The Dream of X and
Other Fantastic Visions
Being The Fifth Volume of
The Collected Fiction of William Hope Hodgson
Edited by Douglas A. Anderson
Night Shade Books • San Francisco • 2009
This edition of The Dream of X and Other Fantastic Visions
© 2009 by Night Shade Books
Cover and interior artwork © 2005 by Jason Van Hollander
Layout and design by Jeremy Lassen
Introduction © 2009 by Ross E. Lockhart
All rights reserved.
First Edition
ISBN 978-1-892389-43-5
E-ISBN: 9781597803717
Night Shade Books
Please visit us on the web at
http://www.nightshadebooks.com
That Delicious Shiver
“It is pointless, though irresistible, to speculate upon what heights of Fantasy Hodgson might have scaled had the war not intervened.” —James Cawthorn & Michael Moorcock, Fantasy: The 100 Best Books
“A ghost story that is worth anything must be really thrilling. It must give us that delicious shiver down the spine, and it must possess mystery. Added to these qualities, it must cling to reality by some sort of explanation, however fantastic the story be, to be truly effective.” —William Hope Hodgson,
“The Writers of Ghost Stories” (an unfinished or lost essay)
This fifth and final volume of the collected fiction of William Hope Hodgson is best if not, perhaps, considered as a mere 9¼ by 6¼ by 1½ blue and silver brick to fill in space on a shelf; nor should it be considered the ragged leftovers of the first four courses. Instead, I’d argue that we’ve saved the best for last; this is dessert, a sweet sampling of Hodgson’s best—and strangest—work, a literary crème brûlée to savor and enjoy.
We begin this volume of Hodgson’s fantastic visions with the evocative and heart-wrenching parable “The Valley of Lost Children,” which originally appeared in Cornhill in February 1906. Sentimental, certainly, but “The Valley of Lost Children” does not shirk from the harsh realities of its day in its depiction of a fantastic realm beyond death. This is followed by the Swiftian conceits of “Date 1965: Modern Warfare,” which imagines the battles of the future to be fought by knife-wielding butchers, with the flesh of the fallen quite literally going to feed the victors. Originally appearing in the December 24, 1908 issue of New Age, it presents a wry and winking examination of the soldier’s lot in life.
“My House Shall Be Called the House of Prayer” (Cornhill, May 1911) and “Judge Barclay’s Wife,” (London Magazine, July 1912) might be excused as Hodgson’s most devout explorations of Christian mercy. But to do so would be to ignore his gift for dialogue, and the intricate way in which he strives to capture the patterns of his protagonists’ speech.
The gender-bending “The Getting Even of Tommy Dodd,” which was later published as “The Apprentices’ Mutiny” in Sea Stories, originally appeared in The Red Magazine, August 15, 1912. While this is a story that can be read for its entertainment value alone, the success that young Tommy Dodd finds in posing as his pretty “cousin,” Jenny (“By George, youngster, you make a pretty girl!”), begs any number of questions about the shipboard world that Hodgson, a sailor and bodybuilder, spent much of his life in and out of.
“Sea Horses” from London Magazine, March 1913, is another tale of a doomed child in an uncaring world, but imbued with the same sort of hope and fancy (even while moored to the harsh ties of reality) exhibited in “The Valley of Lost Children.”
The next batch of adventure yarns all appeared in The Red Magazine, a common venue for Hodgson’s stories, including the D.C.O. Cargunka and Captain Jat tales. “How the Honourable Billy Darrell Raised the Wind” appeared in The Red Magazine, March 15, 1913. “The Getting Even of ‘Parson’ Guyles” appeared in the November 1914 issue. “The Friendship of Monsieur Jeynois” originally appeared in The Red Magazine, August 1, 1915. “The Inn of the Black Crow” originally appeared in The Red Magazine, October 1, 1915. “What Happened in the Thunderbolt” originally appeared in The Red Magazine, January 15, 1916. “How Sir Jerrold Treyn Dealt with the Dutch in Caunston Cove” originally appeared in The Red Magazine, May 1, 1916. “Jem Binney and the Safe at Lockwood Hall” originally appeared in The Red Magazine, October 16, 1916. “Diamond Cut Diamond with a Vengeance” originally appeared in The Red Magazine, January 1, 1918.
The explosive “Eloi, Eloi, Lama Sabachthani” originally appeared in Nash’s Illustrated Weekly, September 20, 1919.
“The Room of Fear,” much like “The Valley of Lost Children” and “Sea Horses,” deals with a child’s fate, as a young mother and her plucky son confront the dull thunder of childhood fears which may, of course, be more substantial than either one imagine. Suspected to be an early story, “The Room of Fear” was unpublished during Hodgson’s lifetime. Another early and unpublished story is “The Promise,” a supernatural tale of a sibling’s love and the miraculous promise of resurrection.
The novel fragment “Captain Dang” imports its title character from “The Sharks of the St. Elmo,” which appears in volume three of this series, but seems otherwise unconnected to it. Still, with lines like “There’s poetry in canvas, laddie, when the wind gets into it,” “Captain Dang” shows that even Hodgson’s cast-offs hold an evocative power that ranks among fiction’s best.
“Captain Dan Danblasten,” Hodgson’s tale of a lusty pirate’s retirement and the strange will he leaves to a childhood sweetheart and her seven daughters, appeared in the May 1918 issue of The Red Magazine, published the same week as The Times ran Hodgson’s obituary (April 19, 1918 is believed to be the date Hodgson was killed by a German shell).
From there, we move on to Hodgson’s copyright versions, stripped-down abridgements of his best-known works, written to secure American copyright protections. Many of these have a “Cliffs Notes” feeling to them, particularly “The Ghost Pirates” and “Carnacki, the Ghost Finder.” The title story, “The Dream of X,” however, distills Hodgson’s epic novel, The Night Land, down to its barest essentials, losing none of its power or poetry in the process. It is likely that these copyright versions were never intended by Hodgson to be seen by a reading audience, but “The Dream of X,” perhaps best known due to the 1977 Donald M. Grant publication, with its breathtaking Stephen A. Fabian illustrations, stands as a testament to the shame that would have been. Also in this section are the stories “Senator Sandy Mac Ghee,” “The Last Word in Mysteries,” and “The Dumpley Acrostics.”
Next, we present a spattering of alternate versions, including “An Adventure of the Deep Waters,” “Captain Gunbolt Charity and the Painted Lady,” “The Storm,” and “The Crew of the Lancing.” We’ll leave it to the reader to determine what might have been. We close this volume with a pair of counterfeits, “The Raft,” and “R.M.S. ‘Empress of Australia.’”
In his introduction to the first volume of this series, Night Shade Books’ Editor-in-Chief Jeremy Lassen makes the assertion “it goes without saying that William Hope Hodgson was one of the great fantasists of the 20th century.” Regardless, Night Shade spent the next four volumes proving that point. Now, as we arrive at the final volume of the series, we believe we have fulfilled our goal, that in presenting our definitive edition of the collected fiction of William Hope Hodgson, we have ensured that Hodgson will be considered by the next generation of scholars, editors, publishers, authors, and readers. Considered, not just against the works of literary peers, from H. G. Wells to Bram Stoker to Wilfred Owen, but against those writers whos
e own works benefit from and build upon Hodgson’s masterful imagination, from Lovecraft and Clark Ashton Smith to Jack Vance, Gene Wolfe, Greg Bear, and China Miéville.
Ross E. Lockhart
Petaluma, California
2008
Fantastic Visions
The Valley of Lost Children
I
The two of them stood together and watched the boy, and he, a brave little fellow near upon his fourth birthday, having no knowledge that he was watched, hammered a big tom-cat with right lusty strokes, scolding it the while for having killed a “mices.” Presently the cat made its escape, followed by the boy, whose chubby little legs twinkled in the sunlight, and whose tossed head of golden tangle was as a star of hope to the watchers. As he vanished among the nearer bushes the woman pulled at the man’s sleeve.
“Our b’y,” she said in a low voice.
“Aye, Sus’n, thet’s so,” he replied, and laid a great arm about her neck in a manner which was not displeasing to her.
They were neither of them young, and marriage had come late in life; for fortune had dealt hardly with the man, so that he had been unable to take her to wife in the earlier days. Yet she had waited, and at last a sufficiency had been attained, so that in the end they had come together in the calm happiness of middle life. Then had come the boy, and with his coming a touch of something like passionate joy had crept into their lives.
It is true that there was a mortgage upon the farm, and the interest had to be paid before Abra’m could touch his profits; but what of that! He was strong, uncommonly so, and then there was the boy. Later he would be old enough to lend a hand; though Abra’m had a secret hope that before that time he would have the mortgage cleared off and be free of all his profits.
For a while longer they stood together, and so, in a little, the boy came running back out of the bushes. It was evident that he must have had a tumble, for the knees of his wee knickers were stained with clay-marks. He ran up to them and held out his left hand, into which a thorn was sticking, yet he made no movement to ask for sympathy, for was he not a man?—ay, every inch of his little four-year body! His intense manliness will be the better understood when I explain that upon that day he had been “breeked,” and four years old in breeks has a mighty savour of manliness.
His father plucked the thorn from his hand, while his mother made shift to remove some of the clay; but it was wet, and she decided to leave it until it had dried somewhat.
“Hev ter put ye back inter shorts,” threatened his mother; whereat the little man’s face showed a comprehension of the direness of the threat.
“No! no! no!” he pleaded, and lifted up to her an ensnaring glance from dangerous baby eyes.
Then his mother, being like other women, took him into her arms, and all her regret was that she could take him no closer.
An Abra’m his father, looked down upon the two of them, and felt that God had dealt not unkindly with him.
Three days later the boy lay dead. A swelling had come around the place where the thorn had pricked, and the child had complained of pains in the hand and arm. His mother, thinking little of the matter in a country where rude health is the rule, had applied a poultice, but without producing relief. Towards the close of the second day it became apparent to her that the child ailed something beyond her knowledge or supposition, and she had hurried Abra’m off to the doctor, a matter of forty miles distant; but she was childless or ever she saw her husband’s face again.
II
Abra’m had digged the tiny grave at the foot of a small hill at the bank of the shanty, and now he stood leaning upon his spade and waiting for that which his wife had gone to bring. He looked neither to the right nor to the left; but stood there a very effigy of stony grief, and in this wise he chanced not to see the figure of a little man in a rusty-black suit, who had come over the brow of the hill some five minutes earlier.
Presently Sus’n came out from the back of the shanty and walked swiftly towards the grave. At the sight of that which she carried, the little man upon the hill stood up quickly and bared his head, bald and shiny, to the sun. The woman reached the grave, stood one instant irresolute, then stooped and laid her burden gently into the place prepared. Then, after one long look at the little shape, she went aside a few paces and turned her face away. At that, Abra’m bent and took a shovelful of earth, intending to fill in the grave; but in that moment the voice of the stranger came to him, and he looked up. The little bald-headed man had approached to within a few feet of the grave, and in one hand he carried his hat, while in the other he held a small, much-worn book.
“Nay, me friend,” he said, speaking slowly, “gev not ther child’s body ter ther arth wi’out commendin’ ther sperret ter ther Almighty. Hev I permisshun ter read ther sarvice fer them as ’s dead in ther Lord?”
Abra’m looked at the little old stranger for a short space, and said no word; then he glanced over to where his wife stood, after which he nodded a dumb assent.
At that the old man kneeled down beside the grave and, rustling over the leaves of his book, found the place. He began to read in a steady voice. At the first word, Abra’m uncovered and stood there leaning upon his spade; but his wife ran forward and fell upon her knees near the old man.
And so for a solemn while no sound but the aged voice. Presently he stretched out his hand to the earth beside the grave and, taking a few grains, loosed them upon the dead, commending the spirit of the child into the Everlasting Arms. And so, in a little, he had made an end.
When all was over, the old man spread out his hands above the tiny grave as though invoking a blessing. After a moment he spoke; but so low that they who were near scarce heard him:
“Leetle One,” he said in a half whisper, “mebbe ye’ll meet wi’ that gell o’ mine in yon valley o’ ther lost childer. Ye’ll telt hur’s I’m praying ter ther Father ‘s ’E’ll purmit thess ole sinner ter come nigh ’er agin.”
And after that he knelt awhile, as though in prayer. In a little he got upon his feet and, stretching out his hands, lifted the woman from her knees. Then, for the first time, she spoke:
“Reckon I’ll never see ’im no mor,” she said in a quiet, toneless voice, and without tears.
The old man looked into her face and, having seen much sorrow, knew somewhat of that which she suffered. He took one of her cold hands between his old, withered ones with a strange gesture of reverence.
“Hev no bitterness, Ma’am,” he said. “I know ye lack ther pow’r jest now ter say: ‘Ther Lord gev, an’ ther Lord ’ath teken away; blessed be ther Name o’ ther Lord;’ but I reckon ’E don’t ’spect mor’n ye can gev. ’E’s mighty tender wi’ them ’s is stricken.”
As he spoke, unconsciously he was stroking her hand, as though to comfort her. Yet the woman remained dry-eyed and set-featured; so that the old man, seeing her need of stirring, bade her “set” down while he told her a “bit o’ a tale.”
“Ye’ll know,” he began, when she was seated, “ ’s I unnerstan’ hoo mighty sore ye feel, w’en I tell ye I lost a wee gell o’ mine way back.”
He stopped a moment, and the woman’s eyes turned upon him with the first dawning of interest.
“I was suthin’ like yew,” he continued. “I didn’t seem able nohow ter get goin’ agin in ther affairs o’ thess ’arth. I cudn’t eat, ’n I cudn’t sleep. Then one night, ’s I wus tryin’ ter get a bit o’ rest ’fore ther morn come in, I heerd a Voice sayin’ in me ear ’s ’twer:
“ ‘ ’Cept ye become ’s leetle childer, ye shall not enter into the Kingdom o’ ’Eaven.’ But I hedn’t got shet o’ ther bitterness o’ me grief, ’n I tarned a deaf ear. Then agin ther Voice kem, ’n agin I shet ther soul o’ me ter et’s callin’; but ’twer no manner uv use; for it kem agin and agin, ’n I grew tur’ble feared ’n humble.
“ ‘Lord,’ I cried out, ‘guess ther oldest o’ us ’s on’y childer in ther sight o’ God.’
“But agin ther Voice kem, an�
�� ther sperret thet wer in me quaked, ’n I set up in ther bed, cryin’ upon the Lord:
“ ‘Lord, shet me not oot o’ ther Kingdom!” Fer I wus feared ’s I mightn’t get ter see ther wee gell’s ’ad gone on befor’. But agin kem ther Voice, an’ ther sperret in me became broke, ’n I wus ’s er lonesome child, ’n all ther bitterness wer gone from me. Then I said ther words that had not passed me lips by reason o’ ther bitterness o’ me stubborn ’art:
“ ‘Ther Lord gev, an’ ther Lord ’ath teken away; blessed be ther Name o’ ther Lord.’
“An’ ther Voice kem agin; but ’twer softer like, ’n I no longer wus feared.
“ ‘Lo!’ et said, ‘thy ’art is become like unter ther ’art o’ one o’ ther leetle ones whose sperrets dew always behold ther face o’ ther Father. Look now wi’ ther eyes o’ a child, ’n them shalt behold ther Place o’ ther Leetle Ones—ther valley wher’ maybe found ther lost childer o’ ther ’arth. Know thou thet ther leetle folk whom ther Lord teketh pass not inter ther Valley o’ ther Shadder, but inter ther Valley o’ Light.’
“An’ immediate I looked an’ saw right thro’ ther logs o’ ther back o’ ther shanty. I cud see ’s plain ’s plain, lookin’ out onter a mighty wilderness o’ country, ’n et seemed ’s tho’ ther sperret o’ me went forrard a space inter ther night, an’ then, mighty suddin et wer’, I wus lookin’ down inter a tur’ble big valley. ’Twer’ all lit up ’n shinin’; tho’ ’twer’ midnight, ’n everywher’ wer’ mighty flowers ’s seemed ter shine o’ ther own accord, an’ thar wer’ leetle brooks runnin’ among ’em ’n singin’ like canary birds, ’n grass ’s fresh ’s ther ’art o’ a maid. An’ ther valley wer’ all shet in by mortial great cliffs ’s seemed ter be made o’ nothin’ but mighty walls o’ moonstone; fer they sent out light’s tho’ moons wer’ sleepin’ ahind ’em.
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