Following the coming of the founding families to Hopeless, one of the earliest structures to be erected was the lighthouse. To begin with this was a simple affair, no more than a fiery beacon on a pole to warn any passing ships of the treacherous rocks that lurk beneath the tide-line. As a navigational aid, however, it was by no means infallible and did nothing to prevent the disaster which deposited Mr Hamish Stevenson on the shores of the island.
There was a certain irony in Stevenson being shipwrecked. You see, Hamish was a nephew of Robert Stevenson, the brilliant engineer responsible for many of the lighthouses that still stand sentinel around the rocky shores of Britain. Young Stevenson, who had worked closely with his Uncle Robert, had been entrusted with the task of accompanying the transportation of a Fresnel lens, complete with the mercury bath that it would float upon, to the soon-to-be-renovated Portland Head Light.
The small matter of a shipwreck did little to bruise Hamish’s unquenchable enthusiasm for his work. Encouraged by the fact that both the lens and the mercury bath had miraculously been undamaged by the disaster, he immediately decided that Hopeless, Maine needed a proper lighthouse and he, a Stevenson born and bred, was the man for the job. And so – with no small amount of help – Hamish built a lighthouse. Maybe his was not as elegant or stylish as those of the elder Stevenson but Hamish was proud to call the Hopeless lighthouse his own. The job was done and done well. Bob’s your uncle, you might say (or, at least, he was Hamish’s uncle).
By a happy coincidence, the recent completion of the nearby Gnii distillery meant that there would be an ample supply of fuel to keep the light burning. All that was required now was to find a willing volunteer to be its keeper.
There was no shortage of applicants. Eventually the role of Hopeless’ first lighthouse keeper was given to Egbert Tinkley, a man who had spent twenty years before the mast, prior to his being shipwrecked with Hamish. Egbert was a wiry man with twinkling blue eyes and an impressive salt-and-pepper beard. In his seaman’s cap, roll-neck sweater (that perfectly matched his beard) and turned down sea-boots he looked every-inch a lighthouse keeper and embraced his role with vim and vigour, endlessly polishing the brass and cleaning the lens as it perched and rotated gently and quietly on its mercury bath.
When not involved with maintaining his beloved light, Egbert would occasionally venture into Hopeless town to obtain whatever provisions might be available. He would invariably stop and chat to anyone who would listen but as the weeks passed into months people began to notice some less-than-subtle changes in him. His blue eyes no longer twinkled but instead, stared, unblinking and glassy. His conversations became fewer, at least with other people, although he could be frequently heard having, sometimes, violent arguments with himself. He would wander the streets with squids tucked into the tops of his boots and his cap on backwards. Some of the islanders began to get somewhat concerned about Egbert, but put it to the back of their collective minds and attributed his behaviour to no more than colourful eccentricity. After all, the light never failed to be lit exactly one hour before sunset each evening and that was all that mattered.
It was only when Arabella O’Stoat called by the lighthouse with some squid tarts did anyone realise the extent of Egberts eccentricity. The lower floors of the building were a mess, the walls daubed with paint and papers and sea-charts strewn all around. There were heaps of pebbles and seaweed covering the floors, while a combination of dead gulls, driftwood and useless flotsam covered every flat surface. Only the lantern remained pristine and it was here that she found Egbert. He was humming to himself and delicately cleaning the lens with a mixture of vinegar and water (an excellent solution for achieving smear-free glass).
“Are you alright, Egbert?” asked Arabella warily.
“I can fly, you know,” the keeper replied, for no apparent reason. “Just like a seagull, when the mood takes me.”
“Of course you can,” said Arabella soothingly. “Why don’t we go down to the kitchen and have a nice cup of tea?”
“It’s not called the kitchen, it’s the galley,” yelled Egbert, suddenly angry. “I can fly there. Watch me.”
With that he scrambled outside, on to the gallery that ran around the lantern.
“Watch me,” he cried, standing on the top rail.
Arabella could only look on, horrified, as he launched himself into the air.
Over the following months and years a succession of lighthouse keepers went quietly mad attending to their duties, though it must be said, none as fatally as Egbert. It was generally felt that the building was cursed; surely, even on Hopeless, it was too much of a coincidence that every shred of reason chose to leave the keepers who tended the light.
After a while the brass became dull through neglect, the clockwork mechanism that rotated the light lay still and the lamp was lit no more. No one wanted to ascend the steps to the lantern and the lighthouse became derelict.
The madness suffered by the Egbert Tinkley and his successors is no great mystery, though on Hopeless the lighthouse curse is still spoken of in hushed tones. It is often suspected that lighthouse keepers are all a little mad. It is not just the loneliness of the work, as many believe, but the proximity of mercury. Like hatters, who used mercurous nitrate to cure felt, lighthouse keepers suffered prolonged exposure to mercury vapour – and like hatters, they often went mad.
The lighthouse still stands, though these days the lantern is long gone and its stonework bleached by the weather and ravaged by time. Ravens roost in its highest reaches, while spoonwalkers and puddle rats make uneasy neighbours on the lower levels. On a stormy night, when the wild wind howls off the ocean and screeches through the ruined walls, those unwise enough to be out at such a time have reported that it sounds like the manic shrieks of souls in torment. Of course, this is purely the product of an over-active imagination … isn’t it?
By Martin Pearson-art by Tom Brown
Readers of Hopeless Maine will be familiar with the gloomy figure of the island’s Reverend – Emmanuel Davies. He’s father of Owen (one of the main characters, for those of you new to this). He raises orphans, holds funerals, owns clothing clearly designed for ritual purpose. Sometimes he talks about God, but which God isn’t always clear.
That he is a Reverend certainly suggests Christianity. But it’s not that simple. He existed as a character, created by Tom, when I took the story on. At that point, we didn’t know much about the Reverend. All I had to go on were the New England Reverends I’d encountered in the writing of Nathaniel Hawthorn, so I started from there. Frankly, that was a gothic and sinister sort of place to start.
If you’ve read The Gathering, you’ll be aware of a short story at the back, about Reverend Davies’ first hours in the job. It suggests a rather different kind of religious background. I admit there have also been times when I’ve wondered if he might be an unwitting Cthulhu worshipper, or otherwise accidentally involved with elder gods. I know there have been plenty of long, sleepless night when the Reverend himself has stared into the darkness and wondered what exactly it is that he serves, or whether it is all in his mind. I know that he hears voices, and some of those voices tell him what to do, and that while he is compelled, he is also uneasy.
In practice, what Reverened Davies believes has a somewhat Zoroastrian flavour. In an island full of lost things, it makes plenty of sense to have someone with a bit of Albigensian heresy to their name. Davies believes that the physical realm is mostly fallen, sinful, probably evil and when you look at Hopeless, Maine, it’s easy to see why he might think this. God is somewhere else, clearly. If there is a good God, they are distant, unavailable, perhaps entirely in a realm of spirit you can only get to by totally renouncing all things of the flesh. Most of the time this means the Reverend is of limited use to anyone else.
Reverend Davies is a man in spiritual crisis, wrangling with the demons of his own uncertainty. It hasn’t yet occurred to him to get out there and wrangle actual demons instead, but the seed of this thought is growing in his mind…
Here’s Reverend Davies with Anamarie Nightshade having a Pre Raphaelite moment. If this makes you wonder about the history of their relationship, keeping wondering…
We’ve got the original for this on sale at etsy – etsy.com/uk/listing/572025191/the-bemusing-of-reverend-davies-original
It’s also available as a poster – etsy.com/uk/listing/552719732/the-bemusing-of-reverend-davies-print
Hello, again people! (and others)
It is the new year, and I hope it brings you many good things.
I have spoken before, I think about how, at the beginning, when we first imagined how things might go with Hopeless, Maine, that we thought one day we would work with artisans and craftspeople if there were to be any HM related artifacts. No factory made things or plastic tatt that would one day end up in a landfill. Well, it’s dream come true time. Matt Inkel (who I introduced to you, here) has begun working with us and the first fruit of this collaboration is Salamandra’s Key.
Here is my drawing of Sal’s Key and Matt’s finished prototype.
It’s difficult to describe the feeling I get seeing something from our story made real in the waking world. It’s a bit uncanny and utterly wonderful. For those of you who are having trouble recalling the significance of this key-
Those of you who have read the first book of Hopeless, Maine will recall that when Salamandra went to Annamarie for help with a very personal Demon, Annamarie gave her a key. She didn’t sort the problem for Sal but gave her what she needed to solve her own problem. That key was well, key to the resolution of that story and Sal still keeps it about her person. In real life, I drew the cover for that book in a fit of excitement before Nimue had even written the book. Sal was shown with a key around her neck clutching a teddy bear (in very poor repair. more of a frankenbear, really) and Nimue wrote these elements into the tale.”
This will be a limited edition sort of thing and very much handmade with great care by a ridiculously skilled artisan. (Look up Arcane Armoury to see more of Matt’s work) Here are some process photos that Matt has shared with us.
There is a preorder page on the Arcane Armoury Site here. Please do visit.
Hoping (as always) this finds you well, inspired and thriving.
Hello people! (and others)
Many years ago, when Nimue and I started this whole Hopeless, Maine thing, Nimue wrote two books that went along with the timeline of The Gathering. The first of these two books was New England Gothic, which takes place before book one and gives a lot of background on Annamarie and her earlier life (Yes. Those of you who have read Sinners will be having feels at this point) NEG is a bloody wonderful strange tale and we thought we’d bring it and the other prose book out along with the graphic novels, lavishly illustrated, of course. Well, this was before we learned a lot of things about the publishing industry (some of which we would rather not know, but that’s a long story for another time) We do plan to release both of these books in PDF form in the near future on the same Etsy site that the game is on. Then, hopefully, later there will be the fully illustrated print version. In the meantime, you can get New England Gothic in installments by pledging to Nimue’s Patreon!
Hoping, as always, this finds you well, inspired and thriving.
Daphne woke up and knew she had to go for a walk by the sea. The hissing and cold wallops of its tides called her and she listened wondering what the sea wanted to show her. A wrecked ship? A beached kraken? A crystal bottle where inside was sealed another smaller crystal bottle? Daphne had found one of those. If she held it up to any light that was willing to shine on the morgue where she lived on that bleak, dour hill the crystal bottle inside the crystal bottle shimmered with flitting rainbows.
Daphne wondered if there was a ghost trapped inside, and thought she’d leave it sealed because ghosts imprisoned in bottles were there for a good reason. The weather that morning was fairly grey and the clouds were all grey. Not a bit of it seemed like it was going to be cheerful, which was entirely in keeping with Daphne had grown up to expect of it. She had started walking on the twisted lonely path away from the morgue. Behind her the morgue stood like a beached plinth of light sucking stone and plenty of curious lichens and mosses which possessed tiny eyes. Just next to the morgue was a small stone cottage with two squat little windows that looked like the morgue had a child. Daphne lived in the cottage, but she never thought to distinguish it from the morgue. They were the same to her.
As Daphne walked on the path she sang a traditional and soul destroying ditty to herself.
There was a sailor
who nailed himself to his boat
not meaning to
there was a sailor
who got eaten by the moon
he should not have gone out that night
there was a sailor
who tied himself to a big cod
why did he do that?
And on it continued as Daphne savoured the familiarity of its maritime vexation which she enjoyed keeping alive, perhaps she’d make somebody else learn it so its tune would never ever leave people alone?
Her path had come to a steep stony one picking its way down to the oozing sea shore. Beside it was a cairn of stacked bluish-grey stones which was added to every time somebody disappeared at sea. She went down like a spry little sheep to the sea shore, plucking the odd green leaf of salty sea beet that grew here ruminating upon it as she chewed it. A shape had caught her eye on the shore as she now crunched through its detritus of grounded up sea flotsam of stones, shells and brittle things regurgitated from the bottom of the sea.
The dead seagull was laid perfectly out on the gritty tide line. One white wing lay outstretched and crusted with silt and sand. Its yellow orange beak like an abandoned kitchen knife was still. Those rapacious eyes in its head were greyed over. Daphne knelt down in the wet grit staring with interest at the dead bird. She looked at its outstretched wing brushing delicately the feather vanes of their silt. She thought that she’d keep one treasure from the sea. Dead humans were always put in the morgue but it didn’t have to be that way….
Daphne went back up the path and in her arms she cradled the ragged bulk of a dead seagull, one wing hanging out stiffly. Behind her the sea tide hissed and churned. The morgue would have a new corpse and Daphne was pleased that it had feathers.
Story by Robin Collins
Art by Tom Brown
Almost two years had elapsed since Colonel Ruscombe-Green had left Hopeless, seeking adventure on the North American continent. He had been as good as his word and regularly corresponded with his friend and former batman, then later, valet, Bill Ebley via the Passamaquoddy trader, Joseph Dreaming-By-The-River-Where-The-Shining-Salmon-Springs. The five hundred dollars that Ruscombe-Green had donated to the island had long ago run out and Joseph, with no extra cargo to ferry, was once more visiting Hopeless just twice a year. Any letters between Ebley and the Colonel, therefore, were wildly out of date before they were received but it mattered little. The two had faced a lot together and were loathe to lose all contact with each other.
Ebley was surprised that the latest missive, dated just three months earlier, had an English postmark and the king’s head on the stamps. This was quite unexpected and Ebley opened the letter with some trepidation, wondering what events were serious enough to have led the colonel to return to Britain.
My Dear Ebley,
I trust Mrs Ebley, young Mildred and your good self are in the very best of health. I was delighted to hear that you had become a parent. Not before time, either, may I say. I am sure you will make an excellent father. My heartiest congratulations to you both. No doubt by the time you read this letter Mildred will be almost a year old and leading you a merry dance.
You were probably surprised to read the postmark on the envelope. I currently find myself deep in the English countryside, somewhat strangely at the behest of an American millionaire. While in Connecticut last year, a fellow Mason – an architect who went by the unlikely name of Archway – introduced me to a somewhat eccentric cove who has dreams of living in a genuine English manor house. He is after somewhere that can be totally dismantled and shipped in crates and on pallets to the port of New Haven, Connecticut. Personally, I think the man has more money than sense but he gave me the job of finding such a place and is paying me handsomely for my trouble. After no little amount of research I discovered a suitable candidate in the Cotswolds, a fairly modest Jacobean Manor called Oxlynch Hall. The current owners had been assailed by death duty and forced to sell. In order that the transfer of deeds etc. may be facilitated with the minimum of difficulty, I am working with a local firm of solicitors, Bowbridge, Bisley and Thrupp. As I will be residing within the area for the foreseeable future all correspondence for me may now be directed through them.
Interestingly, while in conversation with the junior partner, Julian Thrupp, I mentioned that I had spent some years on Hopeless. To my surprise he knew of the place and was convinced that he has, or had, a relative living on the island. While this seems doubtful, I seemed to have fired his imagination for Thrupp now seems quite determined to visit Hopeless, despite my dire warnings that the place is not entirely safe (I didn’t go into any great detail or, by now, I doubtless would be writing to you from a padded cell). His one concession to my concerns was, for safety reasons, to travel with a companion. In this he will be joined by the senior partner’s young nephew, Dorian Bowbridge. I do not doubt that Joseph will provide their means of ingress to the island and in view of this will be probably making a special trip, outside of his normal routine. I will grateful if you will alert Sebastian at ‘The Squid’ of their forthcoming arrival, which is most likely to be in the summer of 1927. Tell Betty not to flirt too much with young Bowbridge or I will become extremely jealous.
I hope all goes well for you and your little family, my dear chap. You are all always in my thoughts.
J W Ruscombe-Green (Col.)
The brace of Englishmen who arrived on the island cut strange figures indeed. The older man, Thrupp, stepped from the canoe unsteadily. With his city suit, bowler hat and briefcase the solicitor looked as though he was bound for Wall Street rather than a wild Atlantic island. His companion, on the other hand, appeared to have chosen apparel inspired by an H. Rider Haggard novel. Resplendent in a military-style pith helmet, complete with tinted goggles, a khaki safari suit, cravat and riding boots he cut a dashing, if eccentric, figure. The whole Big Game Hunter look was completed with a rifle slung casually over his shoulder. This was no ordinary weapon though; it was a horribly expensive James Purdey 12 bore shotgun, with a beautiful stock of close-grained French walnut, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Sadly, no one on Hopeless would have been remotely impressed with this extravagant accessory, mainly because there was no big game to hunt on the island. Unless, of course, you counted the kraken, which was bigger – much bigger – than most folks’ concept of big. It was a creature comfortably able to bat off a Howitzer shell as if it were a mosquito and would not even notice a hundred shotgun cartridges.
A bemused Joseph led the two gentlemen to the Squid and Teapot where they were welcomed by Sebastian Lypiatt. After being shown to their rooms the duo decided to get down to business straight away and made enquiries about Thrupp’s long lost relative. Although honest to a fault, Sebastian was reluctant to be drawn on the subject, having been the last person to see Tobias Thrupp alive. The circumstances of their brief relationship, some twenty two years previously, consisted of Sebastian, a relative newcomer to Hopeless, forcibly ejecting the odious Tobias from Madame Evadne’s, an establishment in which he had long caused nothing but misery and no small amount of terror. Thrupp’s fate, thereafter, was something of a mystery. He had not, however, been a particularly popular man and little effort had been expended in searching for him. These days few people even remembered the man.
While mortal men may have fallible memories, there are those on Hopeless who do not. The creatures known as Spoonwalkers see all and forget nothing. I cannot pretend to know their lifecycle or longevity but, in the way that ants are said to possess a group consciousness, I truly believe that Spoonwalkers are similar.They are certainly more than small and inconvenient creatures that steal cutlery. When necessity dictates they will act in unison to further their own dubious ends. Are they telepathic? I think so.
There was a distinct rustle of activity on Hopeless after nightfall, as if dozens, maybe hundreds of creatures moved unseen in the darkness. Tiny scrapes of metal, taps of wood, squeaks, cackles and whispers filled the deserted streets as a diminutive and unseen army made its way through the town, past the old graveyard and the bridge, towards the vast, haunted caverns that are said to honeycomb the island. Even Randall Middlestreet, the Night Soil Man, stayed far away from their relentless march, well aware that his usual defences would not keep such a horde at bay.
Tobias Thrupp had spent his final years captive in those caverns, eventually bled to a husk and feasted upon by ghouls and vampires, until his body was gone and only his wraith remained. Even then there was no respite from the torment, as nameless creatures of the deepest pit harrowed his very soul. This night he wandered the dark bowels of island wailing and screeching in anguish, writhing beneath the relentless agony. In what was left of the shredded remnants of his consciousness he wondered dimly if he was in Hell. There was no one around to tell him that this was not so. He was still very much in the caverns of Hopeless, Maine. That was where the Spoonwalkers found him.
Maybe it was their glowing, madness inducing eyes that drew him out. Maybe not. Whatever the catalyst, some strange, wordless force dragged the sorry wraith into the purple night on an eerie tide of malevolent Spoonwalkers, chattering and swarming around his faintly iridescent shade. On they marched through the town and over the headland to the cove where the lights of The Squid and Teapot shone their welcome to the weary traveller. Tobias Thrupp knew this place well; he had once been its landlord. Although dim embers of recognition glowed in his tortured soul, something else began tugging at him, something stronger than memory. As one, the Spoonwalkers ceased their march and the wraith drifted free of them and into the building. The pull was stronger now. There was no resisting it even if he was able to.
Julian Thrupp and Reverend Crackstone were up late. They sat in the snug of the otherwise sleeping inn enjoying a pipe or two of the excellent tobacco that Thrupp had thoughtfully brought and savouring a few glasses of Gannicox Special Distillation. Young Bowbridge had retired early, eagerly looking forward to exploring the island the following day.
Crackstone had sought Thrupp out for two reasons; first and foremost he desired news of his beloved Cotswolds. Newly ordained, he had left England almost forty five years earlier, to teach for a year in the University of New Brunswick. When his ship, ‘The City of Portland’ capsized he and just four others found themselves washed-up on Hopeless. He decided that this was God’s will and here he must remain. Little did he know that all of the other passengers on the ship were rescued without further incident and were quickly able to pick up the threads of their old lives.
Crackstone’s other reason for speaking to Thrupp was to apprise him, in very plain terms, of the character of his relative. The reverend thought it only fair; doubtless rumour of Sebastian’s part in Tobias’ downfall would eventually come to light and the parson wanted to set the record straight before then. He remembered well the grief Tobias Thrupp had caused and the way in which he had allowed The Squid and Teapot to descend into squalor.
Before he had chance to broach the subject, however, there was a disturbance outside, sounds of clinking and shuffling, squeals and whispers. Crackstone had heard this before and a chill ran down his spine. Suddenly the temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Julian Thrupp screamed and pointed to the corner, where a faint, flickering luminescence had appeared. Before either man could move a muscle the uncanny light had taken an almost human form, though pale and semi-opaque, guttering like a spent candle.
“Good Lord,” uttered Crackstone, in recognition, “Tobias Thrupp!”
The wraith seemed to reach out to its relative, mouthing wordlessly.
“He wants my help” Julian said, his voice shaking.
“No, pay no heed,” warned the reverend. “This is some devilish trick. This island is full of such evil.”
The wraith was beckoning now, as if urging Julian to follow.
“I must see what it wants.” insisted the solicitor and lunged towards the spectre.
As he did so the room seemed to explode with light. Crackstone was knocked back, his chair toppling to the ground. Then, without warning, the room was returned to normality. The reverend sat on the floor, dazed, looking around in confusion.
Julian Thrupp was gone.
Sebastian and his son, Isaac, were on the scene immediately, closely followed by Dorian Bowbridge, now sporting a full-length, crimson silk dressing gown.
Crackstone told them as much as he could remember and described the disturbance outside that had seemed to have precipitated the manifestation.
Isaac and Sebastian looked at each other.
“Spoonwalkers!” They said the word together.
Dorian looked confused. Their explanation did little to lessen his bewilderment.
After a certain amount of soul searching they decided that there was little they could safely do before daylight, which was still some hours away.
It was early light when the four men gathered outside The Squid and Teapot. Standing next to the Lypiatts was Crackstone, who carried a bible. Next to him was Bowbridge, ready with his shotgun. As they walked through the mist, others joined them. Word moves quickly on Hopeless. Bill Ebley, who had survived the Battle of the Somme, answered the call, as did Joseph Dreaming-By-The-River-Where-The-Shining-Salmon-Springs. By some unaccountable coincidence Betty Butterow came from the same direction and skipped along by his side.
The seven stood on the headland as dawn broke over Hopeless, etching them in silhouette against the skyline. They looked magnificent.
To be continued…
Art by Clifford Cumber
You may recall that Colonel ‘Mad Jack’ Ruscombe-Green had decided that it would be a good thing to instruct the islanders of Hopeless in the gentlemanly sport of cricket. He and his former batman, and soon-to-be batsman, Bill Ebley, who now acted as his valet, had fashioned some rudimentary stumps, a brace of cricket bats and even some primitive leg-pads from the wood of their wrecked rowing boat. It must be said that to make a functional cricket bat from limited resources is no easy matter. Fortunately Ebley had a certain amount of skill as a carpenter and managed to construct something that would be tolerably comfortable when hitting a heavy ball, such as the one that Randall Middlestreet, a lad who, until recently, had lived at the orphanage, had kindly donated. This was a treasured baseball, one of the very few on the island. Randall had let the colonel use it on the condition that he and two or three of the other orphans would be allowed to play. This came as something of a relief to the colonel, who had sensed a decided lack of energy and enthusiasm from most of the islanders whom he had tried to recruit to the team. However, by stiffening his upper lip and thinking of England, he had managed to assemble a sufficient number of players by allowing women and girls to take part.
“I only hope the M.C.C. doesn’t get to hear about this,” he confided to Ebley. “ I’ll never be admitted into Lords again.”
Ebley turned this over in his mind.
“With respect sir, that’s a crock of old night-soil,” he said.
He had picked up the local patois very quickly.
“They’d be proud of you, sir, bringing cricket to this God-forsaken place.”
“Mmm.. perhaps so but, after all, women and girls playing… it’s just not cricket!”
After much discussion with the respective landlords it was decided that the teams would represent the island’s inns. ’The Squid and Teapot Xl’ (Capt. J. W. Ruscombe-Green) would play ‘The Crow Xl’ (Capt. W.D. Ebley) at Creepy Hollow, where there was a reasonably flat area upon which a twenty-two yard pitch could be accommodated. The only problem was that part of the boundary was perilously close to the cliff edge, though the colonel was doubtful that, excluding himself and Ebley, anyone in either team would be sufficient to the task of hitting the ball any appreciable distance.
At last the day of the match dawned. It was definitely not the sort of weather for cold beer and a cream teas, even if these things had been available. Beneath a forbidding iron-grey sky a thin, drizzly mist clung stubbornly around Creepy Hollow.
“More of a day for rugby, really.” Ebley mused .
The islanders who had been persuaded to either take part or spectate were not remotely put out, however. After all, this was Hopeless in its summer finery. It looked a lot like Hopeless in its winter finery but was a degree or two balmier.
‘The Crow’ were to go into bat first. Colonel Ruscombe-Green marshalled his fielders as though they were going into battle.
“Lypiatt, I want you to be wicket keeper. Mrs Lypiatt – may I call you Madrigal? Fine leg, I think”
“Steady on colonel…” said Sebastian Lypiatt, uncomfortably.
“That Night-Soil chap can be out on the boundary. A long way out. Shout and tell him, someone… and you, young Middlestreet, I want you at silly point.”
“Really?” Randall Middlestreet looked puzzled.
‘’Yes really,” snapped the colonel. He was not used to having his orders questioned.
It took some time for the chaos to subside and the game begin in earnest. That was when the colonel realised that he was a man short.
“Where the devil is young Middlestreet?”
“He’s done what you asked him to” said his friend, Elijah Camp, a gangly lad who was waiting to bowl. “He’s gone to Scilly Point. That’s a mile or more away.”
The colonel turned several shades of red but said nothing. They would have to make do with ten players.
‘The Crow’ XI had a dismal innings. This had less to do with the Squid’s superior bowling and fielding skills than with the fact that at least eight players managed to hit the stumps down themselves. Bill Ebley scored an unimpressive seven runs before slipping on something anonymous, moist and many legged which had the misfortune of wandering across the pitch at just the wrong moment. Their final score was all out for twelve runs.
The day was descending into farce and the colonel was entertaining serious regrets as he went in to bat for ‘The Squid’ XI. They had an easy score to beat and if he could hit a couple of sixes very quickly it would have the wretched business over and done with. Bill Ebley, however, had other ideas. He had always prided himself as being something of a spin-bowler since his schooldays and, to everyone’s surprise, the first ball he delivered sent the colonel’s stumps flying.
“The blighter tossed me one of his googlies” the colonel complained, getting back to the makeshift pavilion. Madrigal Lypiatt gave him a wry, sideways look, unsure if he was being rude or not.
Things were looking bad for the Squid. Ebley’s bowling prowess was destroying them, when by chance, Sebastian Lypiatt, their ninth man in hit a six, sending the ball into an jagged outcrop of rocks. There was a lull in play while several fielders rummaged around for it without success. Then, from just beyond the rocks a scrawny, ragged figure with a mop of white hair and a straggly beard, appeared holding the ball aloft. He tossed it expertly to the wicketkeeper and, in a thin and wavering voice, burst into song.
“Jolly Boating weather,
And a hay, harvest breeze.
Joy on the feather,
Shade off the trees”
“Good Lord” gasped the colonel in disbelief. “He’s singing the Eton Boating Song.” and could not help himself but summon his finest baritone and join in.
“Swing, swing together
With your backs between your knees.
Swing swing together
With your backs between your knees.
It occurred to the colonel that if the strange fellow was an old Etonian then there was a more than good chance he would be something of a cricketer. Here was his eleventh man.
“Who is that chap” he asked Elijah Camp
“That’s Crazy Wally. Lives in the ruins at Chapel Rock.’’
Before another word could be said Sebastian Lypiatt was bowled out, having scored the only six runs that the Squid XI had achieved.
The colonel decided to take the initiative.
“Wally, old boy, do you know anything about cricket?”
The word ‘Cricket’ seemed to unlock a hidden door in Wally’s mind and he surprised everyone by capering about and repeating the words ‘Razor Smith’. To most this would have been gibberish but the colonel instantly recognised the name of the legendary Surrey slow bowler from the pre-war years.
Thrusting a bat into Wally’s hand he ushered him to the recently vacated wicket.
“We need just seven runs to win. Give it your best, old bean.”
Bill Ebley felt a temporary pang of pity for the unkempt scarecrow standing at the wicket. He decided to make sure that his innings would have a quick and merciful end, then they could all go home.
No one was more surprised than Bill when the fast ball he delivered was met by an expertly wielded bat and despatched to the boundary with ease.
The colonel was delighted.
“Well played sir. Another run and we’re home and dry.”
Bill Ebley gritted his teeth and hoped it was beginner’s luck.
The next ball that he sent down the pitch, he claimed afterwards, was the best that he had ever bowled.
Crazy Wally went to meet it with the skill of a seasoned test cricketer, sending it in a high, elegant arc but heading straight for the sea.
What happened next has become the stuff of Hopeless legend, still spoken of in the taprooms of both ‘The Crow’ and the ‘The Squid and Teapot’ in hushed tones of near-reverence.
The players and small band of spectators watched in amazement when, as the baseball reached the apogee of its curving flight, the long and languid tentacle of a kraken reached over the cliff-edge and caught it before it could commence its descent into the sea. Holding the ball in a neat and suckered curl it wavered for a moment, then, with unerring aim, hurled it with immense force towards the wickets and reduced them to matchwood in an instant.
Wally discarded his bat and, open armed, staggered towards the waving tentacle.
“You have come to take me to poor Mozzarella, my lost darling. You have come to bring me home?”
No one stirred as the serpentine limb reached down and grabbed the ragged man, almost gently, around the waist and hoisted him aloft, like a trophy.
For an instant Wally was suspended in mid-air, beaming and waving to his audience. Then, with a flip of its tentacled arm the kraken took him away forever.
There was absolute silence for a few moments then everyone started talking at once, hardly daring to believe the spectacle that they had just witnessed.
The colonel and Ebley drew away from the small crowd and made their way back to their lodgings.
“We’ll call that one a tie,” said Ruscombe-Green. “I don’t think we’ll be needing a rematch,do you?”
Art by Clifford Cumber
Though not rich in natural resources, Hopeless has always scraped by on the bounty that the sea delivers, whether it is the occasional whale carcass or the flotsam washed up from the frequent shipwrecks.
Ebenezer Gannicox was well known as a beachcomber (or, more correctly on Hopeless, a rockcomber) so when he suddenly went missing from home no one really worried too much. He had done this before on several occasions, embarking upon what he described as a foraging mission. Ebenezer was a wiry little man and a distiller of some distinction who relied upon the sea to provide some of the raw materials necessary for his trade. The casks of malted barley, blackstrap molasses and other such luxuries carefully stored in his sheds attested to his success as a forager. It has also been suggested that he was possibly adept as a wrecker too, but this has never been mentioned in polite and civilized company (though it does get talked about quite frequently in the bar-room of ‘The Crow’)
Hopeless has never been unduly troubled by the rule of law, especially those laws which seem, to many, totally irrelevant to the smooth running of society. After all, when the overriding priorities of your daily life are avoiding being eaten, avoiding being driven insane and avoiding having your cutlery stolen, all else fades into insignificance. So whether the offence is deliberately luring ships onto the rocks, or the manufacture of moonshine, poitin or pocheen (call it what you will), no one worries too much. To be fair, the amount of time and effort required to do either of these things will put most people off. They are far too preoccupied with the straightforward business of avoiding being eaten, avoiding being driven insane and avoiding having their cutlery stolen.
While wrecking is generally approved of as a necessary resource, there are inevitably naysayers who will list reasons why the distillation and consumption of moonshine should be banned. Some will invoke law, others religion. A few will offer the excuse that it may cause blindness but this only ever happens when the equipment used has been contaminated, or the methanol has not been removed from the brew, or you put a stick in the cup when you’re drinking it. (It seems that if you want someone to stop doing something you don’t approve of, tell them that they will go blind. This is a strategy famously employed by priests and headmasters for generations.)
After six months had gone by questions began to be asked as to Ebenezer’s whereabouts. His son, Norbert, scoured the coastline but there was no sign of him anywhere. It was as though he had vanished off the face of the earth, which was not an unknown occurrence on this most perilous of islands. The general consensus, however, was that Ebenezer was too wily a character to put himself in danger. But when more months passed and the search had to be abandoned, Norbert and his mother resigned themselves to the fact that the old man had foraged one time too many.
Over the years Ebenezer had stockpiled an impressive supply of moonshine. It was stored in casks of all sizes, courtesy of the aforementioned shipwrecks. There were pins, firkins, kilderkins, hogsheads, butts and tuns, each containing gallon upon gallon of the Gannicox Special Distillation, as it was called. This was fortunate, as Norbert was reluctant to take on his father’s role and become the island’s chief distiller. Instead he decided to become a distributor.
For the next five years he made his way diligently through Ebenezer’s stockpile. He delivered it in jugs, in bottles or sometimes in a firkin strapped onto his back. Each container bore the legend ‘Gannicox Special Distillation. 80% alcohol by volume. Keep out of the reach of children and Spoonwalkers’
Eventually, he came to the last cask – a huge two-hundred and forty gallon tun which sat in the darkest corner of the shed. Norbert estimated that while this would keep his customers happy for the rest of the year, the time had come for him to learn the distiller’s art if he wanted to remain in work.
For the next few weeks things went well. Norbert became adept at distilling and wondered why he had shied away from it for so long. At the same time he drew moonshine from the tun to fulfil his customers’ needs until one day the unthinkable happened; when he turned on the tap no liquor came out. No end of kicking and shaking would move the cask, so there was obviously still plenty of liquid inside. The only explanation was that something was causing a blockage. Norbert prayed that it was not a rat.
Deciding that the only way forward was to remove the top of the cask, he armed himself with a lighted candle, a crowbar and a step-ladder. To his surprise, however, it had already been loosened. The chances of the blockage being a rat seemed greater than ever. Norbert steeled himself, prised up the lid and peeped inside.
Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him. Old Ebenezer’s face peered up through the clear well of alcohol which had preserved him perfectly. He looked happy enough, under the circumstances, but his eyes glowed with a greenish luminescence. His big toe had become firmly wedged in bung hole, serving to stop the flow through the tap. Then Norbert noticed presence of spoons. A shudder passed through him. He could make out several lying on the floor of the cask.
Thinking things through, it seemed obvious to Norbert that Ebenezer had stumbled upon a quantity of spoonwalkers nesting in the dark corner behind the casks. Everything pointed to it. They had probably been helping themselves to the moonshine for years. It was well known that to have eye contact with spoonwalkers for any length of time would invoke madness, and the glow in the old man’s eyes said as much. Had he climbed into the cask of his own volition or had they somehow managed to push him in? Norbert shuddered again and hastily replaced the lid.
Family loyalty prevailed over business interests and Norbert decided not to sell any more of the moonshine from the cask which had preserved his father so well. It occurred to him that it would be a fitting tribute to the old man if things were left pretty much as they were and the cask, complete with alcohol and Ebenezer, be ceremoniously buried on the cliff top, overlooking the coast where he did so much of his foraging. Unfortunately, that was not to be quite the way things turned out. When rolling it to the chosen spot the cask hit a small rock and bounced out of control, making its way over the cliff and into the sea. The last report of its progress had it bobbing away on the Atlantic swell to a destination unknown. When it eventually made landfall someone, somewhere had an extremely nasty surprise.
Art by Tom Brown