Tag Archives: tentacles

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

“Time to see Edgard, I think.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello Edgard” said Pushana calmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bad feel. The book.” Added Edgard.

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

Edgard nodded. “Parting well.”

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

–◊–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Story inspired by artwork from Nicolas Rossert

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

(art by Fnic, story by Keith Errington)

Island love

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.)

What grows in sunlight

Story by Nimue in response to a photo by Sarah Snell-Pym

I found this, growing on the shore just a few days ago. It looked harmless enough, as small things often do. We’ve had more sun in recent days than is normal for the island, and I feel certain that the sun is to blame for what has happened. It isn’t natural to have so much direct light, there were bound to be consequences.

The thing on the beach is bigger now than my image suggests, it grows folding darkness into strange inner contours. The more it grows, the bigger the darkness within it becomes. Each day it is larger than before and the darkness lies deeper within it. I feel compelled to stare into those black recesses, although what I am looking for, I do not know.

They say that if you gaze into the void for long enough, it may stare back. We’ve all tried it at some time or another, courting terror and madness because we have to know, just this once, if the void will see us. I cannot explain this need to be seen by the unspeakable, to have that which is most awful gaze back, but I feel the lure of it. I’m sure you do too.

Compelled to witness the growth of this horror, I will go back. I will bear the uncanny feeling of sun upon my wrinkled skin, and no matter how my tentacles ache with horror, I will make myself gaze once more into those dark places. All my eyes are turned towards the void.

Ellen Bowden – resident

When Ellen first emerged from the sea we were horrified, of course. Nothing like her has ever before been seen on the island. She clearly isn’t a jellyfish woman, not with those substantial tentacles. And while we’ve had suspicions about what some of the island’s ladies actually have going on under their skirts, none of them have shown us their tentacles in this way before.

For a while, the swish of Ellen’s gliding tentacles as she drifted down the street was enough to cause fear, panic and a great deal of running away and hiding. Islanders are not especially proud, particularly in matters of staying alive. Better to be a coward now and alive to be mocked tomorrow, we like to say.

It turns out that Ellen makes an excellent cup of tea, and is full of entertaining observations. No one realised this until she ensconced herself in a corner seat at The Crow and managed to strike up a few conversations before anyone knew who she was. It no doubt helps that we’re all so used to seeing tentacles at The Crow anyway. Anyone getting a flash from under Ellen’s skirts would no doubt assume that the appendage in question had (depending on size) either escaped from her bowl, or from the kitchen.

While there are members of the Chevin family who still feel we should give her the pitchfork and torches treatment, the wider consensus is that she’s delightful and should stay. As far as we know she hasn’t eaten anyone – at least not anyone most of us care about which is an important detail. And to be fair, if there isn’t at least one Chevin who wants to assault you with a pitchfork the odds are you’ve been dead for some time.

(Photograph taken at Gloucester Steampunk weekend 2023 by the fabulous Darkbox Images)

Chapters and creatures

The theme for chapter covers in Hopeless Maine: Optimists, is creatures.

In every book we use the chapter covers and two page spreads to widen the story a bit, in one way or another. There’s usually a sort of logic to it. The aim is always to give you a broader story than the script alone can tell. These stories don’t usually relate in a direct way to what’s going on in the other pages – although that won’t be true in the final book of the series.

For some comics, fan service means up-skirt views. That’s not you. We know mostly what you want are extra spoons and more creatures. Especially creatures with tentacles, and not infrequently, creatures with tentacles and spoons. We’re very happy to oblige.

Hopeless at the Edge

This is an old photo of the Cup full of Tentacles crew, out in the streets of Stroud. Left to right… Susie Roberts, James Weaselgrease, Nimue Brown, Tom Brown.

This year we’ll be at Festival at the Edge on the Friday night – https://www.festivalattheedge.org/

We’ve got a show with songs – traditional, original and borrowed, Maine folklore and Hopeless Maine oddities… Do come and see us!

On the mist shrouded, grave dark sea, a boat shatters its hull against the malice of rocks. Hungry water sucks the living down, until only one remains, kept afloat by a large tea chest and drifting towards dawn and the shore

James Weaselgrease is a young scientist, who washes up on the island. He doesn’t really believe in vampires, selkies or mermaids. the dustcats are confusing and he fears that he is losing his mind…

The Hopeless Maine family strikes again

There are many truly lovely people who have, one way or another, thrown themselves into the tentacled embrace of Hopeless, Maine.

It would be fair to say that we’ve had a tough few months. As many of you know, Tom had a stroke back in December – he’s recovered well but it was scary at the time. Nimue has been ill a lot – nothing so dramatic, but ongoing adventures in pain and weariness. And so it was that some of the wider Hopeless Maine family gathered together and did a lovely thing to cheer us up.

This was apparently the brainchild of Nils Visser – who you will have seen a lot of here on the blog with his glorious Diswelcome series. He pulled a fabulous team together to make this happen. He’s a fine chap, and responsible for inventing Snugglepunk. Or possibly Smugglepunk.

There’s Professor Elemental doing the music, aided and abetted by Tom Carunana. We love the Prof, and the video features some of the art Tom’s done for him over the years.

Bob Fry is a longstanding supporter and spoon fancier, also an essential part of Nimue’s Wherefore project.

Herr Doktor once went so far as to make a spoonwalker. He’s also widely believed to be a deity of the steampunk pantheon.

John Bassett can be held responsible for Steampunk Stroud, and is also part of the Hopeless Maine film team, wearing many different hats for that one. All in one stack, obviously.

Cair Going is a gorgeous person and we were there when she was crowned as Queen.

Bill Jones can teach you how to grow Victorians in your garden. You may have seen his work in Private Eye.

Lou Pulford has written for this blog and performed with us in public places and has the best tentacles.

Susie Roberts sings with A Cup Full of Tentacles – the performance side of Hopeless – when we’re allowed to go out and do unspeakable things in public places.

Deep gratitude to you all, for being in our lives, for being so relentlessly lovely, and for making us cry over this video. You are all splendid and we wish we could hug you all.

Social Distancing, Hopeless Maine Style

On social media of late we’ve been sharing images from the island and adding a social distancing commentary. It turns out that Hopeless rather lends itself to this. It’s rare that our characters touch each other. Some of this is a period issue – it is a sort of Victorian setting and people were less demonstrative. Some of it is that you never know who will turn out to be an eldritch horror, so it is best not to get too close.

Mistrust of each other keeps our islanders at arm’s length. The grim realities of life have made a lot of the citizens emotionally unavailable. They cope by pretending there’s nothing to cope with. It sort-of works, but Hopeless is seldom a happy place, as the name suggests.

Hopeless residents have the fear of catching consumption, vampirism, lycanthropy and extra tentacles. No one really understands the mechanics for any of these things. It is hard to form, or sustain any kind of involved relationship when you are afraid of the people around you. Being afraid saves lives, for sure, but it also blights lives. There are questions of balance.

In the meantime, we are not recommending you carry a hand of glory as an aid to social distancing, even though it would likely work rather well.

Edward L Moore’s death is more troubling than we are used to

By Frampton Jones

When Edward L Moore Jr came to the island, he spoke of service to the Lord. That was about six months ago, and for some of us, myself most assuredly included, this gradually raised questions.

It was rapidly clear that Reverend Davies did not like it when Edward spoke about serving the Lord. It seemed like professional resentment. The post of Reverend to Hopeless Maine has been handed down carefully over the years, with each man who passes picking the man who will follow on from him and handing over whatever secrets are intrinsic to the job. I know that there are secrets, that much has been alluded to, but no more, or it would largely defeat the object.

It became apparent that Edward L Moore Jr had a rather low opinion of our resident Reverend. This first appeared in the traditional way – loud arguments with the Reverend outside his church. Matters of theology, interpretation and tradition that were largely lost on those of us in earshot, but the intensity of the exchange could not be mistaken. In following weeks I became aware of a single, crucial fact – that the two gentlemen profess allegiance to two wholly different entities, both being addressed as ‘The Lord’ and both being deeply troubled by the other as a consequence.

And while survival is often the only measure of winning we have on this island, I am not sure it is fair to say that Reverend Davies has won, even though he has survived.

Last Sunday morning, many of us were gathered in the church as is usually the way of it. Most of us attend from habit rather than any particular belief, and because it is entertaining to discover what Reverend Davies is angry about this time. Some of us go along in the hopes of catching a few tunes from Edrie and the organ – although Reverend Davies tries to discourage this.

Edward entered the church, shouting at Reverend Davies that he serves evil and should choose a different path. Reverend Davies shouted back that it was unacceptable to come shouting thus into the house of the Lord, and that he was the only person entitled to shout angry things in this building, which he then proceeded to do – to the great entertainment of his congregation. It might have been a delightful morning, had things not taken a grisly turn.

A cluster of tentacles descended swiftly from the gloom of the church rafters, wrapped themselves around Edward L Moore’s form, and carried him away. It was a sudden, silent horror, and we sat frozen in the awe and awfulness of it all. He is gone. He may in fact have won his argument at the expense of his own life.

It is not the first time we have had cause to wonder who or what we reverence if we sit in Reverend Davies’ church. The Lord, he tells us, is dead and dreaming.  The material world is cursed and evil. Only the spirit can prevail. Are there always tentacles in the roof, waiting for those who disagree too enthusiastically? Perhaps there is good reason that traditionally we argue with Reverend Davies outside.

When exactly is Steve Tanner?

By Frampton Jones

Like many people who find themselves unexpectedly shipwrecked onto our island, Steve Tanner was sure he could leave.  It invariably leads to trouble, and frequently to death, which is of itself no guarantee of leaving, as our many ghosts can testify.

Steve Tanner is effectively dead. Some weeks ago, he took a boat out with the intention of trying to catch up with a ship just visible on the horizon. I personally do not think those ships are always real. I think many of them are illusions created for the express purpose of adding to our collective misery. Anything that gets close to us but does not break up on the rocks should not be trusted, in my opinion.

It was the sort of day when taking a small boat out did not seem wholly reckless. Again, this is something to treat with suspicion. If the waters are gentle, it is only ever to lure us into a false sense of security. As is usually the way of it, a small party of onlookers gathered to spectate and place bets. Steve rowed manfully towards the distant ship. Not a single tentacle came up to try and dissuade him – it was as if they knew. I expect they knew.

He was still in plain sight when the boat stopped dead in the waters. He did not sink. He did not progress, nor yet was he flung back towards the land. There he remains. Stuck. A few intrepid fishermen have been out for a look and tell me that the boat cannot be touched. However close you get, it remains forever out of arm’s reach and things thrown at it simply miss. Time seems to be operating differently in the boat – it may be day or night there, and Steve has apparently grown a beard. How he continues to live, what he eats, how he sources fresh water – none can say. Whether he truly lives at all, or has become some strange unliving thing I do not know.

Certainly, he serves as a warning to us all.

Although Steve is now amongst the ranks of the uncertain, it doesn’t feel quite right to shout his name at the sea.