Weird Tales volume 31 number 03

by Wright, Farnsworth, 1888–1940

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  WEIRD TALES

  The Girl From Samarcand

  (Continued from page 374) recollect—the barred windows of a prince's palace failed to keep you from me. And eunuchs with crescent-bladed simitars likewise failed. But in the end— why must all loveliness have an end?—a bowstring for me, and a sword-stroke for you. ..."

  The Yellow Girl shuddered as she stroked her smooth throat with fingers that sought to wipe off the last lingering memory of a cord of hardspun silk.

  "And from the first," continued the girl, "I knew what our doom would be. So I started weaving, and completed my task before they suspected us and the bowstring did its work. My soul, my self, being woven cunningly and curiously into silk rich enough to hang on the wall of the khan's palace, waited patiently and wondered whether you and I could have our day again. Thus it was in the beginning "

  "Ah . . . now it does come back to me," interrupted Clarke, "as in a dream dimly remembered. How compactly and stifiingly they would wrap me in a bale of silk and carry me past the guards and into your presence. And by what devious routes I would leave you . . . yes, and how painlessly swift is the stroke of a simitar. . . ."

  The Yellow Girl shuddered.

  "A simitar truly wielded is really nothing, after all," continued Clarke. "I might have been sawn asunder between planks. . . . Well, and that meeting in the garden .these short twenty years ago was after all not our first ... it seems that I knew then that it was not the first. Though but for an evening "

  "Yes. Just for an evening. So to what

  end were we spared bowstrings and the stroke of swift simitars, since we had but an evening?" And thinking of the empty years of luxurious imprisonment that followed, she smiled somberly. "For only an evening. And then you forgot, until this rug—this same rug I wove centuries ago—interrupted your pleasant adventuring, and reminded you.

  "Death stared me in the face. The end of life more vainly lived than the first. I knew that I was leaving this avatar after having lived but one stolen evening. So I sent a trusted servant to carry this very rug to Meshed. For when we met in the garden, you were hunting rugs for him who now seeks them for your delight. And I knew that he would find you if you still lived. Thus it is that I have crossed the Border, and stand before you as I did once before—this time on that wry rug which I wove centuries ago, while living in hope of another meeting and in dread of the bowstring I knew would in the end find mc."

  The moon patch had marched toward the end of the rug from Samarcand, and was cutting into the blue web at its end. Clarke knew that when there remained no more room for her tiny feet, she would vanish, not ever to reappear. But Clarke hoped against knowledge.

  "Yellow Girl," he entreated, "my door will be barred to friend and acquaintance alike, if you will but return on whatever nights the moon creeps across our rug. , . ."

  Had Diane, listening at the door, understood, she would have used her key. But Diane merely heard:

  "And I shall wait for these nights as long as life remains in mc. For all that has happened since then is nothing and less than nothing; and all has been a dream since that one night in a garden of Zarab-shan."

  Very little remained of the moori

  WEIRD TALES

  377

  patch. The Yellow Girl stepped a tiny pace forward, to prolong her stay yet another few moments. All but the moonlit strip of the tug from Samarcand glowed bloodily in the flare of the brazen mosque lamp.

  "No, forgetful lover," eluded the Yellow Girl, "I can not return. I can not cross the Border again. t In Samarcand, eight hundred years ago we mocked for a while the doom that hung over us, and in the end called the bowstring but a caress of farewell. Again, in the garden of Zarab-shan wc met, we parted, and you forgot: so this time I take no diances. While I can not return, you at least can follow me ... if you will . . . for it is very easy. ..."

  She edged along the ever narrowing strip of moon-bathed silk, and with an embracing gesture, lured Clarke to rise and follow her.

  "It is so easy . . . move lightly . . but be careful not to disturb your body or overbalance it. . . ."

  Had Diane not turned away from the door, were she not even now strolling insouciantly clown Royal Street

  "Yellow Girl, you and I have had enough of farewells!"

  Something left Clarke, tottered perilously on the two handbreadths of moonlight that remained, then caught the Yellow Girl by the hand and took the lead.

  The blue web of the rug from Samarcand gleamed for another moment in the moonlight, then sweltered in the red glow of the mosque lamp.

  Coming soon —

  Goetterdaemmerung

  By Seabury Quinn

  A strange tale of the future, by the

  author of the de Grandin stories

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  SEABURY QUINN appears <

  in WEIRD TALES <

  THE enth
usiastic reception of Seabury Quinn's story, Roads, in our January issue, has encouraged us to print further ofT-the-trail stories from time to time in this magazine. This story was a reverent tale of the Crucifixion, a hetaera from the house of Mary of Magdala, and Santa Claus. Though there were a few dissident voices of those who thought the Santa Claus element childish, the chorus of praise made the vote overwhelming in its favor.

  Suited to a T

  William F. Zuckert, Jr., of Washington, D. C, writes: "After ten years as a silent reader of WT, I take this opportunity to drop a line to the Eyrie. As a whole, I can find little or no criticism against our magazine, because personally it suits me to a T. Besides, on the very rare occasions when I do have an infinitesimal gripe, I say nothing because I realize that there must have been plenty of readers who did enjoy the piece; who am I to yelp? I like the high literary quality of the tales, with that subtle horror that sort of sneaks up on one. Now for a couple of orchids to the authors. In the December issue, I particularly enjoyed The Sea-Witch by Nictzin Dyalhis. In my humble estimation, this yarn constitutes one of the smoothest bits that I've ever read. It didn't hold a dull moment nor an arid paragraph from beginning to end. This letter would be incomplete without a mention of my favorite author and character. I refer, of course, to Seabury Quinn with his inimitable Jules de Grandin—a grand pair whose adventures I hope to be able to follow as long as these old eyes can see the printed page. Flames of Vengeance in the December issue was grand, but when the January issue came out with Roads, I got a real sock! What a story! I was almost on the last page 378

  before it dawned on me just who Claudius really was! That idea was a real inspiration, and you gave it to us at exactly the proper time of year. Keep up die good work, Mr. Quinn, and I can personally guarantee you at least one family of very avid readers. I could go on for pages extolling the virtues of the various authors, but that isn't very practical, because perhaps you would like to squeeze in a letter from some other reader. So I close now with a big cheer for Virgil Finlay. And thanks for listening."

  The Light Was Green

  Richard F. Behm writes from Los Angeles: "Thank you for John Speer's story, The Light Was Green. A long time has passed since I have read any fiction as unusual and fascinating as the stories written by Mr. Speer. It is very evident he does not write until he is definitely sure of the ground from which his inspiration for his story sprung."

  A Letter from Miss Hemken

  Gertrude Hemken writes from Chicago: "Roads/ This is by far the loveliest Christmas story I have ever read. Quinn couples the Teutonic legends of the Nativity so beautifully. But one thing wonders me—Klaus, after a tricennium, still had the fair hair and beard; yet the Santa Claus we know is a white-haired, white-bearded old fellow. 'Course after two thousand years most anyone would grow gray, but—never mind. Somehow or other I was a mite disappointed in Dorothy Quick this time. Her witch was somehow so very like another enchantress in a w.-k, story by an equally w.-k. author. I really don't care for these supple sirens and their frightening powers. Give me a couple of rip-snorters like Conan and Northwest Smith—brave lassies like Jirel of Joiry.

  WEIRD TALES

  Finlay's full page is much more to my taste this time. The spires and skyline look so other worldish. Well, guess I'll wait for another installment of The Hairy Ones Shall Dame before I comment—somehow that Devil's Crofc is enticing. Raggh—woof— grrr—I like so very much this Toeja Mai-jan, but I cannot pronounce such words satisfactorily. And so I am riled, in spire of a cat tale—and such a pretty white cat? I have often wondered if a tiger would make a good pet. And so the verriichter A is now a block of ice in the black vastnesses of the void—and thus ends his The Voyage of tlie Nentralia. I found the closing installment rather flat, except for the Venusian centipedes and volcano. Doctor Keller turned out a nice one with his Valley of Bones — such, I believe, is entirely possible in this strange land of Africa. I was pleased to see your reprint of Ethan Brand —I have read it so many times along with others of Haw-thorne's talcs."

  Both Lusty and Devout

  Manly Wade Wellrm-n writes from New York City: "Let me vote for Quinn's Roads

  as the most impressive tiling in the Janua WT. It gives me to think thus: does no) the world of fantasy hold its good powers as well as evil, its saints and angels as well as its fiends and devils? Roads was both lusty and devout, as a good Christmas tale should be."

  Finlay Frontispiece

  Robert A. Madle writes from Philadelphia: "Thanks exceedingly for inaugurating the new frontispiece department. Both pic-turizations which have appeared have been supreme. Virgil Finlay is unquestionably the modern master of weird art, as H. P. Love-craft was the unquestioned master of weird fiction. Continue this department, and have Finlay illustrate the entire interior of the magazine hereafter. His covers are also superb, but do not neglect Brundage entirely. She is one of the best artists of the decade."

  Hep Huts

  N. J. O'Neail writes from Toronto his selection of the fifteen best stones in Wmrd Tales for 1937, and comments: "You may notice that five on my list—one diird of the

  379

  nuary

  BACK COPIES

  Because of the many requests for back issues of Weird Tales, the publishers do their best to keep a sufficient supply on hand to meet all demands. This magazine was established early in 1923 and there has been s steady drain on the supply of back copies ever since. At present, we have the following back numbers on hand for sale:

  These back numbers contain many fascinating stories. If you are interested in obtaining any of the back copies on this list please hurry your order because we can not guarantee that the list will be as complete as it now is within the next 30 days. The price on all back issues is 2Se per copy. Mail all orders to:

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  WEIRD TALES

  total—are reprints; probably not surprizing, since the reprints represent, in theory, and usually in practise, die cream of bygone issues. I shouldn't be surprized if a demand soon arose for a re-reprint section, in which some of the reprints of eight and nine years ago might reappear once more. . . / You began reprinting from back numbers in 1928, when WT was only five years old. Now it has rounded out its fifteenth year; and it might be reasoned diat a story which was worth reprinting once, five years after its first publication, might merit another such honor ten years later."

  Overrated

  Richard Kraft, of Allenhurst, New Jersey, writes: "To my mind the most overrated story you have ever published was Quest of the Starstone. It was simply a cheap thriller and did not compare with Paul Ernst's Dread Summons or Rex Ernest's The Inn. In the December issue Edmond Hamilton again writes a winner: Child of Atlantis. Hamilton is the best in the business and I enjoy his work immensely. The Sea-Witch was terrible —I can't see what Weird Tales readers will find in it, as it was slow and tiresome, nothing like that swell story of Mary Counsel-man's in that issue, The Black Stone Statue."

  Virgil Finlay's Drawings

  Doctor Karl K. Webber writes from Flora, Illinois: "This is the first time I have written you, although I have been an avid reader of Weird Tales for about six years. In the December 1937 issue, The Sea-Witch is 'tops,' with Flames of Vengeance a close second, and Child of Atlantis hot on the lat-ter's heels. One thing must be kept in your publication and that is Virgil Finlay's drawing. I'm a little bit of an artist myself and I recognize a masterful touch when I see it. No one can approach his subtle mastery of pen and ink. Orchids to Virgil!"

  A Million Congratulations

  Julius Hopkins writes ftom Washington, D. C: "Roads is one of the most high-class stories that WT has ever printed. Throughout, the language is elevating, and not the usual, pulpy kind prevalent in a great many tales written today. I truly believe that any magazine would have been glad to have this story between its covers. WT should be mighty proud to have been privileged to

  print it. A million congratula
tions to you, Mr. Quinn, for a really outstanding story."

  Norse Mythology

  M. W. Schauffler, of Larchmont, New York, writes: "The Howard and Quinn stories have been what I have bought the magazine for, and I have been buying it for eight years. One other thing which makes your magazine a pleasure is that almost always the mythology and other background data are accurate. So please speak to Nictzin Dyalhis, if you don't mind, and ask him to check a litde more carefully. I don't know when I have liked a story better than The Sea-Witch. But the moment when his Witch and his hero both agreed that Ran was a god, not a goddess, wrecked the illusion of factuality for me to the end of the story. And there were two other minor slips: No viking was ever named Gudrun any more than he was named Eliza, and for the same reason—it is a woman's name. Neither was Comnenus ever spelled with two n's—though that's a small matter. As for the viking's refrain to the rowing-song, he probably knows more than I do about that—I am not an authority on Norse legends. But I have a feeling that it isn't entirely, or at least typically, a sea refrain."

  Quinn's Masterpiece

  Bernard Austin Dwyer writes from West Shokan, New York: "My first choice of stories in die January issue is Roads by Sea-bury Quinn. This is truly Quinn's masterpiece; I have never seen anything even remotely so good by him. In my opinion, it far overtops even The Phantom farmhouse. Apart from the story itself, which is delightful and wonderful—the fetching together of such ordinarily widely separated elements as Chtist's crucifixion, a blond heroic warrior from the North, a harlot from the house of Magdalene, the Eastern and Western dynasties, and the Middle Ages, the little carved sleighs, the dwarf faery, smiths of the mountains, and the legend of Santa Claus—the style itself is very beautiful. I love especially the last few paragraphs with their flavor of the iron and heroic North, the Valhalla-like feast; how Klaus laid aside his arms, and the final piercing and beautiful paragraph. But I love everything—the story and the style, from beginning to end. . . . This story will go down as one of the very best, by any

  WEIRD TALES

  381

  author, ever to be published in Weird Tales. It is a masterpiece, fit to rank with Howard's Kings of the Night or Lovecraft's Whisperer in Darkness. I fec-l impelled to thank Mr. Quinn heartily for giving me the opportunity to read so satisfactory, wonderfully imaginative and beautiful a story. That style is something to dream about. Next, I will mention a very short poem— Lost Dream, dedicated to our departed master Lovecrafr, by Emil Petaja. May I express my appreciation of how that little poem coincides with one's impressions of the works of Lovecraft ? 'One fumbles in his scarlet cloak; I see his slender fingers move—he turns a key ..." a silver key, of course. Congratulations to Mr. Petaja for his splendid little poem. May we hope for more? My next favorite story is Toean Aiatja/i, by Vennecte Herron—a very good story, well tied together, and beautiful style. It is exquisitely written. I don't know when I have read a more entertaining story, written in better style. In fact, I like the style quite as well as that of Roads, only that it is of course shorter. I am acute sure that I should not care to court that lady. I like The Witch's Mark, and The Hairy Ones Shall Dance. In the latter, it is already rather obvious that the wolfish materialization came from Doctor Zoberg— vide his thick, sinewy wrists! It is right entertaining. Let me, too, commend most warmly The Inn, in a recent issue. Splendid atmosphere."