one out and have no recollection whatsoever of having written it. For all I know it could be a true account of events that have occurred, or may yet occur. As a believer in the possibility of a multiverse, therefore, I like to think that somewhere out there Durosimi, Doc Willoughby, Philomena , Reggie and all the rest – especially Drury – are wandering about in the fog, just an arm’s reach away on the island of Hopeless Maine.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Friends Reunited

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“Well, I must say, you smell a darn sight better than when I saw you last.”

Rhys Cranham, who had been sweeping the courtyard of The Squid and Teapot, stopped abruptly in his tracks. He recognised those deep, velvety tones at once, despite it being a voice that he had not heard for years.

He turned slowly on his heels, hardly daring to believe that it could really be…

“Mr Squash, as I live and breathe,” he said, his face wreathed in smiles. “What brings you to Hopeless again? I thought that you hated the place.”

“Oh, just he usual,” said the Sasquatch, a twinkle in his dark brown eyes. “Getting young Night-Soil Men out of trouble.”

Rhys grinned, remembering how Mr Squash had extracted him from a most unpleasant encounter with a ghoul, many years earlier. But he was young and green then, not much older than Winston Oldspot is now…

“Winston!” he exclaimed, worriedly realising what the Sasquatch had said. “Is he okay?”

“He is fine,” said Mr Squash. “He just wandered into somewhere where he shouldn’t.”

 “I had no idea that you two knew each other,” said Reggie Upton. ”I brought Mr S over, thinking that he might like to meet Philomena.”

Rhys had been so taken with meeting his old friend again that he had not noticed Reggie. This was understandable, for even Reggie’s military bearing was completely overshadowed  beside the Sasquatch’s nine foot height and eight-hundred pound bulk.

“Yes… of course,” said Rhys, uncertainly. “I’ll go and fetch her.”

Philomena had seen all sorts since coming to Hopeless, but maybe she ought to be assured, before seeing Mr Squash, that he was friendly.

Before anyone could move there was a clatter on the cobbles that sounded not dissimilar to a dinner-service falling out of a cupboard, onto concrete. Then Drury, the skeletal hound, burst around the corner, an array of freshly washed underwear in his mouth.

On seeing Mr Squash he drew up noisily, did a double-take, then bounded joyfully towards him, hurling himself at the mountainous bulk of the Sasquatch with a force that would have knocked a lesser body on its back. If anyone had doubted their friendship before, Drury’s frantically wagging tail would have put them right.

“Drury, you old rascal,” laughed Mr Squash, scratching the dog’s bony skull in the place where his ears would have been. “Are you still here? You must be almost as old as I am.”

Just then a flustered-looking Philomena Bucket appeared, brandishing a broom.

“Drury, you no good bag of bones…” she cried, then, seeing the strange tableau in front of her, drew to an abrupt halt.

“What the devil…” she began.

“Um… Philomena, meet my old friend, Mr Squash,” said Rhys.

The heavy oak door of The Squid and Teapot is usually large enough to accommodate most of the inn’s patrons, but the Sasquatch had to bend almost double to get through it. Once in, however, he could comfortably stand. The oldest part of The Squid was once a church, possibly the earliest structure built on the island. Since then, through its various incarnations, the building had been added to, both outwards, upwards and even downwards. Happily for Mr Squash the original high ceilings of the church, where the bar is now located, remain as lofty and impressive as ever.

 Mr Squash lowered himself down onto the stout wooden settle that runs along one wall of the bar. The others looked on in trepidation, mentally crossing fingers that the seat was sufficient to the task. Luck, and the joints of the settle, held and all was well.

Despite his bulk and appearance, Philomena found their guest to be as well-mannered and charming as any whom she had met, and soon felt at ease in his company.

“That’s an unusual name you have there,” she said, ignoring Rhys’ disapproving gaze.

“It is,” agreed Mr Squash, “though it’s one that I have had for quite a few years now.”

“Go on then,” said Philomena. “Spill the beans.”

Rhys glared at her again, but she pretended not to notice.

“I used to ramble all over the country, back when there were more trees and fewer roads,” began Mr Squash. “One day a young fellow, not more than a boy, took a pot-shot at me with some pea-shooter of a fire-stick… I don’t know what you call them.”

“Rifle, I imagine,” volunteered Reggie.

“Whatever it was, I admit it stung a bit and it got me riled up enough to pick him up by his neck and shake him. Then I saw the fear in his eyes, and I dropped the lad, badly twisting his ankle. I felt awful about that, and to cut a long story short, I picked him up and carried him back to the settlement where he lived. After that he would seek me out, and we became friends. I showed him the secrets of the forest and he taught me to speak English. I watched him grow into a strapping young man, who eventually married and raised a fine family. He had a daughter named Jemima, and she was the one who first called me Mr Squash.”

“But why did she call you that?” insisted Philomena.

Rhys could see that she was not going to let this go, so he gave up trying to catch her eye.

“Well, one day, after we had known each other for a while, this young fellow asks me my name. Until then a name was nothing that I had any need for, so I told him what the people in the North-West used to call me, when I lived among them.

“Sasquatch will do fine,”  I said. “ So what’s your name?”

“Daniel Boone,” he replied. “But you can call me Dan.”

Mr Squash had a dreamy, distant look in his eyes.

“That was a long time ago,” he said. “But like I told you, it was little Jemima Boone who started calling me Mr Squash, because Sasquatch was too darned tricky for her to say. And it caught on, as simple as that!”

It was later that evening, and the Sasquatch had left to forage for some food.

“There is nothing suitable for me to eat on this island,” he had declared, “but I’ll be back in an hour or so to help Winston.”

“Where does he go to eat?” asked Philomena.

“Through one of his portals to somewhere far away,” said Rhys. “And don’t get excited. You couldn’t pass through even if you knew where it is.”

“He’s a strange one, for sure,” said Philomena. “And he’s really old, as well.”

“So are you,“ said Rhys.

“No I’m not. I was just born a long time ago,” she retorted. “And Daniel Boone was around years before that.”

“Those must have been the days when people had manners, and didn’t pry into other folk’s business,” said Rhys, expertly ducking to avoid the broom aimed for the back of his head.

 Author’s note: In the tale ‘About Time’, Philomena revealed to Reggie that, despite being only thirty, she was born in the year 1795. As has been previously mentioned on several occasions, Hopeless Maine has a complicated relationship with time and space.

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

Calling Time at the Squid and Teapot

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“Non! Non! Definitely non!”

When Mirielle was in this mood there was no arguing with her. Despite this, however, her husband, Septimus, attempted to do just that. “Well, I didn’t think…” he began.

“You never do,” broke in Mirielle. ” Whatever gave you the idea that I would be happy to bring my children up in a house with some mad old Swedish goblin skulking about at all hours?”

“He’s not a goblin, he’s a tomte, and he doesn’t skulk.”

” Pah! Goblin, tonto, they’re all the same. We will wake up one morning and find our babies have been kidnapped and spirited off to who knows where. That is not going to happen. We will stay living in the dance studio until we can find somewhere that doesn’t have a mad tonto terrorising the neighbourhood.”

Septimus sighed. He knew when he was beaten.

*****

“I’m getting too old for this,” groaned Bartholomew Middlestreet, heaving a barrel across the cellar floor of The Squid and Teapot. “I don’t know how I would have managed to have shifted this lot on my own. I’m really grateful for your help, Rhys.”

Rhys Cranham grinned. He was half of Barthlomew’s age, and these barrels were child’s-play after his years of working as the island’s Night-Soil Man. “It’s little enough to do, after all that you and Ariadne have done for Philomena and me,” he said.

It was true enough. The Middlestreets had given the newlyweds a home after Philomena, like Mirielle, had declined to share a cottage with the tomte.

*****

“I don’t understand it,” said Ariadne Middlestreet, later that evening. “If I had been Philomena or Mirielle, I would have jumped at the chance of moving into the Blomqvist cottage. By all accounts that tomte creature has kept it spotless for all these years, ever since Mr Blomqvist died.”

News travels quickly on the island of Hopeless, Maine.

Bartholomew, nodded. “And for nothing more than a bowl of food every night,” she added. The innkeeper paused and eyed his wife quizzically. “Would you really want to move from The Squid?” he asked, at last.

“It would be strange, after all this time,” she admitted. “But it’s a lot of work, even with Philomena’s help. Why do you ask?”

“Well, we’re not getting any younger,” said Bartholomew. “Maybe it’s time for a change.”

*****

“But there has been a Middlestreet running The Squid and Teapot for the last hundred years,” protested Philomena Bucket, when Ariadne related the conversation to her. It was late, and they were preparing starry-grabby pies for the following day.

“And before that there were the Lypiatts, and before them, more Middlestreets, with a nasty little man called Thrupp in between. Everything changes, eventually, Philomena.”

“But I can’t imagine The Squid without you and Bartholomew. Besides, who would take over?” “We thought that you and Rhys might be keen… ” She let the words hang in the air, and watched the gamut of emotions cross Philomena’s face.

“But..but.. I… we could never…” she spluttered.

“Yes you could,” said Ariadne. “And I’m sure that Reggie Upton would be more than happy to help.”

“I don’t know…” said Philomena, composing herself.

“You’ll be fine – and will be doing Bartholomew and me a good turn, We really need to retire.”

“I’ll need to speak to Rhys…”

“Bartholomew has already done that. Rhys said that the decision would be yours.”

“And Reggie?”

“I’ll leave you to talk to Reggie,” smiled Ariadne. There was the faintest flush to Philomena’s pallid face. “This is all so sudden,” she said.

*****

The following morning Philomena caught up with Reggie outside the dance studio, talking to Septimus and Mirielle.

“You’re just the man I’m after,” said Philomena brightly, ”unless I’m interrupting something.”

“Not at all m’dear,” beamed Reggie. “I’m just off to do a spot of flaneuring.” This was Reggie’s way of saying that he was simply going for a walk.

“Pah! You are no flaneur,” said Mirielle, mischievously. “Charles Baudelaire was a flaneur, and you are certainly no Baudelaire.”

“You are perfectly correct, dear lady,” said Reggie, with a mock bow. “I confess, I have never been a syphilitic opium-addict, so you have me there.” The old soldier winked at Mirielle, then turned his attention to Philomena. “And now, m’dear, what can I do for you…?

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Sea Fever

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By Martin Pearson

Sea Fever

“I must go down to the sea again,

To the lonely sea and the sky.

And all I ask is a tall ship,

And a star to steer her by.”

Philomena Bucket looked at Reggie Upton in surprise.

“Did you make that one up yourself?” she asked, admiringly. “It’s very good.”

“Good Lord, no” laughed Reggie. “It’s by a young chap named Masefield. He’s a bit of a poet who once persuaded me to buy a copy of one of his books. It was called ‘Salt Water Ballads’, and was full of that sort of thing. That particular poem came to mind after I saw the sailing ship that had floundered on the rocks, down by Scilly Point, yesterday.”

“Oh yes, I heard about that,” said Philomena. “Do you know if there were any survivors?”

“None that I have heard about,” replied Reggie, sadly. “I am fairly sure they would have made themselves known by now.”

It was true. Most newcomers to the island of Hopeless, Maine, seemed to turn up at the door of The Squid and Teapot eventually.  

Trickster looked down at his new meat-suit with approval. It had taken little effort to persuade the drunken sea captain to drive his ship on to the fog-bound rocks. Trickster was an old hand at things like that. More difficult was the task of ensuring that the well-dressed young man, who appeared to be the schooner’s solitary passenger, survived the catastrophe unscathed.  Trickster did not know, or indeed care, that the owner of the merchantman was, even then, waiting anxiously for his son to arrive on the quayside at Newhaven, Connecticut. All that the lad meant to Trickster was the means to a very desirable meat-suit; one that no one on the island had seen before.

“That chair has got four legs,” scolded Mrs Ephemery.  “Break it, and you’ll be sorry.”

The well-dressed young man flashed the landlady a charming smile and dutifully eased his weight forward, allowing the chair to sit squarely, once more, upon the floor of the inn.

It was such a pity that he had to frequent The Crow in order to conclude his business. Unfortunately, it would be to here, and not to the far more hospitable environs of The Squid and Teapot, that those lads, whom the islanders insisted on calling ‘The Famous Five’, would be returned, now that they had almost recovered from their ordeal at the hands of Durosimi O’Stoat. There was still the issue of their amnesia, of course, and that was something that Trickster wanted to put right. Naturally, this was not out of any sense of altruism, or wishing to help the Famous Five. It was purely a means of making Durosimi’s life a little more uncomfortable, for if the truth of their captivity was to get out, Durosimi would become even less popular than he was at present; it might even lead to violent retribution. One could but hope.

Trickster had no wish to physically harm Durosimi; he was perfectly content to do no more than create the circumstances which would provide the sorcerer with an occasional, but generous, helping of misery. If, on the other hand, a series of events should lead to Durosimi’s downfall, then so be it. In the meantime, he would linger here in The Crow, eat their lousy food, and wait to restore the memories that those five young men had so inconveniently mislaid. Like the best laid plans of mice and men, however, Trickster’s schemes do not always come to the pleasing conclusion that he has envisaged.

The Famous Five were, by now, deemed eligible for discharge from the Pallid Rock Orphanage, where they had been hospitalised for a week or so. It was with light hearts and optimism that they set off that morning, bound for their local inn, The Crow, where a welcome-home party had been arranged. To begin with all seemed fairly normal, or as normal as could reasonably be expected on Hopeless. It was after little more than a few hundred yards into their journey, however, that they noticed how the perennial fog, which wraps itself coldly around the island, seemed to be growing unusually thick, and stealthily creeping in from the sea with all the subtlety of a well-worn Gothic cliché. Despite this, the young men wandered into its chilly embrace with good spirits, laughing and singing with all of the exuberance of youth. It was only when other voices joined theirs that they paused to listen. These new songsters sweetened the air with pure and melodious harmonies, intoxicating and irresistible to those young ears. As one, the five turned and walked through the unrelenting fog to where the voices called them, totally bewitched and besotted. They stumbled over rocks, through soft sand and sucking mud, until the cold Atlantic lapped around their feet, but still they did not stop, drawn ever onward by the seductive siren-song. Not until the water had reached their chests, and insistent, unseen hands drew them beneath the waves with preternatural strength, did they realise, too late, their awful fate. It was only then that they beheld, with horror, the hideous creatures who had serenaded them.

A solitary figure stood in the already thinning fog. He knew that summoning the sirens would have its cost. There was always a price to be paid. He really hoped that the five fresh victims would be payment enough, but he had his doubts.

 Durosimi sighed, and wrapped his cloak tightly around him.

“It was necessary to do this,” he told himself. “That only leaves young Septimus Washwell to attend to now.”

As the day wore on, Trickster became more and more convinced that something was amiss, and that Durosimi was at the bottom of it. The Famous Five should have been back hours ago. Even Mr and Mrs Ephemery, who managed the inn, had given up on them, and was taking down the crude bunting that proclaimed “Welkum Home Famus 5”

With an angry kick, Trickster sent his chair spinning across the room, where it shattered into matchwood against the far wall. Freezing Mrs Ephemery’s spluttered protestations in mid-sentence with a wave of his hand, he strode out of The Crow in a rage, slamming the big oak door behind him.

“It is time to go to The Squid and Teapot,” he muttered. “At least there I can plot my revenge on O’Stoat in something resembling civilized comfort.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Job

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By Martin Pearson

“Why are you so distracted, Septimus?”  

Mirielle D’Illay barked the words at her husband as he stumbled over his dance routine for the third time. 

“Sorry,” stammered Septimus. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” 

“Well, move it off your mind and concentrate on the dance. We’ll be performing in front of an audience in a few days, and it needs to be perfect.” 

“A few days?” said Septimus, paling. 

“Yes – it’s your mother’s birthday party, or have you forgotten?” 

“But I won’t be able to…” 

“You won’t be able to do what?” Mirielle regarded him darkly. “I hope that you’re not going to say you won’t be dancing at Mabel’s party.” 

Septimus had recently agreed to help Durosimi O’Stoat complete some mysterious task or other, and had, that very morning, received a message from the sorcerer informing him that he would be required to start work on the following day. Septimus had been reminded to tell no one. 

“So where will you be?” Mirielle demanded. 

Septimus, who had become suddenly and unaccountably uxorious since learning that he was to become a father, was reluctant to lie to his wife. Durosimi, however, had sworn him to secrecy, and Durosimi was not the sort of person you wanted to disobey. 

“It’s just something I’ve been asked to do at The Squid and Teapot,” he said, not totally untruthfully. A few days earlier Septimus had delivered a firkin of ale to Durosimi. That was when the offer of a job had arisen. The firkin was now, apparently empty and needed to be returned to the inn, and another one taken to Durosimi. How the sorcerer had got through nine gallons of ale in such a short time, and now needed a further supply, was beyond Septimus’ comprehension. 

“So you would rather mess about in the cellar of The Squid than going to your mother’s party and dancing with me?” 

“Of course not, but I really have to…” 

“I don’t know why you don’t move into The Squid and Teapot, like Reggie Upton,” Mirielle broke in angrily.  “You might as well be married to that mad Englishman. You two deserve each other.” 

“That’s just being silly…” began Septimus, but he was talking to himself. Mirielle had already left the building. 

“It is a simple enough task,” said Durosimi. “I just need you to break up few rocks. It is easy enough work for a youngster such as yourself.” 

Septimus gazed into the gaping mouth of the cavern with some disquiet. It was all very well Durosimi seeing him as being a strong young man. No one had said anything about needing to be brave. 

“That looks a tad creepy in there, Mr O’Stoat,” he said, nervously. 

Durosmi smiled a mirthless smile that was meant to be reassuring. 

“Nonsense, lad,” he said, laying a hand on Septimus’ shoulder. “You will have a lantern, and it is perfectly safe, I can assure you, and you won’t be alone. There are some other fellows in there, all willing recruits like you. They seem very happy. I would do the job myself, but alas, I am not as young as I used to be.” 

Septimus wondered what that had to do with anything. True, Durosimi certainly had a few years under his belt, but surely, he was no older than Septimus’ own father, Seth, who was still as strong as an ox. 

Holding his candle lantern aloft, Septimus gave a sigh. His shoulder tingled, where Durosimi had touched him, and his mind was growing foggy. 

“They seem very happy,” he said dreamily, and wandered, like a sleepwalker, into the cavern.  

“I thought he’d never go,” muttered Durosimi. 

“He has been gone for three days,” wailed Mirielle. “I was too harsh with him, what have I done? Mon Dieu, what have I done?” 

“Whatever it is that has happened, it is not your fault,” reassured Philomena Bucket. “I checked with Bartholomew, and he said that the last time he had seen Septimus, he was in the cellar of The Squid, and about to swap Durosimi’s empty firkin for a full one.” 

“Durosimi?” said Mirielle, aghast. “Durosimi O’Stoat?” 

Philomena nodded. She did not know anyone else called Durosimi, and did not imagine that Mirielle did, either.  

“I am uneasy if Septimus is associating with that man.” 

“Me too,” said Philomena, wishing that Granny was around, so that she could at least to ask for her advice. True to form the ghost of Granny Bucket made a point of turning up when you least wanted her but failed to appear when needed.  

“If only we could find where he is gone,” whimpered Mirielle. 

“Maybe we can,” said Philomena, after some thought. “I think I know who can help.” 

Philomena Bucket had always been wary of the priesthood, but, in recent months, Father Stamage had become the exception. It helped that, since his unfortunate death, his views on the afterlife had been drastically revised.  

“Septimus is lost?” said the ghostly Jesuit. “Of course, I would be very happy to help, but I can’t really see what use I would be.” 

“You do yourself a disservice, Father,” said Philomena. “You’ll help no end, as long as you’re happy to team up with Drury for a spell.” 

Father Ignatius bridled a little at the word ‘spell’. He was only too aware of what the Bucket women were capable of when it came to spells. Then he realised that this was no more than a figure of speech. 

“With Drury?” he said, his curiosity roused. “Why, yes, I get on with the old chap quite well these days, but I can’t really see…” 

“You will,” said Philomena with a grin. “Leave it to me.” 

Had you been standing outside The Squid and Teapot, later that evening, you may have spotted a skeletal hound slip out from the shadows, with a bible-black hat firmly held between his jaws. Drury was notorious for stealing various items of discarded clothing, but his usual tactic would be to dash away with it, causing as much mayhem as possible in the process. This evening, however, he slunk along, his bony nose firmly fixated upon the ground. Occasionally he would put the hat down, sniff the air, then finding his bearings, pick up the hat once more and continue with his mission.  

As I have mentioned in other tales, you and I might find no more than the odours of sweat, cheap brilliantine and faded incense in the priest’s somewhat battered Capello Romano. For Ignatius Stamage, however, to haunt his hat was to walk, once more, through the cool, venerable corridors of his old alma mater, Campion Hall, in Oxford. 

It was less than an hour later that Drury found himself standing at the forbidding mouth of a dark cavern. The ground was thick with scents, but he could easily distinguish that of Septimus from the others. Laying the hat upon the ground, he gave a low bark, intended to summon the ghost of Father Ignatius. Without a word, the ghostly priest drifted from the comfort of his hat and Campion Hall, and into the gloom-laden cavern, unseen and unheard by any who might be watching.  

To be continued… 

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

The Unhappy Medium

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Drury, the skeletal hound, was curled up contentedly on an old blanket in the corner of the Night-Soil Man’s cottage, affectionately known to all as ‘The House at Poo Corner’.

As far as Drury was concerned, all was right with the world.  To all intents and purposes Philomena Bucket had stopped wasting her time worrying about being a powerful witch, or getting married, and was once more ensconced behind the bar of The Squid and Teapot. Even better, Rhys Cranham was back in his rightful place, servicing the cess-pits and outdoor privies of the islanders of Hopeless Maine. All thoughts of marriage appeared to have left them both, at least for the time being. The status quo had been restored to Drury’s satisfaction.

Rhys looked down fondly at the bony old hound. It would soon be time to drag on his boots, strap on the lidded bucket and once more venture out into the darkness. Doubtless, Drury would accompany him, as he did on most nights. Rhys could not help wondering how things would have changed, had his and Philomena’s wedding plans come to fruition. The role of Night-Soil Man had taken up half of his life, first as apprentice to Shenandoah Nailsworthy, then, after Shenandoah’s death, as Night-Soil Man in his own right. Would he have coped with married life? He had no idea; it might have been a disaster. After leaving the Pallid Rock Orphanage, the night soil business was all that he had ever known. It was probably best not to dwell on the question. Happily, Philomena was still a good friend, leaving a couple of bottles of Old Colonel and a wedge of starry-grabby pie on his doorstep every evening.

Despite the all-pervading misery that seemed to seep into every nook and cranny of the island, The Squid and Teapot generally managed to maintain its reputation for good cheer. A visitor could always expect a warm welcome and, more often as not, entertainment, of a sort. Tonight the venerable Bell-Edison phonograph, which always added a frisson of excitement to proceedings, had been taken out to provide the music for Les Demoiselles de Hopeless, Maine, the troupe of Moulin Rouge dancers who had been shipwrecked on the island a year or so earlier. To the strains of Offenbach’s Infernal Galop (or ‘The Can-Can’ to most of us) the aforementioned young ladies performed their ever-popular routine to an appreciative audience. By a strange coincidence, whenever Les Demoiselles performed in the inn, some of those who rarely patronised the establishment found themselves with a pressing need to pay it a visit.

“Reverend Davies, we don’t often see you in here,” said Bartholomew Middlestreet, with no surprise in his voice whatsoever.

“Quite so,” said the Reverend importantly. “I’ve come to see Miss Bucket, if that is convenient.”

He failed to mention that he had already seen Philomena; she had been walking in the opposite direction.

“Sorry Reverend, she’s out at the moment and won’t be back for a while. She said she needed an hour or so to herself.”

“That’s a shame,” replied Davies unconvincingly. “I can’t wait an hour, but as long as I’m here I may as well have a small drink and watch the… er… cabaret.”

Philomena walked purposefully towards the Gydynap Hills. She was troubled and needed to be far away from other people for a while. Despite the hazards of venturing out into the night on Hopeless, Philomena never felt herself to be in danger. It seemed that the ghost of Granny Bucket was right – or maybe she was just lucky.

Granny, and Philomena’s friend, Doctor John Dee, had both impressed upon her that she possessed great magical ability. Unfortunately, Granny was no longer haunting her and John Dee had returned to Elizabethan England. This was bad enough, but to make things worse, her marriage to Rhys Cranham had been called off, following the violent death of his apprentice, Naboth Scarhill. Philomena felt horribly alone in the world and this feeling that her magic was growing more powerful by the day was not helping. She had never been comfortable having the dubious gift of ‘The Sight’, but now it was as if she had been given an even more burdensome gift, like that of some great wild animal, which she had no idea how to tame. If only Granny was here to help. Philomena sat down on the grass and wept in the misty darkness.

“Are you okay?”

Philomena had not heard the young woman approach.

“Oh, yes, I’m fine. Just being silly,” said Philomena, wiping her eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it? I can sit with you for a while. I’m Marigold. Marigold Burleigh.”

“Ah. You’ll be the nurse I heard tell of. Sit, by all means, but I don’t need to talk, honestly” replied Philomena.

She had no idea why she was being so cautious, but somewhere, deep inside Philomena, alarm bells were ringing.

Trickster could feel subtle changes happening to the meat-suit already. That was a pity. He was enjoying being female and they usually lasted longer than this. The other one, the young man Linus, had given him months of wear. On reflection, Linus had resisted and done his best to get rid of Trickster. He had rarely been sober; that probably had some bearing on things. Anyway, all that was in the past, and this girl was not going to hold together for very much longer; he needed someone new to possess.

“That’s fine,” said Marigold, sweetly, “but I’d quite like us to be friends. How about you and I go for a quiet walk in the moonlight? I’m sure we’ll be safe enough if we’re careful.”

She offered the crook of her arm to Philomena, who took it warily.

“Gotcha!” thought Trickster

To be continued…