Karl Edward Wagner's Morally Mature Sword and Sorcery

I just read the story, "Undertow," by Karl Edward Wagner, which I found in The Sword and Sorcery Anthology published by Tachyon Press, 2012. The story was original published in Whispers #10, August 1977. It is worthy example of sword and sorcery in that it relates a story structured by a sophisticated morality: at the end of the story, you cannot categorize categories as either "good" or "bad." Accordingly, it has a quality of tragedy about it in that you feel sorry for every character.

Generally speaking, I really enjoyed "Undertow." The fantasy setting is a dark city, lorded over by a sorcerer/swordsman, Kane. The protagonist is a girl who is cruelly claimed by Kane against her will. She hates him and wants to run away from, but his sorcery power is such that she is afraid to defy him. Kane continuously forces the girl to drink a strange potion, the function of which is a mystery for the whole of the story. At the very end, however, you realize that the potion was somewhat necessary for the girl's survival. In a strange way, her captor was preserving her. Hmm...

The ending haunted me because I didn't really know whose side I was on. Throughout the story, Kane is, for the most part, an absent character, a bogeyman talked about by people in low voices. Occasionally you get glimpses of him in flashbacks, but, for the most part, he is more legend than reality. The strangeness of the story's ending adds a level of moral complexity to the story. There is really no good or bad characters. They all make mistakes, they all have strange motivations, and they all suffer in this way or that.

This kind of moral complexity/maturity is an quality of sword and sorcery I've always admired. Sword and sorcery has a propensity to make the moral world of its fictional setting so many shades of gray as opposed to the black and white of epic fantasy.

I've haven't read much of Karl Edward Wagner's work before. If you don't now anything about him, let me briefly fill you in. One of his major accomplishments, from my perspective at least, was his publication of a three-volume set of the original Conan the Barbarian stories by Robert E. Howard. He edited The Year's Best Horror Stories from 1980 until 1994, when he died from his battle with alcoholism.  Reading through his wikipedia article, he seemed like he was a pillar in the science fiction, fantasy, horror community as well as a prolific writer. Oh, and he wrote Conan pastiche, a novel about Conan's bucaneering days, Road of Kings (Bantam 1979).

Lin Carter and Clark Ashton Smith's, "The Stairs in the Crypt": Pastiche and the Haunting of Art

Last night I read another Clark Ashton Smith pastiche written by Lin Carter, a short story called "The Stairs in the Crypt." I loved it! It's about a necromancer whose apprentices fail to bury him properly, and, of course, like all necromancers who aren't properly stowed away after death, he rises, organizes an army of ghouls, and proceeds to go about the countryside feasting on the living. This is such an interesting juxtaposition of fantasy and horror. Also, the language is great. Carter does a good job approximating Smith's beautiful language and prose style. It's a wonderful pastiche!

I have to admit something. I'm always slightly disturbed when I read genre fiction pastiches. Why? Well, before answering that let me be as clear as possible and give you an idea of what I think pastiche's are.

A pastiche is defined as "a literary, artistic, musical, or architectural work that imitates the style of previous work" (http://www.merriam-webster.com). It's different from parody, which is "a literary or musical work in which the style of an author or work is closely imitated for comic effect or in ridicule" (http://www.merriam-webster.com).

The key difference between parody and pastiche, one might argue, is the issue of "respect." Both "parodies" and "pastiches" are imitations; however, the significant question becomes, what is the intention of the author? To recreate the aesthetic effect of the work that is being imitated? Pastiche. Or, to make fun of it or to ridicule it? Parody.

No doubt in my mind: Carter is writing pastiches of Smith's work and not parodies. He clearly respects the author's work. And, lo, he has written a very entertaining/provocative story.

And this disturbs me. But why?

A good pastiche haunts my definition of art. A key element of artistic worth, for me, is originality. And, a first principal of a pastiche is its imitative quality. It's key characteristic is its unoriginality. Thus, to truly take aesthetic pleasure in a pastiche requires, I think, one conditionally set aside originality as a key feature of art.

I'm not ready to do that. And yet! A good pastiche written with genuine enthusiasm and, dare I say, love of the original work, has the capacity to trouble my aesthetic first principles.

Lin Carter's, "The Scroll of Morloc" and the Wonder-filled Primordial Scene of Humanity

Gods! It's been nearly two weeks since I last posted! I guess I underestimated how distracting writing my dissertation prospectus and teaching responsibilities would be.

Anyhow, I read a story this morning I wanted to briefly reflect on. It is a short story titled, "The Scroll of Morloc" by Lin Carter. It appears to be based on notes by Clark Ashton Smith. This story comes from the anthology, Lost Worlds, by Lin Carter, which is a collection of tales thematically unified as "a unique and marvel-haunted tour through magic lands no longer known to man" (from the back cover).

Some summary: the story relates the attempts by a disgruntled shaman--Yhemog of the Voormish tribe of Hyperborea--to desecrate a temple to Tathoggua. To an extent, the shaman succeeds; however, his success comes with it more than he bargained for. I'll refrain from giving away the ending.

I really enjoyed this story. The primary effect, for me, derived from the ancient and forgotten nature of the world it's set in. I'm not sure how much of this world is Carter's and how much of it is Smith's, but Hyperborea came to life for me through this story. It suggested itself as a kind of "primordial scene" of humanity that was filled with wonder and cruelty.

I think this effect, the ability to convey an "emotional idea of the mythical past," is one of the unique capacities of fantasy literature generally and sword and sorcery specifically. Utilizing material bequeathed by Smith, I think Carter succeeds in doing that here.

To a large extent, I think, the conveying of this feeling subordinates the construction of an interesting, twisting narrative. Indeed, the narrative shape of this story is quite simple and straightforward: the protagonist infiltrates forbidden territory and has an encounter therein.

But it's not in the narrative that the pleasure of this story coheres. It's in the effect. And the effect, I believe, is connected to the quality by which the setting is conveyed.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 25)

Here is serial 25 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***


No one spoke for a span after the attack until Tauos commanded that Brol's wound be tended to. Then they began a somber search for their comrades, who they assumed were dead. Eerily, the fog seemed to lift directly after the monsters flew away, and all they found to indicate the fate of their comrades was a steaming pile of entrails. They did not sleep that night and were too frightened to go in search for the Rogue. Some assumed he had died, killed by the monsters. And yet, in spite of their fears, they organized a steady watch and prepared to leave in the morning. Indeed, they praised their god when the light of morning crept in.

By the time they finished telling their story to the Rogue, it was sunset.

Brol sighed as he sat forward: "And what of your scouting venture, slave? Tell me, please, that the settlement in the canyon is rife with fresh-baked bread, soft beds, hot baths, and that the folk who live therein speak the language of my fathers," he said. He shivered. His eyes were darkening. He was perspiring profusely. The Rogue wondered whether it was wise not to have held off on the telling of their long story and to have taken Brol, straightaway, to the settlement for his wounds to be tended.

Brol indeed looked pale. The attack had taken a toll on him. When the Rogue placed his hand on his master's brow, he was not not surprised to feel it burning hot with fever. "I am fine," chattered Brol, pushing aside the Rogue's hand.

The Rogue sighed, for her he knew his report of the canyon settlement would come short of Brol's desire, that all he could say of the settlement was that the folk who lived there were strangers but seemed to be good hosts. He forced himself to tell the whole truth and not to play into the merchant's hopes. He summarized his scouting thus: he wasn't completely sure if the people of the village were to be trusted. He had certain reservations. They were reluctant to discuss their god. Furthermore, he asserted that the merchant's they may seem "primitive," who, being from a city that was at the height of its decadent era, were used to comparatively luxurious amenities. Some of the merchants were offended by this assumption on the Rogue's part. "We're city dwelling folk," Tauos said, "but we've no right to expect a tavern and copper bathtubs this far out in the wild. I'm sure, if these folks will have us, whatever they offer will be appreciated. As to their trustworthiness: I cannot say."

In deliberate unornamented truth the Rogue spoke about their lack of a common language, about their alien culture, and about the strangeness of their customs. Not all of what he had to say was horrible to report, however; he told of the beautiful women, of their healing arts--crude though they were. He also told of the foreboding beauty of the ruins in whose shadow they had built their village. Of these ruins, he clearly articulated suspicions: "There are many folk who have been and who will be. There were many empires that rose and fell before your city of Tabun Stoh was built. For all I know, these folks have once lived in those ruins. For all I know, these folk are the descendants of those who had once dwelt there. That, I cannot say."

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 24)

Here is serial 24 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***


The entire entourage lost their discipline then and scattered like deer in every direction, yelping, gargling out in fear. Some waved their blades wildly at the attackers, striking but thin air and shadow. Many of them were wounded straightaway--cruel scratches on face, neck, and flailing arms.

Brol, though his knees trembled with fear, carried the attack forward after the initial horror. He was accosted by two of the red implings and swung his knife madly and skillessly. The monsters, though they were lauging in the beginning, grew craven when they found one of the merchants had a fight in him. They spoke to each other in a fast, chittering language indiscernible by the merchants. They left their other prey alone to concentrate on Brol, who appeared to be a kind of threat. One of the implings--he seemed the largest of them, although he was small in comparison to Brol--seemed to take great offense at the merchant leader, and attacked with a viciousness unmatched by the others. He clawed Brol's face, gnawed his arm with a foaming mouth; and, using his long, black, forked tongue, he sucked one of Brol's eyeball's right out of the socket with a wet, suctioning "plop".

"I killed it then! I did this in spite of the pain and horror," Brol coughed. "By my god Evyat! I was determined to bring one of the beasts down to death, to the Vansts, with me!"

He then explained how he killed it. He brained it with the pommel of his dagger, ripped and shredded its leathery wing with his teeth, twisted its arms until the bones cracked and it stopped moving.

The other merchants testified that Brol had become an animal. It had crumbled, dead, to the ground.

The other monsters, chittering with rage, flew away screeching and cursing unknown curses in a language they did not understand. Though they were fierce, they were obviously cowards, for their fear had been bestirrred by just one death.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 23)

Here is serial 23 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants


***

He wasn't believed by his comrades, for Paj--very unfortunately--was known among them as being overly superstitious, a religious zealot, and a "jumper-at-shadows". In spite of his vehement ravings, Brol, Tauos, and Rew--who were in spirit the leaders of the caravan--disregarded him. They demanded that he sleep off whatever lunacy the night fog had inspired in him.

They were concerned, however, when Paj pointed out that the one of them, the youngest--his name was Munish--was missing. Brol, Tauos, and Rew, after a quick search of the camp, could not deny this. The young ones were indeed missing. And so they called everyone together, threw stones, and, in this way, enlisted the help of two of the younger merchants, Theis and Farard. They would go out and search for Munish, but they weren't to go out very far. If they could not found the boy, then they were to return to the camp and to call for help if they needed it. They gave them short-blades of Tabunian make and had them march into the darkness looking for their lost comrade.

"It was directly after this that we knew something was wrong, that Paj had been speaking something of the truth about a horror out there in the darkness--though we thought it more likely an animal at this point," said Tauos. He tugged nervously on his long, thin, tightly braided beard.

After Theis and Farard left, bearing trembling blades, it was not long before they heard them gargle screams and their moans began emanating from the fog. Screams and moans became gurgles and then hacking and then became screams again--a perpetual, staccato of hoarse howls. This horrible orchestra of death sounds seeped into the entire camp, and so all of the merchants--the ten who remained--issued from their tents to stand, eyes wide with horror, gazing into the fog, muttering questions to themselves and wringing their hands as the screams went on. None could tell what had happened but all were frightened.

Brol was the only one who shook off his fear and began to organize them. He commanded them to arm themselves, although the two blades they had given to Theis and Farard were their only swords. They had daggers and skinning knives and two bows and some arrows, but no swords. He ordered others to secure the horses, who were, by this point, neighing as loudly as Theis and Farard were screaming in the fog. And they were kicking and stamping and going crazy and threatening to break their reins. After a few moments, when the horses were settled, the moans of pain and screams ceased. Silence lay about the camp.

Brol whispered orders to the merchants. He had them bear torches and to circle themselves around the central fire of their camp, where there was the most light. Something deep within him stirred and he knew an attack was inevitable. And he was right.

Swooping out of the fog were dozens of those read beasts, tongues waggling, monstrous grins on their toothy faces, their many-knuckled fingers dancing with delight. They raked over the merchants with long claws dripping tar, and they cackled evilly: a shrill, razorish laughter.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 22)

Here is serial 22 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

An update: I've painstakingly transcribed 8 pages and I'm at precisely 9228 words. That's approximately 1150 words per page! I don't know what I was thinking, typing this up the way I did. 

8 fulls pages of 30 transcribed; 9228 words

I don't know why I'm fascinated with the manuscript the way I am. But, here's another picture of it. Along with my Atlantean sword. 

Please know that the Rogue would never use anything like the Atlantean sword.

Anyhow, here's serial 21!

In spite of Brol's command, the entire entourage had, but a few hours later, huddled themselves into Brol's tent to listen to his conversation with the Rogue. Thus, the tent had become thick with smoke due to the many long-stemmed reed pipes being nervously puffed on. Indeed, everyone sat around smoking, drinking steaming blackroot, and chewing trailcakes which had, at this point, become but barely palatable.

In sober voices Brol and Taous related to the Rogue was had happened. Details were filled in by an occasional merchant who squeaked in animated fashion, and Rew threw in a comment every now and again. Occasionally even Paj chirped out a comment, though he still seemed quite distraught and spent most of the time, his hands wrapped around his knees, rocking and muttering to himself in the corner of the tent. And here was their story, as the Rogue pieced it together.

Perhaps an hour after the Rogue left on Brol's horse, the merchants had a good fire going and were brewing their blackroot and tea and preparing to cook the very last of their salted meat that they had rationed to this point. The stars had come out, and Paj--a cartographer and astronomer--was pressed by the terrible notion that the constellations looked strange and unfamiliar to him. He wasn't able to confirm his suspicions and fears with the others as a thick fog rolled in that becloaked sky, camp, and distant canyon. 

The merchants were not concerned, though one or two of the more suspicious young among them muttered some misgivings. In the meantime, the night air had cooled down and this quickened them, made them feel somewhat hopeful. They had no plans to go anywhere that night and they were sure the sun's light would burn away the fog in the morning. The idea that they were approaching swampy lands disturbed them (where did this fog come from, if not a bog or swamp as nearby); but Brol chastised them and led them all in a prayer to their hearthfather god. This seemed to calm them. 

All was fine until the first disappearance was noted. 

Paj was playing a tiny woodflute on the margins of the camp shrouded in fog, when he heard the faint voice of one of his comrade's calling. Screaming? 

Not thinking of the sound as anything threatening, he put away his pipe and moved toward it. A great gust of wind came, lifting the fog like a certain for but a moment. And so, poor Paj got the first glimpse of them. 

Standing over one of his comrades, its pointy chin dripping gore, was one of those beasts. It was quickly flanked by two more who flew out of the darkness--claws outstretched, veiny wings unfurled, eyes like glimmering jewels. They grinned at him, revealing their knife-like teeth; and Paj, horrified, screamed and screamed to the highest heights his lungs could carry him, and turned and ran back to the center of the camp. 

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 21)

Here is serial 21 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***


In a puddle of coagulating blood lay the small, red corpse of a mysterious creature the Rogue had not seen before. It's body was the size of a small dog or lamb. It was shaped by a particularly lanky and long-armed human, only its ribs were far more abundant, pronounced, and sharp. It's skin was a shimmering crimson red and it appeared to be stretched taut over sinewy flesh. From the shoulders branched out bat-like and leathery wings that were twice the length wide as the body was long. The wings were of thin, veiny skin, although one wing was ripped and patchy and shriveled. The most disturbing aspect of the creature, however, was its tiny face. The nose was long and pointed like the poniard. The cheekbones were high and sharp; its eyesholes were deep and the bones angled in. The eyes--which were wide open in death--were a bright green and the irises of the eyeballs were slitted like a cat's. The chin was nearly as pointy as the nose: long, curving, sharp. Finally, the mouth, which gaped open in death, was filled with hundreds of curving, knife-like teeth set in tight, black gums. The teeth were caked in greenish, yellow grime, and a long, forked and red tongue lolled from the black mouth.

"Behold!" Brol said. "You see that our comrade Rew should be forgiven his enthusiastic thought not so fanciful characterization! I! I have seen such creatures depicted in the grimoires once shelved in Spiral Towers! And always. Always! Those are illustrations of demons!"

Brol looked at the Rogue and narrowed his eyes. A kind of challenge lingered there.

The gruesome sight of the red corpse lying on the ground stirred revulsion in the Rogue. His stomach lurched. But, taking a deep breath, he steadied himself. A silence fell about the camp as the merchants waited for his reaction. The Rogue looked to Brol, who now held a bloody rag to his wounded eye, and trembled, and wheezed. Obviously the doubt of the Rogue had hurt him. Thus the Rogue felt shame, for he had doubted the merchant. He had thought of Brol as a fat, city-dweller; and he had expected to see that he had killed a coyote or wolf pup, at most.

Though he did not know what it was, the Rogue now desired to know more of how the creature came upon them.

"You say a group of such as these came and killed--or dragged off!--three of us! And that you, good master, have killed one of them! Please! Tell me everything! I've a few things to tell myself, of where I went and what I found in the canyon. But. Please! Inform me of all that transpired after I left last you last eve first!"

"Indeed," said Brol, spitting, throwing aside his rag. He turned to return to his tent. "Tauos! Boil water, by the gods! Everyone else! Return to your tents!"

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 20)

Here is serial 20 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

Apologies for waiting so long to continue the serialization! I usually transcribe if I have the time in the evenings. Just can't seem to find the time lately.

Anyhow, here't the 20th serial!


***

At first, these strange words did not register with the Rogue. He thought Rew spoke figuratively. Demons.

And yet, after a moment's pause, Rew's clear conviction stirred the Rogue. Tauos and Brol did not speak up to elaborate what Rew had meant.

Demons. It was as simple as that.

But then the Rogue's natural skepticism overwhelmed him and he looked at these men, trembling, disturbed, speaking of demons, and he spat on the ground. What disturbed him more was that their superstitions had resonated with him. He then saw it as his duty to bring them back to reason. To do so he would have to identify and kill whatever it was that had attacked and wounded Brol. Perhaps it was a large cat. A wolf. It did not matter. It had become a specter to these men. And the Rogue would seek it out. The Rogue shifted his blade hanging from his belt.

"Speak clearly, man! Demons! Nonsense! You've obviously been smoking too much lassra weed to indulge in such phantasies! Now--tell me clearly. What was it that stole into the camp?"

Tauos frowned. Rew gritted his teeth. And Brol--after a moment--he laughed heartily. Standing from his chair against the protestations of the other two merchants, Brol approached the Rogue.

"Perhaps Rew and Tauos speak too soon by calling these things demons, but it was a sort of monster that crept into our sleeping camp last night. They have most surely killed three of us, or dragged them off to a fate word than death, at least. I'll prove it to you, my skeptical though good-natured slave. I managed to kill one. It's corpse is rotting outside of my tent, covered by a cloak because it was too horrible to look upon. If you're not too frightened, good slave, I'll show it to you. One look is worth an entire evening's discussion about what befell us when you went away."

The Rogue respected Brol, and so he assented. He helped Brol out of the tent. With the aid of a pole-blade used as a walking stick, Brol left his tent and proceed to go around to its back.

By that time the other merchants had heard of the Rogue's return. They had left behind their breakfasts, their steaming cups of blackroot, their conversations, in order to witness their savior's return. Many of them were mustering in the camp when Brol, the Rogue, Rew, and Tauos issued from it.

Eventually they all came to a small mound covered by a blood soaked cloak. They all stared at it wordlessly.

Brol was flanked by Tauos. Tauos was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Rew had his arms folded across his chest and his eyes seemed to tremble with suppressed emotion. And Paj--the groveling fool who met the Rogue when he returned to the camp--he was in the middle of the remaining merchants, gibbering and crying. He was muttering to himself and whispering to his companions, who leaned away from him, embarrassed and disturbed by his behavior. Obviously, whatever had happened the the merchant's during the Rogue's absence had deeply effected Paj's mind.

Brol knelt down next to the blood soaked cloak and sighed when his wound began to bleed again. "I warned you, Brol!" Tauos shouted, coming to his leader's aid. "Shut up, fool! I need to show our mercenary the horror came upon us last eve!"

With that Brol dragged off the cloak revealing a sight horrible to the Rogue. The Rogue's breath came shortly. He felt his mind reel, the knot of his sanity loosening. He swallowed.

C.L. Moore's "Dust of Gods": Materiality, Spirituality, and "Anti-Science" Fiction

This morning I read the story, "Dust of Gods," by C.L. Moore. Because I may be studying her for my dissertation, I thought I'd share some thoughts with you regarding this story.

C.L. Moore (1911-1987)

Who is C.L. Moore? She's a wonderful pulp writer who published in (in addition to other places) Weird Tales. Her most important contribution, I'm inclined to believe, is to the "sword and sorcery" sub-genre of fantasy. Her character of Jirel of Joiry is one of the earliest female sword and sorcery characters and is a precursor, I think, to such strong feminine warriors as... hmm... Molly the Razor Girl in Neuromancer, Xena the Warrior Princess, and, say, Kara Thrace (i.e. "Starbuck") from Battlestar Galactica. If you haven't heard of her or read her work, "Dust of Gods" might be a good story to start with; however, it doesn't feature Jirel, who, I think, is her most famous creation.

What is "Dust of Gods" about? The narrative is a traditional "infiltrate a forbidden dungeon/underworld" narrative. This is an old time narrative, with many, many precedents in the Western literary tradition: Gilgamesh's search for Utnapishtim in the land beyond; Odysseus's decent into the underworld; Aeneas's descent into the underworld; Dante's descent into hell; and onward to, I'd suggest, more recent "dungeon crawls" in the Dungeons and Dragons / sword and sorcery tradition.

But it's in the specific plot elements and not in the general narrative structure that this story delights.

Basic plot summary: It's about a space mercenary, Northwest Smith, who is, many have suggested, the model for Han Solo of the Star Wars universe. Smith and his sidekick, the Venusian, Yorel, have been contracted by an eccentric fellow to go and find an interesting artifact: the "dust" of some god. This eccentric man explains that, in order for the gods of other worlds to manifest into our world, they need to take "material shape." And, while these gods are immortal, their mortal/material shapes are subject to degradation. And so, the "dust" Northwest Smith and Yarol are hired to go and find it a kind of husk left over after an extradimensional god has infiltrated our world and left.

I won't spoil things by relating the interesting journey in search of the dust. Suffice it to say, it's worth a read and filled with thrills.

I do want to comment briefly on what I see as a very interesting theme that pervades this story (and C.L. Moore's fiction, in general). And this theme is the tension between the material and the spiritual, i.e. the worldly and the otherworldly.

In this story a major premise is the distinction between two separate realms of existence: the material world of mortals and the immaterial worlds of the gods. A lot of the tension grows out of the interplay between these two worlds.

It's interesting because, to a large extent, we might look upon these Northwest Smith stories as proto-science-fictional. Why so? They take place in space. There are ray guns. There are intergalactic empires. And yet--the material/empirical vision of the world science is founded on is critiqued in these stories. It's as if, according to the logic of this story, the suggestion is made that this world, the material world of the senses, is suspect. Not only is this "soft" science fiction. It's "anti-science" fiction.


I definitely need some help to make a case for this. There's a anthropological theorist of modernity, Bruno Latour, who, in his famous study We Have Never Been Modern (1991), suggests that the key to understanding the vision of the world prevalent in the modern Western world is to acknowledge its emphasis on two realms: (1) the world of the senses, the objective world of matter, and (2) the world of culture, the mind, the spiritual. According to Latour in his book, "Modern" "Western" folk distinguish between the subjective world and the objective world, a distinction, he suggests, not made by everyone else.

What attracts me to C.L. Moore's story, here, is that it seems to play with blurring the lines between these two ontological planes. The spiritual and the material get mixed up. And so, in narrative form, we have a kind of critique of a first principle of a scientific worldview. She's not writing "soft" science ficiton. She's writing "anti-science" fiction.

"Extremes more terrible than madness": Clark Ashton Smith's, "The Isle of the Torturers"

So, I've been doing reading for my dissertation prospectus. Some of what I've been reading is the work of Clark Ashton Smith, who I believe will have his own chapter. This morning I want to review a short story of his I just read, "The Isle of the Torturers."

Original illustration in Weird Tales, March 1933

Published in in the March 1933 issue of Weird Tales, I highly recommend it. I'd describe it as a kind of "sword and sorcery" "weird fantasy."

Let me briefly summarize it: it's about a king whose kingdom has been beset by a horrible disease that has come out of the cosmos, a disease called "the silver death." Everyone in his kingdom dies, and so he flees his kingdom over sea. While fleeing, his ship crashes on an island where there is a decadent civilization that loves nothing more than to torture people. After being subjected to a horrible variety of tortures, he infects everyone on this island of torturers with the silver death. They all die.

We have here the story of a "sleeper agent," a single individual who seems like they are powerless before a great power but who is actually quite powerful.

I don't have much to say about the plot other than it's very gripping. I'm not very familiar with Smith's work, but my impression is that the strangeness and latent violence of the plot is characteristic of his work.

What fascinates me intensely by Smith in his style. He was a critically acclaimed poet before he began writing weird fiction. And this artistic past can be glimpsed in his prose style. Consider this passage, which relates the arrival of "the silver death" to the kingdom--it is called "Yoros"--of the protagonist:

There was no time to flee from the strange, inevitable scourge. Dreadfully and quickly, beneath the clear stars, it breathed upon Yoros; and few were they who awakened from slumber at dawn. Fulbra, young king of Yoros, who had but newly succeeded the throne, was virtually a ruler without people. (187).

Consider the cadence of the end of each sentence. Each sentence builds towards a stirring image or imaginable action: "inevitable scourge," "breathed upon Yoros," "slumber at dawn," "ruler without people." We have here a staccato of imagery that evokes a kind of despair.

Smith's prose style in this story is particularly rich, and I think this richness is a function of the story's plot, its preoccupation with the senses. Torture is, at its most basic level, the agitation of the senses. Consider this passage, where the torturers are torturing the protagonist:

For the islanders of Uccastrog had designed innumerable torments, curious and subtle, wherewith to  harry and excruciate the five senses; and they could harry the brain itself, driving it to extremes more terrible than madness (194).

Smith's prose style is pervaded by such imagery and other attempts to evoke sensory experience: sights, smells, tastes; his rich vocabulary and strange new words are, on the level of text-as-image, visually stirring. In a strange way, Smith's style is a kind of torture, a "harrying" of the senses, if you will.

There's a whole tradition of art being agonizing, excruciating, but also satisfying. There's something of that going on in this story. And I wish I had more time to trace it out.

By the way, I read this story is a famous anthology of Weird Tales titled, Weird Tales: 32 Unwearthed Terrors, edited by Stefan R. Dziemianowcisz, Robert Weinberg, and Martin H. Greenberg (New York: Bonanza Books, 1988). It's available used on Amazon and a beautiful book.

Also, I've been compiling some Weird Tales resources, if you're interested. Not much is here just yet. Here's the link: Weird Tales

Review of "The Shuttered Temple," by Jonathan L. Howard, in Black Gate 15

Last night I read the second story in Black Gate 15, "The Shuttered Temple," by Jonathan Howard. I really enjoyed it. The main character, Kyth, was intriguing, and the plot, though simplistic, was engaging.

There were a couple of things about this story that weren't to my taste. But, above all, it was quite entertaining.

The main character, Kyth the Taker, is a kind of "razor girl," if you will: an acrobatic, very wise, Rogue-type figure who always seems to be a step ahead in the game. Kyth is unique in that she's a "smart aleck" who always cracks jokes and says what she's thinking. Her skill, I would say, comes from her ability to analyze and extrapolate and understand things at sight. There's a scene where she's evaluating a specific problem, and--snap--she just understands. In this way, strangely enough, she suggested to me the non-fiction work Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking by Malcolm Gladwell (in this book he analyzes folks who are able to just understand things because of their deep, ingrained professional abilities). In large part, Kyth is a super thief/burglar. I really liked Kyth and she was a big reason why I liked this story.

The plot some was somewhat simplistic for my tastes and I think there was a missed oppurtunity. It concerns this scary, evil temple that has never been infiltrated. Our protagonist, of course, has to infiltrate it. I won't spoil it for you. Finding out what is in the temple is great. And yet--I would have liked to have seen more of the temple. Your imagination runs wild as you think to yourself, "Just what? Oh--what?! is?! in that temple?!" Could it be zombies? Demons? A lich lord? The story helps in suggesting things that might be lingering inside of it. And yet, I felt as though it failed to deliver.

Nevertheless, I valued the story for its ability to evoke this curiosity in me.

The dialog was somewhat irritating. In spite of Kyth's likableness, sometimes she speaks too much like a modern person. I know, I know--secondary world fantasy isn't necessarily in "the past." I agree. I agree. I guess, when reading fantasy (and sword and sorcery) one of the elements I take pleasure in is the anachronistic language. This language seems slightly stilted, a little awkward, and somewhat historical. Rather than, "Hello! How're ya doin'?" you have, "Hail! Well met! How are you, friend?"

I'm absolutely sure this is a personal taste thing. I experience "modernized" dialog in secondary world fantasy as an incongruity. I mean, just look at my fiction. My characters speak like bad parodies of Shakespeare plays.

Briefly, let me say something about the writing style. I don't want to take it fore granted. Howard's writing is great. It's the kind of narrative style that becomes a "window," if you will; you forget you're reading. You just concentrate on the story. This isn't banality on his part. It takes a lot of skill and practice to develop this type of "organic" narrative prose. I wish I could do it.

Conclusion: great story. Some elements of it weren't to my taste. But! It was a great story: intriguing plot, likeable character, and skillful, economic prose.

Rating: 4/5

Audio Flash Fiction: "The Rage of the Rogue"

So, I couldn't sleep. And so, I wrote a flash fiction. And then, I read it out loud to my wife. But when I read it out loud, I recorded it. The impulses and the whims have snowballed, and now I find I'm sharing it on my blog. For your enjoyment:

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 19)

Here is serial 19 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***

Paj lay groveling in the dirt clutching his hair and tear-streamed face. In spite of his efforts, the Rogue could get no more information out of him.

Shoving past him, he moved further into the camp, past the firepit and into the large, red pavilion that he knew to be Brol's, the leader of the merchants. When he threw back the flap and strode in, he saw Brol, sitting on a stool, holding a bloody rag to his face, which was wounded; a grisly gash ran the length of his cheek. One of his eyes had been removed and a cheek now hung in bloody tatters.

Brol was flanked by two of his lieutenant's, men of reason and stability who the Rogue respected. Their names were Rew and Tauos. They were only a few years younger than  the venerable Brol.

Outside the Rogue could hear the other merchants mustering. Word of his return had been announced by Paj's blubberings, and the other merchants were gathering around their leader's tent to see what was to be done about their dire circumstances.

"It's good to see that you live, young one!" Brol laughed, rising, throwing aside his bloody rag and approaching the Rogue, his horrible wound shiny in the light that shone into the tent. "We assumed those red-skinned beasts made a quick meal of you!" He embraced the Rogue like a father embracing a son. The Rogue recoiled ever so slightly, but relaxed after a bit. He waited until Brol relented and backed away.

"W-w-w-hat beasts?" he stammered, frustrated by his ignorance. "What happened? What happened to your face?"

One of the other merchants in the room, Tauos, rose up and unfurled his turban. He cursed and spat. "Isn't it obvious? After you left, a few hours into the night, we were attacked!" Tauos said. He took Brol by the arm and led him back to his wicker stool. "Sit down, you scoundrel!" he spat.

Brol began to protest, but Tauos shoved him down. Brol then grumbled inaudibly to himself while he put another rag to his wound.

The Rogue couldn't help but chuckle. Brol's stubbornness amused him. Although he assumed these merchants to be city bred softlings, he was surprised to see one--their leader, of course--acting like a fighting-man.  But the Rogue needed to know what happened.

"Who or what attacked you?" the Rogue asked again.

He assumed it was some aggressive or surly band of mountain men, or bandits who haunted the scrubs that lied outside of the power of Tabun Stoh and its armies. And so, he was surprised when all three of the merchant's faces grew somber and pale. A silence draped itself over them. For a while it lingered. Eventually, the third merchant, Rew, spoke:

"Demons," he said, spitting on the ground. "An entire roost of demons attacked us last night."

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 18)

Here is serial 18 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***

Pages transcribed: 6 ; wordcount: 7158

Shortly after this conversation the Rogue left the village with five warriors. He had little difficulty play-acting surprise when he came upon his horse, which was terrified, having had spent the night alone. It took only a few hours to meander out of the canyon to where the merchants had bivouacked for the night. When he could see the merchant camp in the distance, he stopped to consult with the warriors.

Although he could not speak their language, he was able to communicate with them, after a fashion. Their leader, the son of the graybeard--his name was Ah'gatar--was very intelligent and understood the Rogue's non-verbal signs with no some skill. Through various hand gestures, facial expressions, and noises, he told the wolf-cloak warrior that the merchants might be threatened by such an a war party as they seemed to be. The Rogue suggested that the five spear wielding warriors should stay back and allow him to approach his comrades alone.

The wolf-cloak seemed to assent, and the warriors, shrugging, sat down on rocks and began chattering away, passing their liquor filled bladders back and forth.

The sun was at full height when the Rogue strode into the camp. He was greeted by one of the younger merchants, by the name of Pej. This one's face was pale and his eyes were wide with fright, bloodshot, and trembling insanely.

"Thank Evyat you've returned!" he said, proclaiming the name of one of the many gods of Tabun Stoh. He fell to ground and grasped the Rogue by the calves. "They killed three of us! The monsters! I watched the entire horrible display, had to listen to their gargling screams as they were dragged into the darkness! All I found were their still-steaming innards strewn about!"

The Rogue, horrified and disgusted by the outburst and Pej's lack of composure, recoiled with a hiss. Reflexively, his hand went to his blade.

"Back away, Paj!" the Rogue shouted above the man's blatherings. "Give me room and silence, and then tell me the story like a sane-person, you fear-drunken fool!"

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 17)

Here is serial 17 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***


The Rogue folded his hands, bowed his head, and touched his forehead. "Never! Not at all! To pay your hospitality back with such an unkindness would be not be human."

"There are some spell-binders from your city who would kill and betray to delve into the ruins of our ancestors," the graybeard returned. "I trust you are honest merchants and fighting men fleeing a tyrant, as you say you are, and not spell binders masquerading in the cloaks of humility. If you are, that would be unfortunate."

"Indeed," the Rogue said, his shame stirred in spite of his innocence. "Indeed, we flee the very kind of person you describe. It is said the tyrant of Tabun-Stoh is a sorcerer."

The old graybeard gazed at him for a moment and the intensity of his gaze disturbed the Rogue. And then the graybeard smiled, patted the Rogue on his back with force, and walked with him to the mustered warriors with the aid of his staff. "Wonderful!" the graybeard said. "If you are who you say you are--honest folk fleeing the tyranny of dark magic--then we count ourselves your friends. We rarely get visitors here, and experience your arrival as a source of excitement; but, you must understand, you make us anxious as well. When meeting strangers they are rarely anything but friends or enemies."

The Rogue recognized the words the old graybeard had just spoke; they were an aphorism that appeared in a philosophical dialogue of Trayat of Cohrus, an ancient poet-philosopher who had lived long ago and far, far away. This old graybeard was indeed well learned.

"You know the philosophies of Trayat!" exclaimed the Rogue, his love of the ancient literature overtaking his social composure.

"I know him well," said the graybeard gravely. He said nothing further.

They waited a bit longer while more soldiers mustered around them. Eventually a group of spears were gathered. The old man shouted an order to five of the warriors, who hailed him with the wave of their spears. Turning to the Rogue, the old graybeard said, "Spend this day looking for your comrades. And if you are lucky, bring them to us tonight. We will have a celebration in their honor. Together we'll share stories, enjoy food, and drink, and exchange secrets--if you have any to share. And, perhaps, after the celebrations, over a pipe of something, we might discuss Trayat together."

The Rogue could not help but smile. The old graybeard patted him on the back once more. "You have met who I consider my daughter. Now. Meet my son!" He then spoke to the warrior who wore the wolf-cloak, and he came over to them. "He doesn't speak your tongue. He isn't as fast a learner as my daughter. He is, however, our most celebrated warrior and tracker, and if you entourage are withing a day, then he will no doubt bring you to them."

Review of John H. Hocking's, "A River Through Darkness"

Last night I purchased the Kindle edition of Black Gate issue 15. My goal is to review select stories from the issue. Some brief information on Black Gate before proceeding with my review of the first story, in case you've never heard of it.

It's one of the most important and prestigious literary marketplaces and communities for the furtherance of "adventure fantasy" and "sword and sorcery".

I love the blog community associated with the magazine. I lurk through the posts and comment occasionally and have discovered so many cool writers (classic and contemporary) and bloggers through the work they do over there.

Side note: I am going to finish my extended review of the anthology, Swords and Dark Magic. The next story up is an Elric tale by Michael Moorcock titled, "Red Pearls: An Elric Story," and its approximately 50 pages, more of a novella than a short story. I'm putting off reading it just now considering I have a prospectus to write, and a bunch of reading for classes I'm teaching and auditing. I do intend to return to Swords and Dark Magic in a week or so. I'm anything is not consistent and persistent.

***

Anyhow, the first story in the magazine was titled "A River Through Darkness and Light" and was written by John H. Hocking. I've never read anything from Mr. Hocking before, but I really enjoyed this story. If this is any indication of the tone, style, and content of the narratives that await me in the rest of the magazine, then I'm eager to read on.

Some brief summary of the story: the protagonist is what is referred to as an "Archiver." I get the sense he's a "scholarly" type figure, a kind of magician, but he never uses magic or anything.

Which reminds me: a fantasist's ability to refrain from representing the supernatural/fantastic is just as important, I think, as their their readiness to represent it.

Anyhow, back the the Archiver. The story isn't just about him. It relates the struggles of a group of adventurers and their attempts to locate and pillage an ancient ruin in the search of a long, lost cache of scrolls (which may or may not be magic). In the course of their search, they encounter a group of bandits, fight with them, and--don't want to spoil it all--a supernatural element emerges.

This is great. For me, its good sword and sorcery. Why? Because the supernatural element is downplayed throughout the vast majority of the narrative. And when it emerges... it's intense. The story is filled with swordfighting, dungeon delves, strange monsters, and, of course, sorcery.

My favorite scene is perhaps when the bandit chief surprises the adventurers with... nevermind.

Let me say something about the narrative style. Hocking tends to pay attention to the surface texture of the world. His descriptions are sometimes excessive, but, if you have the patience, they really pay off. Why?

Well, as he foregrounds the "immanent" world, i.e. the "real" material world--intensifies it, if you will, through description--and by doing this he primes the reader to truly experience the supernatural. He manages to make is strange, as it should be.

In some fantasy, not enough attention paid to the physical world, matter, the immanent--whatever you want to call it--and this neglect makes the entire world feel supernatural or "fairy tale" like. This isn't to my taste. Hocking doesn't do this. You feel the world--the heat of the desert sun, the wind, the dryness of the mesa, the refreshing spray of the river.

And let me say something about the prose style: economic, precise, exciting.

All in all, I'd give this story a 4.5 out of 5.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 16)

Here is serial 16 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***

It was a cold, gray morning. Into the Rogue's hand a particularly young villager--wearing a cloak woven with crudely flattened plates of what appeared to be metal--thrust a ceramic canteen of something very warm. It steamed in the cool of the morning. It was obviously liquor of some sort--perhaps a mulled wine--for it burned and made the Rogue's insides feel warm as it went down. He grunted his thanks to the young man as they began walking to the village center.

There it was swarming with beautiful women and children of every size and age. The Rogue glimpsed young Asha among them, sitting on a roof, her bare feet dangling over the side. She watched the Rogue as he approached with the group of warriors and grinned when he nodded to her.

The graybeard was squatting near a fire, warming his hands. He was flanked by two other warriors who looked  old and grizzled and sour, and their faces were scarred. As the Rogue came closer, the old man stood, took up his staff, and grinned.

"And you survived the night!" he exclaimed gustily.

The Rogue, however, was slightly distracted, and so the words the graybeard said did not register with him completely. When he came into the village the night before he did not see the peculiar place where these people had built their village-town.

High, high up on the section the canyon walls upon which their village was nestled were ruins built of the same black stone of the canyon. These ruins were built into the very wall of the canyon quarry that no doubt furnished the thick, black brick that composed it. Of these ruins's architectural style, the Rogue knew nothing, in spite of his great knowledge in the area and his old age. Worn smooth by years and years of wind and sand-blasts, the rock were smooth and sturdy, but the manner of construction--constituted of interlocking bricks of various sizes and arches with beautifully carved keystones--seemed far beyond the skill of these people. And there was an evil, "fang-like" quality to the ruins, which seemed to bulge and curve like so many fangs out of a mouth. They also suggested to the rogue the rib-cage of some dead and decayed god.

The graybeard saw the Rogue looking at the ruins, perceived his surprise and horror, and could not help but grin: "Yes, we live in the shadow of a great empire," he said. "The ruins are forbidden to us, and to you. We guard them. We welcome your friends, if you find them, but know this: we jealously guard those black-stone piles. We would be deadly offended if you attempted to violate them."

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 15)

Here is serial 15 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants


***

The Rogue finished his meal and felt satisfied when the girl took his wastes away. She tossed the dregs out of the door and scrubbed his plate with hot water, saying nothing. And then she went to leave. As she turned to go, a realization dawned in the Rogue's mind: "I do not know your name, little one," he said timidly. He fell idly into a pile of cushions and furs. "Gods! It is wonderful to be fed and warm and to speak in a language that is understood! To come to know strangers!"

The girl chuckled lightly. But following quickly upon this she frowned gravely and sighed. "Call me Asha, though that is not my name."

The Rogue nodded, and she left.

He sat there for moment, listening to the fire crackling, contemplating her parting words.

He then began to fall asleep, having been made drowsy by the delicious food and the warmth of the fire. Just before the darkness took him--after he gripped his blade firmly to his chest--he thought of his companions, shivering in the cold of their tents, subsisting on bitter-root tea and trail bread. He could not help a merciless smile from spanning his lips.

He awoke to the murmuring voices of about three of the villager-men. Pale light rays slanted in through some tiny window slits had had not noticed during the night. He was not completely sure of his safety, and so he pulled his blade close, ready to strike if he needed to.

His eyes were half open when the cloth at the portal of his dwelling place was thrown aside, and he perceived the man from the previous, the man wearing the wolf cloak. He held a spear in his hand, but it was not ready for battle.

He woke the Rogue up with a clacking noise, and stood there, casually leaning on his spear. He motioned to the door flap where the rogue saw mustered three other warriors with spears and furs. The Rogue assumed they were ready for him to go and find his friends, but he was concerned that there were none in this party who he could communicate with. Throwing on his leather jerkin, buckling it rapidly, and then securing his curving dagger, he rose to meet them.

Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 14)

Here is serial 14 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants


***

When he let the girl up, she bounded to her feet and ran to the guards and lowered their spears with her hands. They all began to talk excitedly to each other in their language, and yet, it did not matter, for the Rogue could not understand their language at all. This gave way to loud speaking and finally shouting. It seemed to the Rogue that the girl was defending him against the guards, and for this he was ashamed. Eventually, shoving and shouting, she removed the spearmen from the tent, who scowled at the Rogue as they left. She then turned to face him.

"I'm sorry," he said, bowing his head, "My reaction was not merited. Your men had a right to be concerned, to assume I aimed to cause you harm."

"Such an apology is unneeded," she said, smiling, "I'm too young to realize that some men cannot be accosted as I did you. There is such a thing as battle reflexes, and this was my first acquaintance with them. Please. Accept my apology. But please--do not speak of our god. It's too horrible a subject for me."

This stirred the Rogue's curiosity, but he had no option but to acquiesce. Why was she so reluctant to discuss her god?

Feeling no little amount of shame for attacking the girl as he did, he quietly submitted to her. He sat down and she approached him with a clay bowl filled with steaming water she had poured from her kettle. They did not speak as she dabbed his wound with a scrap-rag soaked in the same tea he had been drinking. After a few moments, she finished, and, going to the door, called for her folk to bring him food.

The two spearmen, who only a few moments ago threatened the Rogue, entered then, and they bore fruit and grains and a small joint of meat cooked in wine. By this hour the Rogue was voraciously hungry, and so he bolted his food with a great aggression and for a moment forgot the girl, who was nearby, lying on her belly, gazing on him with a distant look in her shimmering eyes.