Pulp Fantasy Library: The Edge of the World

1979 saw the publication of not one but two different stories of Kardios of Atlantis by Manly Wade Wellman: "The Seeker in the Fortress" and "The Edge of the World." The former appeared in Gerald W. Page and Hank Reinhardt's Heroic Fantasy anthology, while the latter graced the pages of the fourth (and penultimate) entry in Andrew J. Offutt's long-running Swords Against Darkness series. Kardios had appeared in every previous volume of Swords Against Darkness, so it's hardly surprising he'd turn up there again. 

"The Edge of the World" receives its title from the "mighty city of Kolokoto," which lay, seemingly literally, at the edge of "a terrifying nothingness" that marked the world's end. Of course, Wellman elicits the reader's skepticism about this supposed fact early on, as he notes that it was "the sixty or so priests who did most of the thinking for Kolokoto's citizens" who declared this to be so. The subsequent unfolding of the story does little to lessen that skepticism.

Kardios enters the story first by word of mouth, as one of the aforementioned priests, Mahleka, has an audience with Kolokoto's "disdainfully beautiful" queen, Iarie. The queen, who is "as dictatorial as she was lovely," sits upon an ebony throne guarded by two tamed monsters.

One of these, the rather molluscoid Ospariel, was carapaced in a green shell, from which peered brilliant eyes above a stir of tentacles. The other, Grob, might be a great crouching ape, if apes had branched horns and were covered with green scales the size of lily pads.

Iarie has summoned the priest to find out the source of a "disturbance among the people," one that she had heard "shouted over the lower market-reaches." Mahleka explains that "the people [have] gathered to welcome Kardios the wanderer."

Iarie has heard the name of Kardios before, who was reputed to have survived the sinking of Atlantis, "overthrown mighty rulers," "conquered monsters," and "brought to an end the worship of several gods." This interests the queen, who asks that the Atlantean be brought before her, but Mihaka, as "her chief and most knowledgeable advisor," is already one step ahead of his mistress. "I've already ordered that done," he explains.

Though initially viewing him with contempt, Iarie soon becomes intrigued by Kardios, especially after learning that he had entertained the people in the marketplace with a song dedicated to the goddess "Ettaire, the bringer of love." She asks him to sing her the same song, which he does. So impressed is she by his skill that she commands him to take dinner with her that very evening, to which Kardios readily agrees. 

Over dinner, Kardios and Iarie discuss the religion of Kolokoto and its chief god, Litoviay, who is "worshipped by acts of mischief." This piques Kardios' interest, causing him to wonder why the god's priests forbid anyone to travel over the mountain range that separates the city from the edge of the world. "Why not let the people go over the range and fall into space? That would be in character." Iarie shrugs off such questions, since she is much more interested in making the Atlantean wanderer "especially happy." She sends away her servants and takes Kardios, along with a flagon of wine, to her bedchamber so that they may "talk, mostly of the love-goddess Ettaire, and how best to worship her."

The next morning, Kardios is awakened by "two burly men in black chain mail" holding curved swords. Iarie explains to him that they are her "most discreet guardsmen ... Safe with my secrets, for both are mute." She adds, "Kardios, I'm sorry you woke. I had hoped you would die happy." 

"You'd murder me so that I would not tell?" he asked Iarie, and her smile grew the more triumphant.

"How accurately you estimate the situation," she answered him sweetly. "I'm a lonely woman, and from time to time I invite a stranger to divert me overnight. Naturally, I can't let such partners go and gossip about it. What would my people think?"

Kardios manages to knock the two guardsmen unconscious. The queen, undeterred, sets Ospariel and Grob on him, which he also defeats, thanks to his star metal sword. With no more tricks up her sleeve, Iarie resorts to crying rape, which summons more guards to her bedchamber. The Atlantean flees into the depths of the palace to avoid capture, succeeding only because a young weaver-girl named Wanendi gives him a place to hide undetected (once again cribbing a page from Conan – and from himself). 

From Wanendi he learns much about the city, its queen, and its place at the edge of the world.

Kolokoto, said Wanendi, had been built many generations ago for the announced purpose of discouraging travelers from falling off the edge of the world. It was a manufacturing city, with a thriving trade in excellent textiles. Royalty and certain merchants got the profits. Weavers like Wanendi managed to live just short of want. Queen Iarie was the latest tyrant to uphold the law of not crossing Fufuna into nothingness, and the mischief-god Litoviay marshalled a line of stone sentinels to enforce that law.

The girl also provides Kardios with some clothing that will enable him to blend in better with the locals. He repays her for this and her other kind deeds with treasure he acquired in Nyanyanya before setting off with the intention of escaping over the barrier mountain range – a feat no one had ever accomplished before. Of course, that's easier said than done ...

"The Edge of the World" is another enjoyable Kardios yarn, engagingly told. I am constantly impressed by how charmingly Wellman spins these tales, filled as they are with the well-worn tropes and clichés of pulp fantasy. It's evidence, I suppose, that a master is capable of producing something worthwhile even out of the basest materials. Once again, I cannot recommend these stories enough. I was very pleasantly surprised by them and I suspect many of you will be as well.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Seeker in the Fortress

Continuing with my tour of Manly Wade Wellman's tales of Kardios of Atlantis, we come to the fourth in the series, "The Seeker in the Fortress." Like its predecessors, this story first appeared in an anthology, in this case Heroic Fantasy, edited by Gerald W. Page and Hank Reinhardt and published by DAW in 1979. Also like its predecessors, the story takes a well-worn sword-and-sorcery plot – the beautiful princess held against her will by and in need of rescuing – and develops it in unexpected ways. This is, I think, where Wellman's genius lies and why the adventures of Kardios have entertained me far more than I had expected they would.

"The Seeker in the Fortress" opens, not with Kardios wandering into some new land or stumbling upon some odd situation but with the description of the titular fortress, which, as the reader soon learns, is the sanctum of a powerful wizard.

Trombroll the wizard had set his fortress in what had been a small, jagged crater, rather like an ornate stopper in the crumpled neck of a wineskin. Up to it on all sides came the tumbled, clotted lips of the cone. Above and within them it lodged, a sheaf of round towers with, on the tallest, a fluttering banner of red, purple and black. At the lowest center, where the fitted gray rocks of the walls fused with the jumbled gray rocks of the crater, stood a mighty double door of black metal. Slits in the towers seemed ready to rain point-blanketed missiles, smoking floods of boiling oil. In this distance rose greater heights, none close enough to command the fortress.

As a stylist, Wellman is nowhere near the equal of Howard, Leiber, or Vance, but he often pens passages like this, which are both evocative and nicely set the scene. 

Waiting outside Trombroll's fortress is Prince Feothro of Deribana, who "stood among his captains and councilors and shrugged inside his elegant armor." Coming to greet him is the wizard's herald, dressed "in elaborate ceremonial mail." The herald reminds the prince that his master is "supreme in magic" and that "the winds and the thunder fight his battles." Despite this bombast, Feothro remains unimpressed. 

"Trombroll has plagued the world long enough," returned Feothrro, sternly enough. "He threatens plague and famine, and demands tribute to hold them back. Tell him we've come to destroy him. These armies are the allied might of Deribana and Varlo, sworn to end Trombroll's reign of evil. Varlo's King Zapaun is as my father, has pledged his thrice lovely daughter, the Princess Yann, to be my consort. Let Trombroll come out and fight."

"Why should he?" inquired the herald. "We have wells of water, stores of provisions. And we also have that exemplary triumph of beauty, the Princess Yann herself."

"Princess Yann!" howled Feothro. "You lie!"

All looked aloft. Two guards were visible, escorting between them a slender figure in a bright red garment. Then all three drew back out of sight.

The herald then warns the prince and his assembled host that, should they attempt to storm the castle, "the unhappy princess will die an intricate death even now being invented for her." Feothro is incensed by this and looks to his advisors for a plan that might enable him to defeat Trombroll without bringing about the untimely death of his betrothed.

As if on cue, Kardios enters the story, having just been captured after "prowling here and there among the various commands." Initially, the prince believes him to be one of the wizard's spies, but he soon comes to understand that this Atlantean wanderer, known as "an adventurer among monsters," might offer a way to achieve his goals.  Kardios agrees, saying "Maybe I happened along in good time to help you." He tells Feothro not to attempt a siege; instead, he should allow Kardios to find a way into the wizard's fortress on his own to rescue Princess Yann. Though he threatens the Atlantean not to fail, Feothro nevertheless agrees and the story kicks off in high gear. 

The remainder of "The Seeker in the Fortress" is great fun, a rollicking pulp fantasy adventure, as Kardios encounters – and overcomes – one problem after another in his quest to free the imprisoned princess. The challenges Wellman sets before Kardios are varied and not all of them can be beaten through brute force or swordplay. Further, the Atlantean prefers less violent solutions when possible: "I don't kill unless I must," he explains to one of his defeated foes. It's an excellent change of pace from the earlier installments in the series, not to mention a terrific reminder of the utility of trickery and charm when sneaking into an evil wizard's lair. This is my favorite story of Kardios so far, not to mention one of the better sword-and-sorcery yarns I've read in some time and I highly recommend it.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Guest of Dzinganji

Having enjoyed re-reading Manly Wade Wellman's "The Dweller in the Temple" for last week's installment of the Pulp Fantasy Library, I decided to work my way through his remaining three tales of Kardios and using them as the basis for new posts. Before turning to the third in the series, "The Guest of Dzinganji," which first appeared in the Andrew Offutt-edited anthology, Swords Against Darkness III in 1978, I briefly wanted to make a couple of general comments about pulp fantasy literature that are relevant to all the stories of Kardios (and, by extension, to many similar pieces of fiction).

First, I think it's easy to overlook just how important anthologies were to the survival and growth of sword-and-sorcery literature during the period between the late 1960s and early 1980s. That's because the native form of this style of fantasy is the short story, the publication of which had previously depended on magazines, many of which, like Weird Tales, declined or ceased publication entirely by the start of the '50s. This turn of events left a void in the market that anthologies would eventually fill. Though published less often than their pulp predecessors, these anthologies were nevertheless significant vectors for the transmission of pulp fantasy sensibilities to a new generation of readers.

Second – and this comment is especially relevant in the case of the present tale – there can be little denying that pulp fantasies frequently used and re-used the same basic plots and story elements. How many of them, for example, involve a lone wanderer entering a new place and stumbling upon some problem whose solution has eluded every previous person who's come across it? This is not a weakness in my opinion, as the enjoyment of almost any story lies not in its specific components but in how the author makes use of them. There can thus be multiple stories with the same basic set-up but whose executions vary considerably, some good and some bad. 

In the case of "The Guest of Dzinganji," I feel that Wellman has achieved the former: a good story that makes use of commonplace pulp fantasy elements. These elements are, in fact, so commonplace that Wellman has already made use of them in his previous Kardios yarns. Yet, he somehow manages to use them one more time in this fun little adventure. As with "The Dweller in the Temple," Kardios follows an unknown trail and sings an improvised song as he strums his harp. This time, though, the trail abruptly ends at "an abyss as deep as any he had ever seen."

Down it went, down, down. Standing on the rocky shelf where the trail stopped, he peered. Hazy blue distance below. As he studied that depth, a flat click sounded in the air. He looked up.

Twelve times his length across, another cliff soared into the sky. Against the settling sun moved a dull-shiny something. It hung from chains to a great road or cable that came from far above where the ohter clilff's overhang held it. It was like a great metal basket drifting toward him. He drew back, wondering if his sword would be needed.

Kardios soon realizes that the basket is some kind of conveyance up the cliff-face. As he watches it travel up and down, he hears "a dry voice," which orders him, "Go away and forget." The voice comes from "a man in a ragged gray gown" who sat farther along the ledge between the two cliffs. The nameless old fellow seems to be a seer of some kind, for he knows the name of Kardios, as well as his role in sinking Atlantis. He explains to the wanderer that he has stayed here on the ledge "to warn men to turn back from Flaal. But the tales of treasure draw them. They never return."

The old man urges Kardios not to "let greed tempt you into Flaal."

"What happens to those who go there?"

The white head shook. "My wisdom doesn't reach to Flaal; magic shuts me out. I know only that Dzinganji rules there with a ready ear to listen for visitors and a ready method to entertain them. Dzinganji is a god, Kardios, and an evil one."

"I've met evil gods," said Kardios. "I killed Fith, who oppressed the giant Nephol tribe. I killed Tongbi, who was unpleasantly worshipped in Nyanyanya. What if I kill Dzinganji?"

"I'd be happily amazed. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"I'll never say that," promised Kardios.

This was when Wellman succeeded in completely winning me over. The level of self-awareness that Kardios displays is remarkable, stopping just short of commenting on just how absurd it is that he has yet again run into a so-called god whose villainy demands death at his capable hands. It's a testament to Wellman's skill as a writer that, despite this, the story that follows does not descend into parody; if anything, Kardios's recognition of the situation only serves to make what follows more interesting.

Kardios makes use of the metal basket to reach Flaal, which was "a city, domed and steepled in crystal and gleaming gold and silver. Under the soles of his sandals, the pavement was golden." He had no doubts as to why men were drawn to this place, but it appeared to be completely empty. He called out received "no answer but his own echo." In spite of this, Kardios presses ahead to see what else he might find.

In time, he finds at least one inhabitant of the place.

A superbly proportioned female figure, he saw at once. Her clothing was taut, scanty and many-jeweled. Her pale blonde hair was caught at the temples with a glittering band. Her sandals were cross-gartered in silver to her knees.

"Warm welcome to Flaal, Kardios," said her musical voice. "You're strong and young. You'll be of service to us and your pay princely."

She smiled. Her face was dreamily lovely, her eyes pale blue as the spring sky washed by winter's tears. "My name is Tanda."

Again, the similarities to initial situation in "The Dweller in the Temple" is striking and, in the hands of a lesser writer, would rightly be grounds for criticism, if not outright mockery.  Here, it serves to lull the reader into a false sense of déjà vu so that Wellman might catch him off-guard with subsequent revelations – or so it was for me. 

Tanda is guarded by two towering warriors clad in golden arm and wielding huge, axe-like weapons. This raises the wanderer's suspicions, all the more so when the woman explains that "Dzinganji created them, to perform his will." When Kardios attempts to press on into Flaal without first agreeing to "make submission" to Dzinganji like all "guests" in the city, the two sentinels attack him. During the battle, he notices that his opponents move strangely and do not seem to bleed when struck. When he emerges victorious, Tanda is unhappy.

"Dzinganji will be displeased," said Tanda in a reproachful voice.

"They were trying to kill me," reminded Kardios, bending above the two silent figures. "Did I truly kill them? Where's the blood?"

There showed only a trickle of clear fluid from the wounds he had inflicted. "It looks more like oil than blood," he said.

"They were machines," said Tanda. "Flaal is guarded by machines."

With that, "The Guest at Dzinganji" takes another unexpected turn and it's not the last. Every step of the way, Wellman zigs rather than zags and the result is a pulp fantasy yarn that is familiar without being hackneyed – and original without straying too far from a tried-and-true formula of the genre. It's good fun and exactly what I want out of stories of this kind.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Dweller in the Temple

A frequent counterfactual thought on this blog concerns the state of literary fantasy (broadly defined to include science fiction and horror, among others) had writers like Robert E. Howard and H.P. Lovecraft lived beyond the 1930s. I have no firm opinions on the matter, since there are simply too many variables to consider. Indeed, it's quite possible any resulting alternate history in which, for example, REH lived into old age rather than committing suicide in 1936 might nevertheless not be notably different from our own. 

A point in favor of this conclusion is provided by Manly Wade Wellman, who's probably best known among players of Dungeons & Dragons for his stories of Silver John, the wandering Appalachian singer and battler of the occult. Wellman was born in 1903, just three years before Robert E. Howard, and his professional writing career began three years after Howard's own, making them rough contemporaries of one another. Wellman, however, lived a half-century longer than REH and continued to write almost until his death, though his output certainly slowed after the 1960s. 

Even so, I'm not sure anyone could argue that Wellman is more well known than Howard (or Lovecraft). This is in spite of the fact that Wellman's work appeared in multiple volumes of Andrew J. Offutt's very influential Swords Against Darkness anthologies published in the late 1970s. (The series is important for the history of D&D because its third volume, which included a yarn by Wellman, was listed in Gary Gygax's Appendix N of "inspirational and educational reading.") If anything, I'd say that Wellman is less well known than either of them, suggesting that long years are no guarantee of greater fame than writers who died comparatively young.

That's too bad, because, in addition to his tales of Silver John the balladeer and occult detective John Thunstone, Wellman also penned six stories about Kardios, a survivor of Atlantis, the last of which was published in 1986, just months after the author's death. Though he first appeared in 1977, Wellman had apparently conceived of Kardios sometime during the 1930s, but had trouble selling him because Robert E. Howard had beaten him to the punch with Kull. However, Andrew Offutt (and, later, Gerald W. Page, Hank Reinhardt, and Jessica Amanda Salmonson) recognized the uniqueness of the character and it's through their efforts that we can read about his exploits today.

"The Dweller in the Temple" quickly demonstrates the uniqueness of Kardios by having the Atlantean do something I cannot imagine Conan or most other mighty-thewed barbarian heroes doing: singing. While traveling along the road alone, he "unslung the harp from behind his broad shoulder and smote the strings. He improvised his own words and melody, while his long sword thumped his leg as though joining in." Kardios' impromptu concert meets with the approval of a dozen or so young men, who "thronged around him, smiling and slapping the hafts of their javelins."

"Three times welcome, my lord," said a spokesman. "We'll escort you to your city."

"City?" echoed Kardios, keeping a hand near his sword hilt. "What city? I didn't even know there was one."

"Just over the hill yonder," said the spokesman, pointing. "Your city of Nyanyanya."

"It must be a fine one for you to name it two or three times," said Kardios. "But I never heard of it until this moment."

"Come and reign there, as was foretold.

Though wary, Kardios acquiesces to their offer, especially after the young men "closed around him like an honor guard ... Those sharp-pointed javelins rode at the ready." 

Nyanyanya "was not a large city, but it was beautiful, a grateful refuge for a tired traveler" such as Kardios. He is met there by a crowd of admirers, along with an old man, who identifies himself as Athemar the high priest. Athemar crowns Kardios king by placing a golden circlet on his head, which the wanderer at first takes to be a joke.

"We wouldn't dare joke, Kardios," murmured one of them.

"Never," Athemar assured him. "You see, we have an interesting way of choosing our kings. When one departs, another is mystically brought to us, by decree of the Dweller in the Temple. A committee meets him and brings him to us. It's been like that since Nyanyanya became a city." He stroked his beard. "That was lifetimes ago. But your palace waits for you."

By this point, the Kardios – as well as the reader – is aware that this situation is extremely suspect and indeed probably a trap. Although he recognizes that his life is likely in danger, he does not try to escape. "He would never be happy without knowing the end of this quaint adventure."

Athemar leads Kardios to "a graceful building of the rose-gray stone," where he is shown "a spacious room with a central fountain, chairs and tables and divans, and a red-cushioned throne that seemed chiefly made of emeralds." Before he has a chance to take this all in,

girls entered, spectacularly beautiful girls, gold-haired, jet-haired, jasper-haired, smiling. Their rich, clinging costumes were as brief as the very soul of wit.

"Here are some of your subjects, awaiting your orders," Athemar said to Kardios. "Whatever you may command of them." 

The girls all vie for Kardios' attention, encouraged by Athemar, but, taking a page from Conan, he is most interested in a serving girl named Yola, who alone among them seemed genuinely concerned about him. Kardios is correct in this assessment; it is from her that he first learns something of the mysterious Dweller in the Temple about whom the high priest had spoken earlier.

"What's this Dweller in the Temple you worship here in Nyanyanya?"

"Tongbi," she whispered fearfully.

"Tongbi," he repeated the name. "What sort of god is he?"

"A great god. Great and dreadful."

"Why dreadful? Does he kill your people?"

"No." Her hair tossed as she shook her head. "I don't think he ever killed a single citizen of Nyanyanya."

This piques the interest of Kardios, who asks Athemar for more information about Tongbi. The old man is surprised by this.

Athemar frowned. "The girl told you his name?"

"And said that he was powerful, and has never yet killed a citizen of the town. That's to his credit. How ancient a god is this Tongbi, and how is he served?"

A councilor cleared his throat and tweaked his spear-point beard. "You're our king, mighty Kardios," he said. "The king isn't called on to vex himself with religious matters. Athemar and his junior priests do the worshipping and serving of Tongbi." 

This is all highly suspicious, of course, and Kardios knows it, but his natural curiosity – and sense of adventure – prevent him from fleeing Nyanyanya. He is determined to get to the bottom of whatever is going on here, as well as the nature of the prophecy that supposedly "foretold" his arrival here.

"The Dweller in the Temple" is a charming, enjoyable romp in the best traditions of pulp fantasy. Kardios handily distinguishes himself from the many rootless, wandering protagonists of the genre, demonstrating not just thoughtfulness – a trait he shares with many others – but also kindness and, above all, humor. Kardios regularly cracks wise and makes light of his circumstances. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he reminds a lot of John the Balladeer, Wellman's more famous creation, right down to his propensity to endear himself to others through song. Also, like the tales of Silver John, this one is written in a light, breezy style that sets it apart from the self-seriousness that too often characterizes fantasies of this kind. If you can find a copy, it's well worth a read.

Pulp Fantasy Library: Vandy, Vandy

In the years since I first started writing this series, I've developed a great deal of affection for certain writers, some of whom are not very well known today. Among their number is Manly Wade Wellman. Though included in Appendix N, Gary Gygax didn't specify which of Wellman's stories, books, or series he felt had had the most "immediate influence" upon him. That's too bad, because it makes it much more difficult, I think, for those interested in tracing the creative genealogy of Dungeons & Dragons to home in on writers and tales of particular significance. 

Though Wellman had a very long and prolific career as a writer – primarily of short fiction – if I had to hazard a guess as to which of his many creations might have had a strong influence over Gary Gygax's imagination, I'd certainly select John the Balladeer, sometimes called Silver John, after the silver strings of the guitar he carries with him everywhere. John is a traveling singer, who wanders the Appalachian Mountains, where he encounters all manner of supernatural beings and witchcraft drawn from the legends of the region. Wellman's stories of John are generally short in length but long in staying power. They read like genuine folktales of rural America and they never disappoint.

"Vandy, Vandy" is a perfect example of what I mean. First appearing in the March 1953 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction (where much of Wellman's work appeared during the '50s), the story concerns John's visit to "that valley [that] hadn't any name" where "no lumberman had ever cut the thick, big old trees." Near sunset, John comes a family playing music and dancing outside their secluded cabin. Naturally, their somewhat suspicious of the unexpected arrival of a stranger, even one as seemingly friendly as John. He asks for a place to sleep and the eldest of them, "a long-bearded old man with one suspender and no shoes" suggests that he go elsewhere to find a place "to stretch out."

John tries another approach.

"I heard you all playing first part of Fire in the Mountains."

"Is they two parts?" That was the boy, before anyone could silence him.

"Sure enough, son," I said, "Let me show you the second part."

The old man opened his beard, likely to say wait till I was asked, but I strummed my own guitar into second part, best I knew how. Then I played the first part through, and, "You sure God can pick that," said the short-bearded one. "Do it again."

This wins the family over and the old man, who identifies himself as Tewk Millen, invites John to have a dinner of "smoke meat and beans" with his family, which consists of his son, his daughter-in-law, and their son, along with his own wife and daughter. The daughter, who had "her hair like yellow corn silk and … eyes like purple violets" is named Vandy. Her name attracts John's attention.

"Vandy?" I said after her father.

Shy, she dimpled at me. "I know it's a scarce name, Mr. John, I never heard it anywhere but among my kinfolks."

"I have," I said, "and it's what brought me here."

Mr. Tewk Millen looked funny above his whiskers. "Thought you said you was a young stranger man."

"I heard the name outside in a song, sir. Somebody allowed the song's known here. I'm a singer. I go after a good song."

The song tells the story of a rich man who comes to court a young woman named Vandy. He promises her "gold and silver," "a house and land," and "a world of pleasure," but she nevertheless rejects him, saying she already has a sweetheart, "a man who's in the army" and has been away for "seven long year." The Millens claim the song is a very old one, passed down in their family from generation to generation. They perform it for John, who observes that 

the notes were put together strangely, in what schooled folks call minors. But other folks, better schooled yet, say such tunes sound strange and lonesome because in old times folks had another note scale from out do-re-mi-fa today.

The performance is interrupted by the sudden appearance of another man, one who bears a gold-headed black cane. 

He was built spry and slim, with a long coat buttoned to his pointed chin, and brown pants tucked into elastic-sided boots, like what your grandsire had. His hands on the cane looked slim and strong. His face, bar its crooked smile, might be handsome. His dark brown hair curled like buffalo wool, and his eyes were the shiny pale gray of a new knife. Their gaze crawled all over the Millens and he laughed a slow, soft laugh.

The family treats the man, whom we learn is called Mr. Loden, with respect born out of fear and offer him a place to sit, as well as an offer to stay for dinner. Mr. Loden plays the part of a gracious guest, but it's clear the family is uncomfortable around him, "nervous as a boy stealing apples." He brings gifts for everyone present – except John, whom he is surprised to see – including a necklace for Vandy, whom he begs to "let it rest on your heart, that I may envy it."

Mr. Loden doesn't like John, though he behaves politely toward him. For his part, John is skeptical of Mr. Loden and his interest in Vandy. He also sees the effect his presence has had on the Millens.

The menfolks sat outside and said nothing. They might have been nailed down, with stones in their mouths. I studied about what could make a proud, honorable mountain family so scared of a guest I knew it was only the one thing. And that one thing wouldn't just be a natural thing. It would be a thing beyond nature or the world. 

John is right, of course, as he usually is and the remainder of the short story deals with the revelation of Mr. Loden's true identity and intentions. Fortunately for the Millens, John has learned a thing or two about dealing with things "beyond nature or the world" in his travels. He's a great example of how a bard might work in Dungeons & Dragons – a wandering entertainer who recognizes how much wisdom and knowledge are hidden in ancient traditions and folklore and uses them to good ends. John the Balladeer is a terrific character and all of his adventures are worth a read, but "Vandy. Vandy" is an especially good one in my opinion. Seek it out, if you can.

Pulp Fantasy Library: Can These Bones Live?

With Halloween less than a week away, I found my thoughts drifting toward "spooky" stories I could discuss in this week's installment of Pulp Fantasy Library. There were a lot of good candidates – some of which might appear in the coming weeks – but the one that most excited me was Manly Wade Wellman's "Can These Bones Live?," a short story featuring the Appalachian balladeer, Silver John. 

Now, I'm a huge fan of Wellman's fiction in general and the stories of John in particular, but what was the deciding factor in my decision was the publication where it first appeared: Sorcerer's Apprentice (issue #11/summer 1981, to be precise). For those unfamiliar with this periodical, Sorcerer's Apprentice was published by Flying Buffalo in support of its fantasy roleplaying game, Tunnels & Trolls. Original fiction by established fantasy and science fiction authors was a common feature of many gaming magazines in the 1970s and '80s and Sorcerer's Apprentice was no different. 

While traveling, John encounters "eight men in rough country clothes" carrying "a big chest of new-sawed planks" that measured "nine feet long and three feet wide and another three high." One of the men, Embro Hallcott by name, approaches John and asks him his name and business.

"Well, mostly I study things. This morning, back yonder at that settlement, I heard tell about a big skeleton that turned up on a Chaw Hollow farm."

"You a government man?" the grizzled one inquired of me.

"You mean, look for blockade stills?" I shook my head. "Not me. Call me a truth seeker, somebody who wonders himself about riddles in this life."

John's a character about which Wellman tells us little. Like most good pulp fantasy protagonists, his origins and history are largely unimportant. All that matters is that he's here, where something interesting is about to occur. In this case, that something interesting is the burial of the aforementioned big skeleton. John helps the eight men carry the chest holding it half a mile to Stumber Creek Church. 

The preacher, Travis Melick, is a gaunt man "in a jimswinger coat, a-carrying a book covered with black leather." Though he's never met John, he knows him by reputation, having "heard of good things [he'd] done." The approbation of the preacher reassures Hallcott and his fellows, he were still somewhat suspicious of the guitar-toting stranger. 

The men heave the chest – a massive coffin really – toward the graveyard, where a fresh grave has already been made for it. Before burying it, one of the men, called Oat, asks that it be opened first, since that is "the true old way." John then peers inside.

The bones inside were loose from one another and half-wrapped in a Turkey Track quilt, but I saw they were laid out in order. They were big, the way Hallcott had said, big enough for an almighty big bear. I had a notion that the arms were right long; maybe all the bones were long. Thick, too. The skull at the head of the coffin was like a big gourd, with caves of eyeholes and two rows of big, lean teeth, Hallcott banged the lid shut and hooked it again.

With that out of the way, Melick begins the burial rite for "the remains of a poor lost creature," a rite that involves quoting from the Book of Ezekiel (from which the title of the short story comes). Afterwards, the men lower the coffin into the grave and they depart. Melick asks John if he'll be his guest for the night, but he puts him off, saying he wants to "wait here a spell." 

Hallcott takes notice of this fact and asks John why he wishes to stay at the gravesite rather than leave like everyone else. John doesn't offer a solid explanation. Instead, he talks about the Book of Ezekiel and the many oddities in it – living bones, flying wheels, and the like. Hallcott agrees there are "strange doings in Ezekiel" and the two men settle down for a nighttime vigil together. They pass the time eating sandwiches and pondering the big skeleton they buried.

"I reckon you'll agree with me, them bones we buried were right curious. Great big ones, and long arms, like on an ape."

"Or maybe on Sasquatch," I said. "Or Bigfoot."

"You believe in them tales?"

"I always wonder myself if there's not truth in air tale. And as for bones – I recollect something the Indians called Kalu, off in a place named Hosea's Hollow. Bones a-rattling 'round, and sure death to a natural man."

"You believe that, too?"

"Believe it? I saw it happen one time. Only Kalu got somebody else, not me."

"Can these bones live?" Hallcott repeated the text.

I trust it won't come as a surprise to anyone to reveal that, yes, these bones can live and the remainder of the yarn is spent the consequences of that. Like most of Wellman's Silver John stories, this one is charmingly told in a folksy, understated way that evokes the tension of a good ghost story. The reader won't be frightened down to his bones, but he might well be transported to the woods, hunkered down around the campfire to hold off the chilly night air, while shadows dance and strange sounds echo. "Can These Bones Live?" is thus a genuinely effective short story and a reminder of why Wellman is rightly considered one of the masters of pulp fantasy.

Pulp Fantasy Library: One Other

Manly Wade Wellman is one of those authors whose name appears in Appendix N without any specific titles attached to it. One can interpret this fact in several different ways, but I simply assume it's because Gary Gygax thought so highly of all of Wellman's output that he found it difficult to choose just a few of them as representative. No less a luminary than Karl Edward Wagner called Wellman "the dean of fantasy writers," which suggests that Gygax was not alone in his esteem for him.

At the same time, I also assume that Wellman's stories of the Appalachian balladeer Silver John are among those most immediately influential on Dungeons & Dragons. When I say this, some assume, reasonably but mistakenly, that it's because the aforementioned John is a possible literary antecedent for the bard class. I don't discount the possibility, even likelihood, that Silver John played a role in the conception of the bard class, only that this is why the stories might have been in the back of Gygax's mind when he included Wellman in Appendix N. After all, it was Doug Schwegman, not Gygax, who first presented a version of the bard class in the pages of Strategic Review and, in any event, I'm not at all certain Gygax had any special affection for the class (which he relegated to an appendix in the AD&D Players Handbook).

What the Silver John stories all have in common is the deft re-purposing of folklore and local legends. Wellman, like Gygax, never missed an opportunity to put a new spin on an old idea; his Appalachian yarns are rooted in regional myth but many, if not most, go way beyond their origins, presenting the ancient fears of American mountain folk in a new light. Another point of connection with Gygax is the way that Wellman, who had written many science fiction stories, would often work science and scientific speculation, into his tales of fantasy. This is evident in the subject of today's post, "One Other," which first appeared in the August 1953 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. 

The story begins evocatively, with John climbing a mountain on his own.

Up on Hark Mountain, I climbed all alone, by a trail like a ladder. Under my old brogans was sometimes mud, sometimes rock, sometimes rolling gravel. I laid hold on laurel and oak scrub and sourwood and dogwood to help me up the steepest places. Sweat soaked the back of my hickory shirt and under the band of my old hat. Even my silver-strung guitar, bouncing behind me, felt weighty as an anvil. Hark Mountain's not the highest in the South, but it's one of the steepest.

I reckoned I was close to the top, for I heard a murmuring voice up there, a young-sounding woman's voice. All at once she like to yelled out a name, and it was my name.

Surprised by this, John makes an effort to reach the top of the mountain quickly. Doing so, he found a pool "where no pool could by nature be expected." It was "a clear blue pool, bright but not exactly sweet-looking." Near the pool was a young woman who, by her dress, John took to be a "town girl." She was seated near a fire, where she was engaged in some sort of incantation – burning leaves, melting wax, pouring libations, all the while invoking the names of both John and One Other. 

John speaks to the girl, asking her "Why were you witch-spelling me? What did I ever do to you?" She reveals that, a month before, John had ignored her at a party hosted by Old Major Enderby. John is astounded. "Ignored? I never notice such a thing," he says, to which the girl replies, "I do. I don't often look at a man twice, and usually they look at me at least once. I don't forgive being ignored." She then explains that she had hoped, by means of a charm said three times "beside Bottomless Pool on Hark Mountain," she could cause John to fall in love with her. 

John denies that the charm has worked, but she, whose name we learn is Annalinda, doubts him, pointing out that he climbed Hark Mountain. Why else would he do it, unless it was to find her? Not long thereafter a third person appears, Mr Howsen, from whom Annalinda claims to have learned the spell that brought John to her. She wishes to repay him for his aid, but Howsen corrects her, "No, you pay One Other." John, of course, has no idea who – or what – One Other is, but he has no interest in finding out. He begs Annalinda to leave Hark Mountain with him. Unfortunately, she's too frightened by Mr Howsen's claim that, if either of them leave before One Other appears, "it would be worse for you than if fire burned you behind and before, inside and out."

The meat of "One Other" lies in what happens next, as Silver John and Annalinda await the One Other. As they prepare for that fateful encounter – which is quite memorable in itself – they two converse about themselves, their lives, and their outlooks. In the course of this conversation, John speaks of a "science man" he once heard, who compared existence to a soap bubble and had

said our whole life, what he called our universe, was swelling and stretching out, so that suns and moons and stars pull farther apart all the time. He said our world and all other worlds are inside that stretching skin of suds that makes the bubble. We can't study out what's outside the bubble, or either inside, just the suds part. It sounds crazyish, but when he talked it sounded true."

"It's not a new idea, John. James Jeans wrote a book, The Expanding Universe. But where does the soap bubble come from?"

"I reckon Whoever made things must have blown it from a bubble pipe too big for us to figure about."

She snickered … "You believe in a God Who blew only one lone soap bubble."

This metaphor of the soap bubble recurs throughout "One Other" and it's put to good, even chilling, effect. I think it helps set the story apart from others in the Silver John series and even brings it closer to some of Gygax's more outré speculations about the planes of existence in D&D. Even if you disagree with that last point, it's well worth reading.

Pulp Fantasy Library: Straggler from Atlantis

While the Pulp Fantasy Library series encompasses more books and authors than those listed in Gary Gygax's Appendix N, I nevertheless regularly consult the list when preparing to write another entry. Today's post connects to not one but two names included in that famed appendix: Manly Wade Wellman and Andrew J. Offutt. 

I've written about Wellman many times previously, mostly in reference to his Appalachian Silver John stories, which are worthy of great praise, if only because their protagonist is a bard-like character I don't dislike (I have an intense dislike for the bard class, for reasons I might one day articulate here). Offutt, on the other hand, on the other hand, receives far less attention, mostly because, outside of his work on Thieves' World, I'm not all that familiar with his fiction. His work as an editor is much more celebrated and it's in this context that his name appears in Appendix N. 

Offutt's Swords Against Darkness series, consisting of five books published between 1977 and 1979, was an anthology of original "heroic fantasy in the tradition of Robert E. Howard" by established and up-and-coming writers. Gygax specifically singled out the third volume in the series for special mention in Appendix N, though I'm not entirely sure why (I doubt it was because of Poul Anderson's contribution). Despite this, I think all five volumes are worthwhile reads, containing some memorable pieces of short fantasy fiction, such as Wellman's "Straggler from Atlantis."

The story, the first of six published between 1977 and 1986, introduces us to Kardios, the last survivor of Atlantis. 

Of Atlantis. He, too, was of Atlantis – wait; of Atlantis no more. For Atlantis was lost Atlantis now, sunk to ocean's deep bottom, with Queen Theona and all her people. How he had survived he could not imagine, nor where, nor on what unknown shore.

Kardios awakens on a beach and soon finds himself face to face with an immense creature, a giant who identifies himself as Yod. The unexpected appearance of the giant – or Nephol, as we learn – frightens Kardios, who then makes a feeble attempt to attack him, only to faint away once more. Awakening a second time, he finds himself in the company of several more giants, who ask him about his identity and his past. He explains that he is a harper, who came from "back in the hills" to the Atlantean capital, seeking employment at Queen Theona's palace, hoping "she might want me for her palace guard, or to make music for her, or perhaps both." 

In coming to the capital, Kardios inadvertently brings about the sinking of Atlantis. Precisely how he does this isn't, in itself, a key point in the story and, as I have discovered in looking into the story, it's a point of some contention among Wellman's fans, some of whom feel that it's ridiculous on its face. I'm unsure of my own feelings on the matter. I suspect that Wellman intended this bit of Kardios' background to be tragic, to leave his protagonist haunted by his role in bringing about the end of his own civilization. If so, Wellman is not wholly successful in his intention. I'll leave to others, when they read the story, to decide for themselves. Fortunately, the success of "Straggler from Atlantis" doesn't depend on whether one finds Kardios' backstory compelling (and, in fact, there's a brief suggestion that this "strange story" might be untrue).

Regardless, the Nephol believe that Kardios is in their debt for having "helped [him] back to life." They have a task for him.

Moons ago, there had been a great bolt from heaven, and the Nephol were sure the gods spoke to them. Some of them saw the bolt strike, not far from where they lived in caves. These reported that it seemed to burst into a great shattered spray of blazing embers, which flew in all directions. But from its very midst, a living, moving thing came away safe.

This living, moving thing, whom the Nephol call Fith, is a strange, amorphous creature that feasts upon the Nephol, flowing over their bodies and dissolving them down to their bones. Fith now dwells in a deep place near its home, periodically coming out to look for food. So long as the Nephol leave it livestock on a regular basis, Fith leaves them alone. However, the giants are growing tired of this arrangement and ask Kardios to enter monster's cave – a space too small for the giants to enter – to face the alien beast and, with luck, defeat it. 

Kardios is naturally skeptical that he can do anything that the Nephol cannot do. They disagree, pointing out that the Atlantean is faster than they are and perhaps faster than Fith. Combined with his small size, Kardios might possess the necessary traits to eliminate the threat. To aid him, the Nephol offer Kardios a variety of weapons; he chooses a strange icy-blue blade that the giants tell him "came out of the fire when Fith's chariot smashed and flamed up on the ground." So armed, he enters the subterranean place where the blobby beast dwells.

Though published in 1977, "Straggler from Atlantis" feels like a pulp fantasy from decades earlier. The story is light on details, focusing instead on Kardios and the quest he accepts from the giants, as well as the alien being he must fight. The world Kardios inhabits is similarly sketchy. Wellman provides few specifics beyond the story Kardios tells of the final days of Atlantis and even these are brief. There's a vaguely "ancient world" feel to the tale, akin to Greek mythology, though the giants' name for themselves suggests Biblical influence as well. As the kick-off for a series of short stories, it does the job well enough that I might seek out its sequels, which is is often the best praise I can offer a pulp fantasy yarn.

Pulp Fantasy Library: Necromancy in Naat

To atone for the fact that I allowed the birthday of Clark Ashton Smith (January 13) to pass by without comment, I turn again to one of his short stories for this week's installment of Pulp Fantasy Library. "Necromancy in Naat" first appeared in the July 1936 issue of Weird Tales. If its cover illustration, by Margaret Brundage, looks familiar to you, it should, since this issue's headline story was the first part of Robert E. Howard's masterpiece, "Red Nails." The issue is also notable for featuring stories by Edmond Hamilton, C.L. Moore, August Derleth, and Manly Wade Wellman – a veritable who's who of the golden age of the pulps.

"Necromancy in Naat" owes its existence to a "benign, maleficent daemon," as Smith called his muse in a letter to fellow writer, Donald Wandrei. Prior to penning it, CAS had thought himself done with tales of Earth's last continent. Yet, what he produced rivaled Howard's "Red Nails" in the opinions of the readers of Weird Tales. The story concerns Yadar "prince of a nomad people in the half-desert region known as Zyra" who seeks to rescue

Dalili, his betrothed, whom the slave traders of Sha-Karag, swift and cunning as desert falcons, had reft from the tribal encampment with nine other maidens while Yadar and his men were hunting the black gazelles of Zyra.

Grieved and angered, Yadar swears an oath to find his beloved, "whether in slave-mart or brothel or harem, whether dead or living, whether tomorrow or after the lapse of grey years." Long-time readers of Smith will not be surprised to learn that that oath and its wording are central to the narrative and conclusion of "Necromancy in Naat." 

Yadar then sets off in the company of four of his men for "the iron gates of Sha-Karag … where women were the chief merchandise." Unfortunately, he quickly learns that Dalili has already been purchased by slavers who hoped to sell her "to some opulent king or emperor who would pay a city's ransom from the wild, rare beauty of the outland princess." Yadar is undeterred and sets off along the same route as the slavers, hoping to learn what became of Dalili. Over the course of months, he visits multiple cities, seeking the girl, before he learns that she "had been bought by the emperor of Xylac and sent to the ruler of the far southern kingdom of Yoros as a gift concluding a treaty between these realms." Upon learning this, Yadar books passage aboard a ship headed for Yoros (his men having died of a "strange fever" sometime beforehand).

The ship wrecks onto the island of Naat, called the Isle of Necromancers. Yadar barely survives and, when he comes to on the beach of the island, he beholds his rescuer, a young woman who "walked in the fashion of a somnambulist" and took him to her masters, three of Naat's fabled necromancers, chanting beside a fire.

Gaunt as starved herons they were, and great of stature, with a common likeness, as of brothers; and sharply ridged were their faces, where shadows inhabited their hollow cheeks, and their sunk eyes were visible only by red sparks reflected within them from the blaze. And their eyes, as they chanted, seemed to glare afar on the darkling sea and on things hidden by dusk and distance. 

In the light of the fire, Yadar comes to realize that the woman who had saved him was "none other than his lost love, Dalili!" Strangely, she does not react to his kisses or entreaties and Yadar turns to the trio of necromancers, who identify themselves as a father (Vacharn) and his two sons (Vokal and Uldulla), asking what they have done to her. They explain that Dalili is dead, like all their servants, her body washed up on the beaches of Naat after another shipwreck like his own. Vacharn further explains that Yadar's survival was no accident but rather the result of his sorcery and that he had in mind "a certain purpose" for the nomad prince, one he would fulfill in time. Needless to say, Yadar is none too pleased by these revelations and his attempts to come grips with them – and thwart them – propels "Necromancy in Naat" toward its gruesome conclusion. 

I like this story a great deal, despite certain similarities to a previous Zothique yarn, "The Charnel God," though that's perhaps inevitable since both tales deal with weighty matters of love, death, and the connection between the two. Compared to some of Smith's other stories, "Necromancy in Naat" is far more restrained in its vocabulary, focusing more on its theme than on verbal resplendency. Consequently, it feels rather than different than other CAS efforts and that might contribute to my fondness for it. At the same time, I readily admit that it takes some getting used to and I wouldn't blame anyone who prefers the dream-like prose poetry of his other works.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Desrick on Yandro

The bard class first appeared in the June 1976 issue of The Strategic Review. Its creator, Doug Schwegman, explained that the class was intended as a "hodgepodge" of the Norse skald, the Celtic bard, and the southern European minstrel. I've never made a secret of the fact that I'm generally not a fan of the class, which, at least as its usually presented (and played), is a bit too twee for my tastes. That said, the one aspect of the class that I do like is its "lore" ability, which Schwegman explains "reflects the Bard's knowledge of legends, magic, etc." Being an inveterate creator of lore for my adventures and campaigns, an ability like that is my natural ally. The lack of something like it in other D&D classes almost makes me wish to set aside my reservations about the class – almost.

Another thing that give my reticence pause is whenever I read one of Manly Wade Wellman's Silver John stories, such as "The Desrick on Yandro," which first appeared in the June 1952 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. Silver John, who first ambled into the world of pulp fantasy a year earlier, is a wandering Appalachian balladeer, who gets his name from the pure silver strings on his guitar. Like the bard class, John has knowledge of the history, legends, and folk ways of the people of Appalachia, knowledge that serves, at various times, as the catalyst and/or resolution of the strange things he encounters in the mountains of the eastern United States.

Indeed, "The Desrick on Yandro" begins with a demonstration of John's knowledge, as he sings "that song," an ominous turn of phrase that rather nicely situates all that follows. In exchange for lodging – he is, as I said, a man of no fixed address – John entertains the guests of a party, culminating in the singing of "the Yandro song."

I'll build me a desrick on Yandro's high hill,

Where the wild beasts can't reach me or hear my sad cry,

For he's gone, he's gone away, so stay a little while,

But he'll come back if he comes ten thousand miles.

A desrick, if, like me, you are unaware, is the Appalachian dialectical term for a roughly built but sturdy cabin. This particular desrick is found atop the peak of a mountain called Yandro, which John admits in conversation with the party guests is "not a usual name." One of the guests takes a special interest in "that song," as Yandro is his surname.

"I've never heard of that peak or valley, nor, I imagine, did my father before me. But my grandfather – Joris Yandro – came from the Southern mountains. He was young, with small education, but lots of energy and ambition." Mr. Yandro swelled up inside his fancy clothes. "He went to New York, then Chicago. His fortunes prospered. His son – my father – and then I, we contrived to make them prosper still more."

Though John is not one to suffer fools – or the pompous – gladly, he nevertheless acquiesces to Mr Yandro's request that he show him where "[his] grandfather might have come from." Yandro charters a plane and the two of them fly to a small airport near to where mountain is located. Unimpressed with the region, which he calls "a stinking country," much to John's dismay, Yandro is even more put out when he discovers that the road leading up the peak is too treacherous for travel by car. He and John have no choice but to set out on foot. 

Eventually, the pair come across the home of an aged woman named Miss Tully. She remembers John, whom she'd met before; he then introduces Yandro and she immediately becomes interested, muttering cryptically, "Funny … you coming along as the seventy-five years are up." When pressed, Miss Tully discloses that she remembers Joris Yandro from her childhood. Joris, she says, "courted Polly Wiltse, the witch girl." John reflects on her words.

Even the second time hearing it, I listened hard. It was like a many such tale at the start. Polly Wiltse was sure enough a witch, not just a study-witch like Miss Tully, and Polly Wiltse's beauty would melt the heart of nature and make a dumb man cry out, "Praise God Who made her!" But none dared court her save only Joris Yandro, who was handsome for a man like she was lovely for a girl. For it was his wish to get her to show him the gold on top of the mountain named for his folks, that only Polly Wiltse and her witching could find.

"Certain sure there's gold in these mountains," I answered Mr. Yandro's interrupting question. "Before ever the California rush started, folks mined and minted gold in these parts, the history-men say."

"Gold," he repeated, both respectful and greedy. "I was right to come." 

Miss Tully adds that Joris Yandro succeeded in coaxing Polly Wiltse to "bring down gold to him, and he carried it away and never came back." Abandoned by her feigned suitor, she "pined and mourned like a sick bird, and on Yandro's top she build her desrick." The song that John had sung at the party, it seems, was one Polly Wiltse had made and "it was part of a long spell and charm" intended to bring her lover back to her. Yandro is now convinced that Polly is still alive and waiting for him in her desrick atop the mountain named for his kin. He asks John to accompany him on his ascent, which he agrees to do, despite the warnings from Miss Tully about the many cursed creatures that haunt the mountain, like the Bammat, the Culverin, and the Behinder. Needless to say, the journey is eventful and what they find when they reach the desrick is memorable.

"The Desrick on Yandro" is an enjoyable story well told, a darkly humorous tale not dissimilar in many ways to those found in contemporary horror comics. What sets it apart, though, is Wellman's prose, which are those of a master folktale teller able to hold the attention of his audience as they huddle around the campfire on a shivery night. His ability to blend genuine Appalachian legends and lore with his own creations (and sly social commentary) elevate all the Silver John stories above much of what was written in the pages of the pulps. It's fun, powerful stuff – it would have to be to make me reconsider my stance on the bard!

Pulp Fantasy Library: Hok Visits the Land of Legends

Though I had read Dragon for sometime beforehand, issue #68 (December 1982) was the first one I ever received as part of my subscription. As it turned out, I got two copies of every issue during that subscription owing to an error at TSR, which resulted in one copy being sent to me in Baltimore, Maryland and another being sent to me in Baltimore, Mississippi, but, since it's the zip code (which was correct on both copies) that matters when it comes to postal delivery, not the putative state, I wound up with two of every issue for twelve months.

What was cool about this state of affairs, beside the fact that I could give away copies to friends and look like Mr Magnanimity, was that I could also disassemble issues with impunity, adding particularly favored articles to my "Dungeon Master Binder," where I kept stuff like my maps, NPC write-ups, and critical hit charts (also from Dragon). Among the articles from issue #68 that I removed from my extra copy and carried around was "Thrills and Chills: Ice Age Adventures" by the underrated Arthur Collins. The article, which was lengthy, re-imagined your typical D&D fantasy setting as a prehistoric Ice Age one. For some reason, the idea of adventuring in a land of woolly mammoths and saber-tooth tigers really appealed to me at the time, though I never actually used the article in play.

I bring all of this up as an introduction to Manly Wade Wellman's short story, "Hok Visits the Land of Legends." First published in the April 1942 issue of Fantastic Adventures, it's part of the larger saga of Hok, a prehistoric man living during the Ice Age, whom the short story describes thus: "Hok the Mighty, strongest and wisest and bravest of the Flint Folk whose chief he was." The story begins just as Hok has decided to go alone to hunt the great mammoth Gragru.

On a cloudy gray day, not too cold, he spoke from his cave-door in the bluff above the huts. "I go on a lone hunt," he told the tribe. "It will be several days, perhaps, before I return. In my absence, Zhik is your chief." Then he gave his handsome wife Oloana a rib-buckling hug, and told young Ptao to grow in his absence. He departed along the river trail, heading south for mammoth country.

When, after a long search, Hok finds and engages Gragru in battle, he finds that the beast is hardier than he expected. Though wounded by his attacks, the mammoth flees and Hok pursues him, following the trail of his blood. After several more days of tracking, Hok comes upon the dying mammoth and prepares to kill him.

"Gragru, I am honored by this adventure," he wheezed. "Eating your heart will give me strength and wit and courage beyond all I have known. You will live again in me. Now, to make an end."

He kicked off the snowshoes, so as to run more swiftly at Gragru's sagging hindquarters. But, before he moved, Gragru acted on his own part. He stretched his trunk backward to the shaft in his wound.

Hok relaxed, smiling. "What, you would die of your own will? So be it! I yield you the honor of killing Gragru!"

 Not long thereafter, however, the ground crumbles beneath the mammoth carcass and it slides down into a strange valley.

The valley seemed to throb and steam. He made out rich leafage and tall tree-summits far below. One or two bright birds flitted in the mists. Hok grimaced.

"Summer must sleep through, the cold, like a cave-bear," he decided. "I will go down, and look for Gragru's body."

There were shoots and shrubs and hummocks for him to catch with hands and feet, or he would have gone sliding again. The deeper he journeyed, the warmer it became. Now and then he hacked a big slash on a larger tree, to keep his upward trail again. Those trees, he observed, were often summer trees, lusher and greener than any he had ever seen.

"Is this the Ancient Land of safe and easy life?" he mused.

This valley is, of course, inhabited, not only by creatures Hok calls "nightmares" (relict dinosaurs) but also a strange race of men. This is the Land of Legends mentioned in the story's title and where Hok's true adventure begins.

I have little doubt that the idea of a fantasy tale starring a prehistoric man seems strange to a lot of people, even uninteresting. The truth is that Wellman is a terrific writer, superb not only at creating compelling characters but at weaving history, folklore, and imagination into a delightful pulp adventure, just as he did with his stories of Silver John the Balladeer. Wellman isn't as widely known an author as he ought to be, though Gary Gygax lists him in Appendix N as having had an influence over AD&D and Karl Edward Wagner (creator of Kane) was also a great admirer of his work. His Hok stories have recently been collected into a single volume and are finally back in print. I'm very fond of them myself and think they're well worth investigating if you've never read them before.

Pulp Fantasy Library: Frogfather

No, I never liked frogs' legs very much, not even before what happened. And I wouldn't eat them now if I was starving. This is why.

So begins Manly Wade Wellman's "Frogfather," which first appeared in the November 1946 issue of Weird Tales. Like all the tales in his Appalachian cycle, "Frogfather" is told in the first person, from the perspective of the wandering minstrel known only as Silver John, and draws on American folklore for its plot. In this case, Silver John is remembering an event from his childhood, when his maiden aunt, who raised him, turned him over to an unpleasant man named Ranson Cuff to settle a debt she owed. Cuff, is described in very unflattering terms.

His face was as round as a lemon, and as yellow and sour, and his eyes couldn't have been closer together without mixing into each other, and his little nose was the only bony thing about him.

Furthermore,

Ranson Cuff was the sort of man who shoved himself into your mind, like a snake crawling into a gopher hole. I defy anyone to find anyone else who liked Ranson Cuff -- maybe his wife liked him, but she didn't live with him for more than three weeks. Nobody around the Swamps liked him, though he was the best off in money. He ran a string of hunting camps for strangers from up north, who came to hunt deer or fish for bass, once in a while to chase bear with dogs. He did his end of that job well, and if he was rude the strangers figured for a picturesque character. I've heard them call him that. The Swamps people called him other things to his face, if he didn't have mortgages on their houseboats, cabins, and trapping outfits.

John tells us that Cuff loves frogs' legs, especially those he'd gotten for himself by hunting frogs in the Swamps. So it was that, on one night, John accompanies Cuff and "an old, old Indian whose name I never knew" on a frog hunting expedition "in a really beautiful boat [Cuff had] taken from a bad debt." Unfortunately for Cuff, there seem to be no frogs to be found -- that is, until he hears the sound of frogs singing along a bank to the northeast, a move the old Indian urges him against.

"I'm speaking for your good, Mr. Cuff," said the old Indian. "That's no place to stick frogs."

"I can hear them singing!" Cuff said. "Listen, there must be a whole nation of them."

"They're there because they're safe," said the old Indian.

"Khaa!" Cuff spit into the water, "Safe! That's what they think. We're going in there to stick a double mess."

Aficionados of weird tales don't need to be told how the story will unfold after this point, once Cuff ignores the old Indian's warning and orders the young Silver John to paddle up the river to where he hears those frogs singing. Despite the relative lack of suspense, Wellman nevertheless manages to hold one's attention. His gifts as a storyteller and his love of the legends of Appalachia both come through powerfully and, together, they carry the reader along to the inevitable conclusion.

That's probably what I found most remarkable about this story: despite the telegraphing of its end, I still wanted to read it. Wellman is simply a joy to read. Silver John's voice rings true. Though his words initially come across as simple and "folksy," there's unexpected insight and sophistication in them. There's also a rhythm to them, a poetry that becomes more apparent when you read the story aloud. Wellman is one of those rare authors whose work demands to be spoken; mere reading doesn't do it justice. I wonder if there are any audio recordings of the Silver John stories, because I'd love to hear them read by someone, preferably someone with a Southern Appalachian accent.

Regardless, "Frogfather" is an enjoyable short story that nicely showcases Manly Wade Wellman's talents as a writer. It's a pity he's not more widely known, even within pulp fantasy circles; he certainly deserves more accolades than he's received.

Pulp Fantasy Library: O Ugly Bird!

I wrote about Manly Wade Wellman's character of Silver John -- known simply as John in the stories in which he appears -- a year and a half ago. At that time, I hadn't read a Silver John story in a very long time, probably two decades and was going on my memories of reading from the old Arkham House anthology I found at a local library when I was a teenager. Back then, I liked the stories well enough, but I can't say that they really "spoke" to me, in the way that many other stories did. Thanks to Paizo's recent re-release of all the short stories under a single cover, I've had the chance to re-acquaint myself with Wellman and Silver John and I'm glad I did. These are some of the most excellent fantasy tales I've read in a long time. I have little doubt that I'll be talking more about them in the weeks to come.

First appearing in the December 1951 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, "O Ugly Bird!" marks the introduction of the wandering Appalachian balladeer known as John. It's also got one of the best opening paragraphs of any work of fantasy I've ever read:

I swear I'm licked before I start, trying to tell you all what Mr. Onselm looked like. Words give out -- for instance, you're frozen to death for fit words to tell the favor of the girl you love. And Mr. Onselm and I pure poison hated each other. That's how love and hate are alike.

The story just gets better from there.

While wandering "up these heights and down these hollows," John finds himself in a secluded town whose inhabitants are terrorized by one of the townsfolk, the aforementioned Mr. Onselm. Everyone in town is afraid of him and does what he says or else.

"One Old Jim Desbro refused him a chicken. Mr. Onselm pointed his finger at Old Jim's mules, they was plowing. Them mules couldn't move ary foot, not till Mr. Onselm had the chicken. Another time, Miss Tilly Parmer hid a cake when she seen him come. He pointed a finger and dumbed her. She never spoke one mumbling word from that day to when she died. Could hear and understand, but when she tried to talk she could just wheeze."

John, well-versed in the lore of the mountains (and much else, it's implied), recognizes that Mr. Onselm is "a hoodoo man ... which means the law can't do anything." He then resolves to look into his activities and deal with him, if possible. The problem is that Mr. Onselm has an accomplice, the Ugly Bird of the story's title.

It must have hung over us, high and quiet, and now it dropped into the yard like a fish hawk into a pond. First out I saw it was dark, heavy-winged, bigger than a buzzard. Then I saw the shiny gray-black of the body, like wet slate, and how it seemed to have feathers only on its wide wings. Then I made out the thing snaky neck, the bulgy head and long stork beak, the eyes set in front of its head -- man-fashion in front, not to each other.

None of the townsfolk are willing to stand up to Mr. Onselm and his Ugly Bird and so it takes the outsider John to do what they cannot, resulting in a terrific tale very well told.

Silver John is no mere bumpkin despite his rustic ways. As I noted above, he knows the lore of the mountains, as well as that of other parts of the world. It's hinted that, in his travels, he's learned much occult knowledge and it's his knowledge, along with his purity of heart, that enables him to face down many a supernatural threat. John's a very compelling character, simultaneously mysterious and familiar, the archetypal Cunning Wanderer come to life. He makes a great model for a re-imagined bard class, something I might attempt in the future.

Many pulp fantasies, being written in the past, can be difficult to get into. Their style and presentation can be off-putting to readers more accustomed to contemporary fiction. But "O Ugly Bird!" (or any of the Silver John stories) isn't like that at all. The first person narration is very effective and, while John and his interlocutors, use Appalachian, it comes across naturally and is surprisingly easy to understand -- certainly easier than, say, Lovecraft's attempts to convey backwoodsy speech in his own stories. That's because Wellman clearly loved and respected the people and traditions of Appalachia, whereas HPL likely didn't think much of the rural New Englanders he often portrays in his stories. Wellman has a great affinity for his characters and it results in superb fiction that everyone ought to sample, if not drink deeply from.

The Legend of Hillbilly John

So, as you can see from the picture to the right under "What I'm Reading," I'm enjoying Paizo's recent collection of all of Manly Wade Wellman's "Silver John" short stories, about which I posted briefly a year and a half ago. They're frankly among the best fantasies I've read in a long time, so much so that I'll probably be discussing several of the tales at length in upcoming installments of my "Pulp Fantasy Library" series. Wellman was a superb stylist and his gift for realistic, natural dialog is matched by very few authors. Combined with his knowledge of the history and folklore of the Appalachians, his Silver John stories make for great reading.

Anyway, the Paizo collection includes two introductions, a new one by Mike Resnick and a reprint of an older one by Karl Edward Wagner. Both of them make reference to something I didn't know existed -- a movie based on the Silver John stories. Here's what Resnick says about it:

And now that I've praised the stories and touted you onto the novels, let me tout you off something. Hollywood made a film version of the Silver John stories, done with Hollywood's usual taste and respect for the material. It is called The Legend of Hillbilly John, and the change from Silver John to Hillbilly John pretty much says it all.

Wagner provides some more details:

John would next appear on film, with folksinger Hedge Capers miscast as John. The film was partially shot in Madison County, North Carolina (the general setting of the John stories) in October 1971. Despite a surprisingly good supporting cast and the incorporation of two of the best stories ("O Ugly Bird!" and "The Desrick on Yandro"), the film was an embarrassment -- largely due to its shoestring budget and stultifying script. It was released in 1972 as Who Fears the Devil and flopped at the box office. It was the re-edited and re-released the following year as The Legend of Hillbilly John, with equal success. Sometimes it turns up on videocassette.

What's sad is that I think the stories of Silver John would make for great cinema, either on the big or small screens. The stories are well written and focused, with superb characterization and dialog and mixing horror with a deep love for the people and traditions of the mountains in which they take place. I imagine very few people in Hollywood these days have any interest in these things -- more's the pity.

Even so, is it wrong of me to want to hunt down this movie and watch it?

Pulp Fantasy Library: Who Fears the Devil?

Manly Wade Wellman is one of the authors whom Gary Gygax lists in Appendix N without indicating the title of a single book that inspired him in his creation of Dungeons & Dragons. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd suggest it was the short stories of Silver John of which Gygax was thinking. Originally appearing separately in magazine form during the 1950s and 1960s, they were collected under a single cover by Arkham House in 1963, with new linking material written by Wellman especially for the occasion. The collection gave these stories a somewhat greater currency than they'd had previously and it's possibly in this form that Gygax encountered them, although I have absolutely no evidence of this.

Silver John, so called because he carries a guitar with silver strings, is a mysterious wandering balladeer, who possesses a remarkable knowledge of the supernatural. He travels from place to place in the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina, where he uses his knowledge, courage, and wit to do battle with occult enemies of various sorts, many drawn from the folk tales and legends of the region he knew so well. John is a picture perfect example of a "wise fool," a simple, unassuming man whom others underestimate despite the fact that he clearly possesses a keen insight others lack.

The Silver John stories are folksy picaresque tales with a strong moral undercurrent that I imagine would have appealed to Gary. As I said, I have no idea if he ever read them, let alone took anything from them as he was co-creating D&D, but I think there's much here to recommend. They're a great example of how to take real superstitions and folk beliefs as a foundation and a model for spinning some of one's own creation. Wellman's ability to seamlessly intertwine his own creations with those of backwoods Appalachia is remarkable to read and ought to be an inspiration to referees everywhere, whether or not they were to Gary Gygax.