Tag Archives: Spoonwalkers

Visitors

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 Any letters between Ebley and the Colonel, therefore, were wildly out of date before they were received but it mattered little.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.

 

Yours Sincerely

 

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

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The Distiller

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’)

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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

Spoonwalkers

(by Frampton Jones)

In the absence of any better news to report, I have printed my nephew’s latest attempt at journalism. It may divert people. I have spoken with Miss Calder, but her recollections of dying are so fragmented that I can make little sense of them. As for the spoon business, it is simply another spoonwalker epidemic. Little creatures are stealing our spoons and using them as stilts. It’s happened before. I remember it very clearly and am certain others must as well. The less experienced amongst us are perhaps too hasty in jumping to improbable conclusions.