The Hopeless Vendetta started life as the newspaper for a fictional island. These days, the site is a mix of fiction, whimsy, and news about other Hopeless, Maine projects.
Hopeless, Maine is a haunted island off the coast of America. It first put out its tentacles as a graphic novel series. The project now includes a live performance team – The Ominous Folk of Hopeless, Maine, a role play game, tarot deck, prose fiction, music, puppets, costumes and a film project. Check out the static pages for further information on those.
I’ve made a Hopeless Handbook to help people orientate themselves. Hopeless is a large, many tentacled entity lurching in at least three directions at any given time.
If you have questions the handbook doesn’t currently answer, please wave, and answers will be forthcoming.
The Hopeless Vendetta started life as the newspaper for a fictional island. These days, the site is a mix of fiction, whimsy, and news about other Hopeless, Maine projects.
We have migrated. This site will remain, but its content has sauntered off to take up residence at https://hopeless-maine.co.uk/
In theory, if you’ve subscribed to this blog, your subscription should have transferred over. If you have any problems, please get in touch – if you leave a comment here, we’ll email you, we’re still keeping an eye on this site.
So here we are in Gloucester with a hard copy of the Outland book that comprises of New England Gothic (by Nimue) and The Oddatsea (Keith). Just for context, Nimue was being a Drag King In Yellow at the time, hence the uncharacteristically bright suit and the beard.
We were able to get our mitts upon this book because fabulous Mark Hayes admitted to owning a copy. On discovering we’d never seen a print version of this book he very kindly brought it along, and took some photos.
New England Gothic has Annamarie Nightshade as the main character and is set before the graphic novels. It explores her early life, her complicated friendships with Reverend Davies and Durosimi, and pokes about in island witchcraft.
The Oddatsea also has Annamarie Nightshade as a character, but centres on some new folk Keith has brought to the island, one of them in a submarine. No, that doesn’t really protect you either.
The shiny Outland edition is generally available from places online that sell books. If you have one, or buy one, we love seeing photos of books in the wild.
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)
There was a note of concern in Reggie Upton’s voice as he watched Drury, the skeletal hound, bounding around joyously, knocking over anything and anyone foolish enough to get in his way.
“Is that what you call it?” snapped Philomena Bucket, picking up an overturned washing-basket and regarding its spilled contents, now generously patterned with muddy paw-prints, with some dismay.
“There’s no point in putting this lot on the line, they’ll need to be washed again,” she grumbled. “Drury has got the devil in him this morning, and no mistake.”
“Do you have any idea why?” asked Reggie.
“It’s ever since that dog goddess, Gula, took a shine to him,” said Philomena. “It’s gone right to his head.”
“Ah, so that’s why he’s gambolling like a spring lamb,” said Reggie.
“I only wish he’d gambol responsibly,” muttered Philomena.
The news that the ghostly Jesuit, Father Stamage, had been rescued from Purgatory, caused quite a stir on Hopeless, Maine. After all, it is not every day that your island home is visited by a seven-thousand-year-old deity, albeit one that next to nobody had heard of. It seems that Stamage had been spared the perils of Purgatory simply because the goddess had taken a liking to Drury. The osseous old hound had been given the responsibility of protecting the priest, who, ironically, was completely unaware of Drury’s role in saving him, as he had spent the entire time hiding in his hat (if all this sounds confusing you will just have to read the previous three tales. Even then you might be none the wiser!) It was indeed fortuitous for Father Stamage that Gula was greatly attached to all members of the species Canis domesticus (even the skeletal ones), so much so that she frequently presented herself as a dog-headed deity.
How the news had spread so quickly is something of a mystery in itself but, unsurprisingly for Hopeless, several had boasted, in The Squid and Teapot that night, that they had seen her wandering around, and one or two even claimed to have actually passed the time of day with her. As Gula had made a point of being visible only to the already dead, who were, in this case, Lady Margaret D’Avening, Granny Bucket and Drury, this was blatantly untrue. It is fair to say that no one really believed them, but a tall tale is better than no tale at all. Even the tallest of tales, however, when planted in the right soil, has a habit of growing and sending tendrils far out into the community.
Not for the first time, Doc Willoughby was experiencing an emotional cocktail; a heady mixture of great pleasure and abject fear. The pleasure was found in savouring a fine and rare single-malt whisky. Its silky, slightly smoky texture, seductively caressed the Doc’s palate, enticing him along primrose paths of loquacious dalliance, and thence, into the icy shadow of his fears, in the shape of Durosimi O’Stoat.
Durosimi rarely chooses to interact with others on the island. When he does, it is with those whom he considers to be slightly superior to the general populace. Obviously, none are deemed to be, even remotely, his equal, but the Doc Willoughbys of this world are useful ciphers; they are easy enough to flatter for information, and equally easy to dismiss.
“More whisky, Willoughby?” Durosimi gestured towards the half-empty bottle.
“That would be shhplendid,” slurred the Doc, not knowing, or caring, how his host came by the spirit. Where Durosimi is concerned, it is never wise to question the provenance of anything.
“Now, tell me more about this goddess creature, about whom I have heard so much.”
Durosimi was keen to harvest as much information as possible before the alcohol rendered the physician totally unintelligible.
“Well, that Bucket woman told Reggie Upton… he’s a bit of a strange fellow, by all accounts…”
“Yes, yes, now get on with it,” urged Durosimi, impatiently.
“…She told Upton that the ghost who haunts The Squid’s privy – you know, The White Lady – claims that some defunct old god rolls up on Midsummer’s Day, once every hundred years, to drag some poor soul off to Purgatory.”
“That’s interesting,” mused Durosimi. “Do you know anything else about it?”
“Only that the three gods that The White Lady has seen have all had dogs’ heads.”
“Dogs’ heads? In a bag, or on a pole, or something?”
“No, no, silly” giggled the Doc, quite forgetting to whom he was speaking. “Their heads were like that of a dog.”
Durosimi pursed his lips and let the slight go by.
“Do you have a name for any of these dog-headed deities?”
“Upton did say, but I can’t remember what they were called. I think he mentioned that one sounded like a new something or other. Can’t remember anymore.”
Doc’s eyelids were beginning to droop.
“Well, I mustn’t detain you any longer, Willoughby. I expect that you have patients to see.”
Durosimi helped Doc to his feet and manhandled him to the door.
“Off you go… and watch your footing on the cobbles… oh, too late. Never mind, it’ll brush off when it dries. Good day Willoughby.”
Durosimi sat in silence for a long while after his visitor had left. He had not allowed Doc Willoughby to see just how excited he had become, following this latest revelation. Old gods had been visiting the island for centuries, and he had known nothing about it! The knowledge that these deities still existed, thousands of years after anyone had stopped believing in them, opened up all sorts of possibilities.
He racked his brain, trying to dredge up whatever information he could regarding dog-headed gods. There was Cerberus, from Greek myth, but he had three heads; besides, he was not a god, but a guardian. Who else was there? Which culture had gods with animal heads? Of course – the Egyptians!
He recalled that their god of the dead, Anubis, had a jackal’s head. Would that count?
Then Durosimi remembered what Reggie Upton had told the Doc. The name of one of them sounded like a new something or other. That must be it. Anubis.
A thrill passed through Durosimi. If Anubis still existed, then he could be summoned, and therefore could be controlled; but only by the right person.
Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, was surprised to see a light burning in Durosimi’s window. It was two o’clock in the morning, and being up so late was almost unheard of on Hopeless, even for Mr. O’Stoat.
Rhys did not like, or trust, Durosimi. He shuddered to think what he might be up to at such an hour.
Rhys need not have worried. To all intents and purposes, Durosimi was doing nothing more disreputable than reading by candlelight.
The tome before him had sat unopened in his library for years, covered in a fine film of dust. It had been a curiosity, as much as anything, apparently having no practical use; that is, until now.
If Anubis was to be summoned, he would first have to be located, and where better for the god of the dead to live than in his own domain.
Yes, the Egyptian Book of the Dead might yet be the very means of Durosimi getting to that old god, and teaching him some new tricks.
James first appeared in Personal Demons (first half of The Gathering) as the boy afflicted by the demon. He wanted to be able to go as himself to World Book Day, and Tom was obliging on this score. By the time the book came out he was a bit old for that sort of thing, but it was a nice idea.
In his teens, James became a founding member of The Hopeless, Maine Scientific Society. Here he’s setting fire to a tablecloth – he’s a bit of a pyromaniac. You may have seen him in online festivals speaking on behalf of Hopeless scientists.
Now as a member of The Ominous Folk, it’s possible that James has found his final tentacular form. It’s also entirely likely that he hasn’t. His powerful voice is a great contribution to the band, and his humour always adds to live performances. There’s every reason to think he’s going to expand Hopeless in new directions at some point in the foreseeable future, and when he does, there will be suitable noises. This may or may not involve screaming.
His stage surname of Weaselgrease is also derived from the project, having been abandoned by one of the characters in the tale.
Survivors is the final graphic novel in the Hopeless, Maine graphic novel series. These books are a complete story arc. So, if you’re the sort of person who doesn’t like committing to an unfinished series, now is a good time to jump in. Also, I know how you feel, I get very frustrated by things that go on long after they should have stopped, and by things that stop long before they’ve actually finished.
This isn’t the last story about life in Hopeless, Maine. There are other things written and we need to figure out how best to get those out into the world. There will also be a steady supply of community sourced nonsense and whimsy here on the blog for as long as there’s anyone finding it entertaining to do that. Feel free to dive in if you want to be part of it, and if you don’t have any other way to get in touch, leave a comment and I’ll email you.
We’re seeing pre-order pages on various book selling sites for Survivors with a release date of the 12th July. How this is going to play out in practice is anyone’s guess, Optimists suffered a few delays, but the theory is good.
Given that two of the three novellas currently on the back burner are set after the graphic novels, it’s going to make more sense to get those moving now. Watch this space!
Reggie Upton pulled the collar of his Crombie overcoat up and shivered, watching his breath condense in the chill air of a Hopeless afternoon.
“Dashed parky for Midsummer, what?” he said to a somewhat bemused Seth Washwell, who, until now had been under the distinct impression that he and his eccentric English companion conversed in a something resembling a common language.
Despite there being no handy translation available, from the tone of Reggie’s voice, it seemed reasonably clear that a positive response was expected of him.
Hoping for the best, Seth nodded sagely.
“I used to think that British summers were a trifle poor, on the whole, but this weather is positively wintry,” complained Reggie.
Enlightened by this last remark, Seth felt fairly certain that he would be on safe ground by venturing a reply.
“I’ve never known it quite this bad in the middle of the year,” he admitted. “Even St. John’s warts have shrivelled up.”
Reggie looked about him, confused.
“St. John’s wort? I can’t say that I have seen any in bloom.”
He scanned the area in vain for the familiar, heart-warming yellow blaze of the midsummer flowers that had annually graced his Cotswold garden.
“Not St. John’s wort; St. John’s warts. They’re very common on the island,” said Seth irritably, pointing to a bedraggled plant that sported a small and withered cluster of scrotally unattractive nodules.
“The warts are usually puffed up and perky on Midsummer’s Day,” he said, adding, “but it’s too darned cold this year.”
It was, indeed, unseasonably chilly, even for Hopeless, Maine.
The wraith of Granny Bucket hovered in the kitchen of The Squid and Teapot. Today she had decided to be visible only to her granddaughter, Philomena, who was busily making a batch of starry-grabby pies.
“it won’t be long now. Can’t you feel it, Philomena?” she said.
“I feel I’ve got a lot of work to do, and worrying about the Psychopomp isn’t going to help,” Philomena replied. “We have done all that we can for Father Stamage. It’s up to Drury now.”
Father Ignatius Stamage, the recently deceased Jesuit who now haunted The Squid and Teapot, had been warned of the impending arrival of the Psychopomp, a supernatural entity, sent to drag him to Purgatory. More than reluctant to go, Stamage had hidden in his hat, vowing to stay there until the following day. It was last seen being taken to the Underland by Drury, the skeletal hound (as related in the tale ‘Midsummer’s Eve’).
“The temperature has dropped already, that’s a sure sign,” said Granny, “but you mark my words, it’ll get colder.”
Granny paused for dramatic effect, then added, ominously,
“A hell of a lot colder.”
The passage from the Gydynaps, which led steeply down into the Underland, was tight, even for Drury.
The old dog’s skeletal form barely scraped through some of the narrower parts of the tunnels, and more than once he had to give himself a shake, in order to persuade a displaced rib to return to its usual position. It was not until he had reached the main pathway, far beneath the island’s surface, that the going became easier. To Drury’s great credit, not once did he let the priest’s hat fall from his mouth.
If I said that I knew anything of the workings of Drury’s mind, I would be lying. Often his actions are so typically canine that, if it was not for the fact that he appears to be no more than a collection of bones, it would be easy to regard him as being a fairly run-of-the mill, bog-standard dog. The fact that he is literally brainless, and has nothing in his skull other than the occasional fly, might lead the unwary to believe him to be dim, but this is definitely not so. Whatever force it is that animates Drury, it seems to have endowed him with greatly heightened dog senses and a depth of understanding beyond our knowing. Or, there again, he might just be lucky in his choices. Whatever the reason, it is sufficient to say that he reached the Crystal Cave without mishap.
As regular readers will recall, the Crystal Cave acts as a portal to a variety of random locations. Those who visit, however, have no control over what they find when they get there, not even Drury. His mission had been to get Father Stamage safely away from the Psychopomp, thereby avoiding condemning the priest to purgatory. Where better than the Crystal Cave? In this Drury had succeeded beyond all hopes. It was just unfortunate that the Crystal Cave was in a playful mood on that particular day, for when the dog bounded into its depths, the priest’s hat firmly clamped in his powerful jaws, he was greeted by a cheerless, grey landscape, peopled by the shadowy figures of equally cheerless and wailing grey wraiths. Unperturbed, the osseous hound wandered up the rough, cobbled street and raised a defiant, but ineffective, leg against the base of a rotting wooden boundary sign. It was weather-bleached, with flaking paint and faded lettering, declaring to any desolate soul unfortunate enough cross its path: “PURGATORY WELCOMES CARELESS SINNERS”.
It was too foggy for any to see the pallid, midsummer sun as it slipped silently into the turbulent ocean. Similarly, Gula, the dog-headed deity who drifted into the flushing privy of The Squid and Teapot, was completely invisible to human eyes.
“I haven’t seen you before,” said Lady Margaret D’Avening, resting her head on the washstand. “Are you new?”
The cynocephalous goddess regarded the ghostly White Lady with some curiosity, not sure whether to address the head or the body, which stood a few feet distant.
“I am not that new,” she said. “I was first worshipped in Sumeria over seven thousand years ago, so that makes me considerably senior, by several millennia, to all of those young upstarts who call themselves gods.”
“That is impressive,” said Lady Margaret with a ghastly smile, “but it has not stopped you from being landed with this job. You dog-headed deities seem to get lumbered with it every time.”
“We like the exercise,” said Gula, pleasantly. “Now, where is Father Stamage?”
“Far away and somewhere safe. You won’t find him,” said the White Lady.
Gula smiled a doggy smile. “We’ll see,” she said.
The ancient goddess drifted through the privy wall and out into the crowded bar, where only the shade of Granny Bucket noticed her passing.
“It might warm up a bit now,” she muttered to herself.
Father Stamage’s hat – the Capello Romano – lay on the floor of the cave, guarded by Drury, while the anguished wraiths of Purgatory milled around, keen to see who the new arrival might be.
Just when Drury was wondering if it was safe to return home, the awe-inspiring figure of Gula manifested before him. The wraiths immediately receded into the shadows, and Drury bowed his head, crouching down in reverence. Had any of the Hopeless islanders witnessed this, they would have rubbed their eyes and imagined that they were dreaming. Drury was famously subservient to none, and never had been, but here he was, bowing.
Gula knelt before Drury and held him to her. Despite himself, the bony old dog looked up in wonder.
“Most valiant hound. You have braved all of this for your friends,” she said. “You should be rewarded.”
Gula was famous in her time for her attachment to dogs; indeed, they were sacred to her. That is probably why she chose to be seen as dog-headed, occasionally.
Whatever passed next between the dog and the goddess, I do not know, but after a while she sighed, and rose to her feet.
“Very well,” she said kindly, “walk with me now… and yes, you can bring the priest. You obviously think a lot of him. I’ll release him of his obligation, on condition that you make sure that he does not have a totally comfortable time over the next hundred years.”
“I can do that,” thought Drury, happily.
The two walked through the mists of Purgatory together, until, to Drury’s surprise, he found himself in Creepy Hollow, the Capello Romano still clamped between his teeth. Night had fallen and a full moon was riding high in the sky.
“One day, people will realise that Purgatory is closer than they know. It is only ever just around the next corner,” said Gula.
She turned to leave, then paused.
“When the day comes that you are weary of this island, come and find me,” she said.
Indistinct as the mist that surrounded her, Gula disappeared into the darkness.
Drury wagged his tail, gave a joyful bark and cantered off towards the welcoming lights of The Squid and Teapot.
There aren’t many people Mrs Beaten actively approves of, but Lawrence Wilson is most assuredly one of them. Such collars! The immaculate state of his cuffs sets him apart from all others.
Frampton Jones of course also has infamously good collars, but the printing press is unkind to cuffs and sometimes there are faint and inky stains on his wrists.
Pristine whiteness is not an easy thing to achieve, especially not in the damp, mould breeding environment of Hopeless, Maine. Yes, you can make very effective lye soaps from a mix of ashes and animal fats, but the whole process is so filthy that some people question whether it’s worth getting into that state in the hopes of getting cleaner later.
Residents who used to live elsewhere may remember how it was possible to sun bleach your white cottons and linens. While islanders do occasionally get to see the sun, it is seldom around for long enough or with enough intensity to do anything for a person’s shirts.
Of course there is speculation. Might Lawrence have entered into some infernal pact, trading his soul for his laundry? It’s amazing what people will consider when they are bored enough. Might he be possessed of some uncanny power? Can he summon the sun at will? Or drive dirt from his vestments using the power of his mind? Is it some kind of witchcraft? Although this point is often refuted because witches on the island do not have a reputation for excessive cleanliness and have always tended to wear dark colours that hide the stains
The truth has everything to do with using night potatoes for starching collars. Most sensible people would take out the eyes, as those just look troubling and unsuitable. However, if you only use the eyes, and you don’t mind the smell, and you can cope with the howling and never quite shaking off the feeling that the night potatoes are watching your every move, then this does indeed result in a very presentable shirt.
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.
Father Ignatius Stamage was not happy. This, in itself, was unsurprising, his having been killed some eighteen months earlier; events of that ilk were bound to cause a fellow to feel out of sorts, occasionally. To his credit, he had been amazingly stoic about the matter, and quickly became absorbed into the ghost community of Hopeless, Maine. In an effort to encourage him to feel at home, Bartholomew Middlestreet, the landlord of The Squid and Teapot, had magnanimously offered to hang the priest’s battered hat – his Capello Romano, if we want to be pedantic – in the bar of the inn, thereby enabling the deceased Jesuit to haunt a reasonably sized area in and around the aforementioned headwear. This, fortunately, gave him access to the flushing privy, and the companionship of Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless White Lady who haunted its walls.
Lady Margaret had warned Father Stamage of the impending visit, on Midsummer’s Day, of a Psychopomp, the entity sent to escort him to Purgatory – and here we have the source of his misery. As any reader of ‘The Vendetta’ will readily appreciate, the island of Hopeless is not without its drawbacks, but Father Stamage had come to quite love the place. After all, the many horrors walking abroad that held countless terrors for the living had little sway over those who had already died. The threat, however, of being carted off to Purgatory was another matter. Ignatius Stamage was terrified. He had petitioned Granny Bucket for help, but after an anxious week, there had been no word from the ghostly witch. Things were looking bad.
On the morning of Midsummer’s Eve, Father Stamage, convinced by now that he had offended Granny’s sensibilities with a flippant remark, decided to disappear into his hat, and wait for the worst. Miserable as this sounds, it was not the retreat into some dark, felt-lined hole, reeking of old incense, sweat and cheap brilliantine, that you might imagine. When Stamage was in his hat, he was once more within the cool, hallowed walls of Campion Hall, in Oxford, where he had happily studied as a young man. *
“It’s a pity,” said Granny Bucket, “that you had to go and block up the paths to the Underland. We could have taken Father Ignatius’s hat to the Crystal Cave and he would have been out of harm’s way.”
“I had no choice, it had become too dangerous,” replied Philomena, glumly recalling how Marigold Burleigh had wandered into the tunnels and disappeared forever. “But maybe the cave really is Father Stamage’s only hope. Is there no other way in?”
Granny shrugged.
“Possibly. There is a small crack in the rocks, up on the Gydynaps, not much more than a spoonwalker track, really. I could drift in through there. It’s not much use, though; I can’t carry the Father’s hat, and he won’t get very far without it.”
“Can’t we open it up a bit?” asked Philomena, hopefully.
“You can try,” said Granny, “but I’ve travelled that path once or twice, and even if you could get on to it, the way would be far too narrow for you to squeeze through.”
Philomena’s pale features reddened slightly, but she held her tongue and ignored Granny’s less than subtle intimation that she was something other than sylph-like.
Then a thought struck her.
“Could Drury do it?”
“He could have a go,” said Granny, doubtfully. “But don’t build your hopes up too high. You know what he’s like.”
Philomena did, indeed, know. The osseous hound, who had been a presence on the island for longer than anyone could remember, and stubbornly refused to acknowledge the fact that he had died many years earlier, was certainly up to the task. Whether he could be relied upon not to be distracted, however, was another matter.
“Well, Father Stamage has got nothing to lose if we give it a go,” said Philomena. “But first we need to widen that crack in the rocks, at least enough for Drury to slip through.”
It was a strange and somewhat unsettling procession that made its way up into the Gydynaps, later that afternoon. The translucent shade of Granny Bucket shimmered faintly at its head, followed by Philomena carrying a shovel, and the press-ganged landlord, Bartholomew Middlestreet, armed with a pickaxe. Drury clattered along happily in the rear, with Father Stamage’s hat held firmly in his jaws.
“This is madness,” said Bartholomew, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead. “We have been at this for ages, and we are getting nowhere. How long before sundown? I don’t fancy being up here after dark.”
“We’ve still got a few hours of daylight left,” replied Philomena.
“Is there nothing magical that either of you can do to help?” quizzed Bartholomew. “Can’t you prise it open, somehow, if you work together?”
The shade that was Granny Bucket shook her head.
“We work with the elements, not against them,” she said. “We can show off with a few spectacular bangs and flashes, but blasting through granite is beyond even our combined power.”
Bartholomew turned Granny’s words over in his mind.
“We need Reggie Upton,” he said, suddenly. “He’ll know what to do.”
“Are you sure?” asked Philomena. “He’s getting a bit long in the tooth to be swinging a pickaxe at his time of life.”
But Bartholomew had already left, haring down the hill at a rate of knots that surprised everyone, especially himself.
An anxious two hours passed before Philomena spotted several figures toiling up the hill. She immediately recognised Bartholomew and Reggie. As they drew closer she saw that they were accompanied by three of the Washwell boys, Egbert, Hubert and Wallace, all strapping lads who each carried a bulging sack upon his back.
“Whatever is in there?” asked Philomena, eyeing the sacks with some suspicion.
“Dust, mainly,” said Reggie, signalling to the boys to put the bags down. “We had to go over to Creepy Hollow. Young Egbert here tells me that it is where the dustcats like to go to regurgitate their dust. It is not the most pleasant job any of us have had, gathering it up. Now, without more ado, if you will lend a hand, m’dear, we need to get it through that hole…”
Philomena looked on, not entirely convinced that three bags of dust were going to solve their problem. However, after years of military experience, Reggie seemed to be able to see through most difficulties, so there was no reason to doubt his judgement.
“Granny, we need your help here,” she said.
No sooner had the words left her lips than a gentle wind arose from nowhere and blew the dust very precisely into the cleft in the rocks.
“I’ve no idea what you’re up to, young man,” said Granny, “but I hope it works.”
Reggie grinned. No one had called him ‘young man’ for about fifty years.
“So do I, Granny. So do I.”
When all of the dust had been blown into the cavity, Reggie pulled a bottle of Gannicox Distillery vodka from his jacket pocket.
“It’s a bit premature celebrating just yet,” said Philomena, crossly. “Let’s finish the job first.”
“That, dear lady, is what I am just about to do,” said Reggie, and with that he stuffed the end of the bottle with a piece of rag, and pushed it firmly into the cleft in the rock.
“Right, everyone. Step well away, and cover your ears,” he said, setting fire to the rag.
For a few moments nothing happened. Philomena looked at Bartholomew and rolled her eyes despairingly. Then there was a sharp crack, followed by a huge explosion, which sent shards of rock and billows of smoke and dust high into the air. Even Drury yelped and ran for cover.
When the smoke eventually cleared, a gaping hole filled the spot where, previously, there had been just a modest crack in the rock face.
“How did that happen?” asked an incredulous Bartholomew, checking that his eyebrows were still there.
“Dust is wonderfully explosive, given the right conditions,” said Reggie, unable to conceal his pleasure at the violence of the outcome. “There has been many an explosion in coal mines, flour mills and ammunition factories over the years, all due to dust in the atmosphere. It reminds me of the time in Jaipur, when…”
But his anecdote was cut mercifully short by the rattle of bony feet on rock as Drury raced along the path and into the newly-formed cavern, taking Father Stamage’s hat with him, hopefully to the Crystal Cave.
The watery sun, barely visible through the all-pervading mist, was sinking into the western ocean, and Midsummer’s Eve was drawing to a close.
“There’s nothing more for us to do here,” said Philomena. “It’s all up to Drury now. Let’s get back to The Squid, while we can.”
“Where there will be a few tankards of ‘Old Colonel’ for all concerned,” promised Bartholomew.
Nobody argued.
To be continued…
*Author’s note:
You may remember that the privy walls of The Squid and Teapot had once comprised part of Lady Margaret’s home, Oxlynch Hall, as related in the tale ‘The Jacobean Manor House’. The White Lady liked nothing better than to return to her old abode, which seemed very real in that other, liminal realm.
Sadly, the very fact of being a ghost entails having an obligation to fulfil various proscribed activities, such as wailing, rattling chains and generally frightening people. Spending eternity lounging around in comfortable and familiar surroundings is definitely not encouraged.
The Hopeless Vendetta 