Prospero and Bacon, wizards and old friends, embark upon a journey to save mankind from the evil spell of their former colleague and fellow magician, Melichus. Melichus has found an old book written in curious ciphers that seem untranslatable; when he tries to decipher the strange writing, he can make out only tantalizing glimpses of some basic formulas of power. The more he pursues the question, the more entranced he becomes; what has begun as intellectual curiosity quickly becomes an obsession, first with the translation itself, and then with the power the spells might bring the translator. The formulas somehow contain the secret to another reality or series of realities; the master of these arcane symbols can literally destroy the world of the North and South Kingdoms. This Prospero and Bacon must prevent at any cost.
This is not the Roger Bacon who was the Franciscan monk in the “real world,” a man known not only for his contributions to science (“It is the intention of philosophy to work out the nature and properties of things”), but also as an alchemist and dabbler in magic. Yet he is clearly intended to be an analogue of the real Bacon in a world where magic works. Like his model, this alternate version is devoted to the truth, whatever it may be, wherever it may lie; like the real Bacon, Bellairs’s wizard is a man of honor and courage. Prospero, on the other hand, is modeled after William Shakespeare’s fictional sorcerer, the practitioner of “this rough magic.” In The Tempest (1611), Prospero sets out to right the wrongs of his world, and in so doing, employs his magic one last time to bring about a proper balance of persons and events. Bellairs’s character is also concerned with balance, with setting right his world; a bumbling and forgetful man, clearly no match for the brilliant and logical Melichus, he nevertheless sets forth with a desperate kind of courage to fight the good fight. His very lack of pretension, his refusal to fool himself by championing his own considerable abilities, are major assets in this struggle to the death.
The mark of Melichus’s growing power over the land is the ever-recurring image of “the face in the frost,” a yawning, vacant visage which, when glimpsed, evokes a nameless terror, a horror that cannot be dispelled by reason: “He felt very nervous, drowsily nervous, with prickling dark borders on his sight. A glass bell was ringing somewhere deep, deep in the forest. An icy green glass bell ridged with frost, trembling on a green willow branch.” Time is growing short; the two friends begin their adventure by shrinking themselves and sailing a model ship down an underground stream that leads from Prospero’s root cellar. In the ensuing chapters, the magicians defeat a troll, make use of a prophetic mirror (a looking-glass), ride in a pumpkin (squash) coach, fight off the spells cast by an enchanted forest, and climb a magical vine (beanstalk) to reach the fairy tale-like cottage once shared by Prospero and Melichus in happier days. These images from common folk myths and childhood fairy tales weave a rich but dark tapestry of allusion and double entendre throughout Bellairs’s tale.
At the cottage, Prospero retrieves the green glass paperweight that contains the magical powers of Prospero and Melichus combined. Like Zed in John Boorman’s acclaimed motion picture Zardoz, Prospero enters the world of the prism, a strange place in which technology has prevailed, filled with electric lights, lawnmowers, and the accoutrements of modern civilization. Zed’s crystal had contained all of man’s knowledge; with it, and with the knowledge he gained of himself, Zed was able to destroy the prism itself, thus freeing man from the bonds of self-imposed technological shackles. In Bellairs’s prism, Prospero encounters M. Millhorn, a true believer in the occult, a man who has been waiting all of his life for this moment. In exchange for the paperweight, Millhorn uses his knowledge of the Kabala to save Prospero from the pursuing Melichus; Prospero is returned to his own world, where he finally remembers the spell he must use to destroy Melichus and his evil book, thereby restoring reality. In the end, Prospero’s world returns to normal, and he and Bacon celebrate their triumph with a party for their friends.
The Face in the Frost was published originally as a children’s book, although it has been reprinted in paperback as an adult novel; it can be read on many different levels. What appears on the surface to be the rather lighthearted adventures of two bumbling wizards on a quest becomes, on rereading, a darkly streaked tale of moral courage, tragedy, and the ultimate doom of the world. Everything in the book is seen through the two-sided mirror, a glass which, when held up to “reality,” reflects fantasy and real life, the past and the present, humor and sorrow, the pursuit of power and a devotion to duty, in equal measures. The reader sees “through a glass darkly” to reach the truth on the other side. Prospero must pass out of his world through the glass before he can defeat Melichus; he must see his world—and see evil—for what it is before he can remember the spell. He must recognize that good and evil are the only true constants.
Bellairs’s powers of description bring this book alive; every leaf on every branch of every tree is limned in exquisite detail. His ability to make his readers see, smell, hear, taste, even touch the outlines of his fantasy creation makes it real for them. In the context of his story, this must surely be the ultimate paradox.
19. STRANGE LESSONS
EDWARD HERON-ALLEN’S COSMOPOLI TALES (1983)
Edward Heron-Allen wrote many novels and stories during his long career, but he is remembered today primarily for his pseudonymously published University of Cosmopoli tales, published in four volumes between 1921 and 1934. Their publishing history is almost as strange as the stories themselves: the first collection, The Purple Sapphire and Other Posthumous Papers, was issued by Philip Allan of London in 1921 under the pen name Christopher Blayre, and included most of the stories in the sequence; however, one short novel, The Cheetah Girl, was listed on the contents page but not actually included in the text, apparently being dropped by the publisher at the last moment for fear of prosecution under Britain’s rather severe anti-smut laws of the time. The story was issued in 1923 by Heron-Allen himself in a private edition of ten or twenty copies and remains virtually inaccessible today. The Blayre tales proved popular enough to warrant a second edition from Allan in 1932 under the title The Strange Papers of Dr Blayre; this book included all the stories previously published in the 1921 version, plus several new adventures, but again omitting The Cheetah Girl. A final collection, Some Women of the University: Being a Last Selection from the Strange Papers of Christopher Blayre, was again privately printed by Heron-Allen in 1934 under the R. Stockwell imprint, and distributed in an edition of perhaps a hundred copies; this 171-page volume is also exceedingly rare.
The technique of connecting otherwise unrelated tales with a loose framing structure is an old one, and one which is still used in modern times by such masters of fantasy as Ray Bradbury. Indeed, one is reminded of Bradbury in reading these stories, for they share with his work a disdain for the results of technology, a love of the outré, and a certain sentimentality mixed with a sobering dash of the tragic. The stories can be grouped roughly into three categories: tales of the supernatural, tales of scientific exploration or warning, and tales of fantastic whimsy.
Heron-Allen is most successful with the first category of stories. “The Purple Sapphire,” for example, the title story of the first Blayre collection, tells of a cursed Indian jewel which wreaks disastrous ill luck on the Arkwright family of England. Attempts to give the stone away are futile: thieves who steal it are promptly jailed and the sapphire is returned; a society belle who agrees to take it from Sir Clement Arkwright eventually commits suicide, and the stone is returned to Sir Clement by the police investigating team; an attempt to throw it into the Thames is thwarted when a pauper discovers the jewel, tries to pawn it, and is sent to Arkwright. Eventually, Arkwright dies a ruined man, leaving the jewel to his heirs with specific instructions that it be donated to the University.
In “Mano Pantea,” Heron-Allen turns to another kind of curse, one attached to a charm in the form of a silver hand. The Italians, who have three different forms of the hand to ward off the evil eye, are
deeply superstitious about the hands’ supposed powers. Ippolito makes the mistake of breaking his hand, which then turns on him, taking its revenge by strangling the poor man.
“The Thing That Smelt” demonstrates the evil that results when a spiritualist carries his experiments too far and must pay the price for his inquisitiveness.
“The Demon” is a chilling tale of possession and the price a dying woman pays for the continuation of her life.
Heron-Allen’s scientific romances tend to be cautionary tales that warn against dabbling in matters beyond the ken of man. “Aalila,” the most interesting of these stories, features Professor Alured Markwand, whose experiments in phototelephony and sound transmission anticipate current developments in the laser transmission of sound through small filaments of glass. Markwand aims his device at Venus and is startled to receive a response from an inhabitant of that planet, a captivating woman named Aalila. Eventually he succeeds in sending not only sound but also visual images, so that he can both see and talk to the beautiful alien. The Venusians, it seems, have long been studying the radio broadcasts of Earth and now understand English perfectly. Markwand falls in love with the girl, but fails to anticipate the jealousy of her husband; during the course of an intimate conversation, the two are interrupted by her Venusian mate, who cuts off the circuit, thereby killing Markwand. Markwand’s device is destroyed and the evidence covered up before the police arrive.
In “The Mirror That Remembered.” Professor Erichsen discovers a method for playing back the light images that have been “seen” by a mirror, similar to the “slow glass” concept invented by Bob Shaw in his story, “The Light of Other Days”; while playing back the events recorded by the mirror, both Erichsen and his lady friend, also present, realize that certain events of the preceding three weeks should not be viewed by the assembled audience, and she immediately destroys the mirror.
The tales of whimsy include the delightful fantasy, “The House on the Way to Hell,” in which a former University librarian, having died and gone to his “reward” in Hell, finds himself appointed librarian of the Library and Museum of Projected and Unfinished Books and Projected and Unfinished Works of Art, Science, and Manufacture. The librarian is astonished to find completed copies of Charles Dickens’s The Mystery of Edwin Drood (1870), Franz Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony, Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan,” and many others. Before leaving him to his eternal chores, the Devil hands the librarian one final volume—the librarian’s unfinished History of the University of Cosmopoli. Another such tale is “The Man Who Killed the Jew,” in which a bumbling doctor’s cure is sufficient to end the eternal travels of the Wandering Jew, who was cursed by Christ to live until the Second Resurrection.
Heron-Allen will never be considered a major fantasy writer, but his work bears further examination by historians in the field. At their best, his stories have an ironic poignancy reminiscent of the short novels of Robert Nathan, who was also active in the 1920s and ‘30s; however, Heron-Allen is more dispassionate than Nathan and more interested in exploring the edges of spiritualism and pseudoscience than his contemporaries, Vernon Knowles or Lord Dunsany. This curious combination makes his a unique voice for his time and his collections unique works of fantastic literature.
20. STYX TRYX
THE HUMOROUS FANTASIES OF JOHN KENDRICK BANGS (1983)
with Mary A. Burgess
The humorous ghost story is a peculiarly American subgenre, spawned in the tall tales told around a roaring campfire and first developed into a literary form by Washington Irving. Irving’s stories, epitomized by “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” became immensely popular—more popular with the hoi polloi, it is true, than with the critics, who have always regarded Irving as somewhat less than a serious writer. After Irving, occasional writers attempted to produce humorous fantasy, often with rather haphazard results. By the late Victorian period, however, the “serious” ghost story, both in England and in America, had reached one of its periodic peaks of popularity, with both countries’ best writers producing classic examples. Robert Louis Stevenson, Charles Dickens, Henry James—these are but a few of the major serious authors who popularized this literary form. As a counterpoint to this movement, other writers began turning to the humorous ghost story, both to profit by these fast-selling stories and to satirize them. The most successful lampoonist of the ghostly tale in both America and Britain was John Kendrick Bangs, who made the humorous sprite the basis of his literary reputation.
Bangs had a remarkably productive career, writing more than forty books, editing such well-known journals as Harper’s Weekly, Harper’s Monthly, Puck, and many others, and producing essays, articles, short stories, and reviews, many of which were collected in volume form. Born in 1862 in New York, he spent most of his life close to the metropolis, except for making brief, well-paid lecture tours throughout the United States and Europe.
Although Bangs was successful almost from the very start of his career and supported himself very well from his free-lance writing and his editing, he did not reach public notice until the appearance in 1893 of Toppleton’s Client; or, A Spirit in Exile, a humorous fantasy novel, and the stories published at about the same time in various popular magazines which were later collected in The Water-Ghost and Others (1894). (An earlier collection of fantasy had appeared anonymously in 1888 under the title, New Waggings of Old Tales, by Two Wags—i.e., John Kendrick Bangs and Frank D. Sherman.) Both Toppleton’s Client and The Water-Ghost and Others were well received; Bangs, a thoroughly professional businessman and never one to miss an opportunity, saw his opportunity and began producing a steady stream of tall tales and satires. His humorous fantasy Mr. Bonaparte of Corsica was published in 1896, as was The Rebellious Heroine, a fantasy novel. The following year saw the publication of A House-Boat on the Styx. The Pursuit of the House-Boat: Being Some Further Account of the Divers Doings of the Associated Shades, Under the Leadership of Sherlock Holmes, was issued in 1897. A year later, Ghosts I Have Met and Some Others appeared, which was followed in 1899 by The Enchanted Type-Writer. Two books were published in 1901: Over the Plum-Pudding, a collection, and Mr. Münchausen, a fantasy novel. Bikey the Skycycle and Other Tales of Jimmie followed in 1902, as did the novel Olympian Nights. Finally, some years later, the following titles appeared: Alice in Blunderland (1907), a novel; The Autobiography of Methuselah (1909), a novel; Jack and the Check-Book (1911), a collection; and Shylock Homes: His Posthumous Memoirs (1973), a posthumous collection of the Sherlock Holmes pastiches.
Of all Bangs’s books, by far his most popular were the “House-Boat” stories, which have remained almost continually in print from the date of their first publication. Bangs had an inspiration which was later shared by the modern writer/actor/producer Steve Allen: what would happen if the world’s most famous historical personages, including politicians, artists, literary figures, even fictional characters, somehow got together to discuss the foibles of mankind? The only logical place for such a meeting was Hell itself, or the gentler Hades of Greek mythology, that gloomy, shadowy, hateful nursing home for men’s immortal souls, surrounded by the River Styx, which could only be penetrated or crossed by the dour ferryman, Charon. It was Charon’s eternal task to transport the souls of the deceased to their final abode in Hades.
So here, under Bangs’s watchful eye, gather the spirits of Hades, who have now formed a social organization known as the Associated Shades. The Associated Shades have taken over management of a houseboat, which they intend to turn into an exclusive, luxurious club; their one remaining problem is Charon, who is likely to object to any interference with his monopoly. Therefore, the usual committee is formed, consisting of Sir Walter Raleigh, Cassius, Demosthenes, Blackstone, Doctor Johnson, and Confucius; they will approach Charon and seek to gain his active participation in the venture. Charon agrees, at double the proposed wages, with Saturdays off; after much discussion, the committee acquiesces and awards him the honorific title of Janitor, which is,
they explain, a very noble office indeed. Charon responds by noting the time, twelve midnight on Saturday morning, and proceeds to take the day off.
Each chapter in both of these books is a separate vignette, a tale-within-a-tale, with different characters in many cases, a different mini-question or mini-problem, proposed solutions (usually humorous), and a closing punchline(s). The denouement may be subtle or gross, the humor, sly or brazen. The Association’s control over Hades is not absolute; when William Shakespeare tosses a coin and shows his independence by taking the course opposite from that indicated, the reader is told that the Fates have already contrived to have the coin fall on the reverse side so that their intentions for him might be fulfilled; each action here is a part of their plan, whatever that plan might be. Shakespeare argues with Nero over the authorship of Othello, and Sir Francis Bacon is called as a witness. Bacon hints that although he had nothing to do with “that Othello fellow,” he did write Hamlet. By this time, Shakespeare is red-faced and angry, and he calls upon Sir Walter Raleigh to settle the dispute once and for all. Raleigh confesses his lack of shame and acknowledges that he wrote it himself. The company continues to harass the Bard throughout the tale, constantly casting aspersions on his supposed authorship of his own plays. Then Christopher Columbus appears, grumpily participating in George Washington’s birthday party, while James Boswell takes copious notes for his gossip column. Baron Münchausen insists that he has dined on stewed icicles and fried pyramids, much to the delight and amusement of the guests. Ptolemy notes that he has had experience with pyramids himself.
And so it continues. Bangs uses his shades to direct satirical jabs at their own historical personages, at the mores and customs of his own time, and at the form of the ghost story itself. For example, Shakespeare maintains that he had drugged the actor who was to play Hamlet in a Bostonian production of his play and had assumed the part himself. The reviews published the next day were devastating, asserting that the actor’s conception of the role was not sufficiently “Shakespearean.” “That’s criticism,” notes the Bard. Ralph Waldo Emerson replies, that “that isn’t criticism, it’s just Boston.” Shakespeare’s ghost also manages to arrange with a Bostonian syndicate to provide “posthumous autographs” at one thousand dollars each. Washington remarks that the scheme will probably work, because “the Yankee is an inventive genius.”
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