by Various
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THE FANTASY FAN
THE FANS’ OWN MAGAZINE
Published Monthly Editor: Charles D. Hornig (Managing Editor: Wonder Stories) 10 cents a copy $1.00 per year
137 West Grand Street, Elizabeth, New Jersey
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Volume 1 March, 1934 Number 7
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OUR READERS SAY
“Clark Ashton Smith’s story ‘The Ghoul’ is fascinating all the waythrough and the plot one that fits in with the treatment. I amanxiously waiting for more poems by him.
“‘Supernatural Horror in Literature’ grows even more absorbing with thedawn of the Horror Tale. It is certainly something to tuck away andthink over. Especially interesting is how the germ started and gainedforce in our own country from the European elements and the fact thatsuperstition is more prevalent in northern blood than in southern,speaking racially—Latin and the like.
“The ‘Annals of the Jinns’ continues well and R. H. Barlow can getquite a story in so few words.”
—Duane W. Rimel
You will notice an excellent long poem by Clark Ashton Smith in thisissue. We intend to lengthen the installments of Lovecraft’s article infuture issues—the next part will take over two full pages. Barlow’ssixth “Annals” will probably appear next month.
“Very glad to see the new issue. Smith’s article is extremely apt andtimely. I find that James tends to be popularly under-appreciated.Barlow’s tale is the best yet—he seems to improve constantly. Theverses of Messrs. Lumley and Searight are haunting and excellent. It’sa good idea to substitute a department of general discussion for ‘TheBoiling Point’.”
—H. P.
“I enjoyed the January issue of THE FANTASY FAN. Barlow’s little talesare certainly clever, and I hope you will print many of them. I secondthe wish that you express in your note at the end of the current‘Boiling Point’ column.”
—Clark Ashton Smith
“I just got the February issue of THE FANTASY FAN and I find that it’so.k., as usual. Marianne Ferguson’s article was great!”
—Ted. H. Lutwin
“Just finished the February issue of THE FANTASY FAN, and in commonwords, it’s a honey! Marianne Ferguson’s article about her visit toJules de Grandin was superb! I want to cast my vote right now foranother article by Miss Ferguson real soon!
“THE FANTASY FAN is now six months old and should celebrate! ‘TheDweller’ by William Lumley was a masterpiece, and Richard F. Searight’spoem takes high honors in this issue.
“All in all; I think this semi-birthday issue is fine. But there are afew things I would like to make comments about. ‘The Boiling Point’should be eliminated, but the readers’ column should not be shortened!I agree with Mrs. Wooley—you should not insert a contents page, andthus cut out some interesting feature that could occupy the space. THEFANTASY FAN is going places!”
—Bob Tucker
As this is only our seventh issue, we don’t believe it’s quite time tocelebrate our success(?)—however, we will be one year old in Septemberand might be better off by then and feel justified in whooping it up.
We take great pleasure in presenting the following letter from H.Koenig. His letters are always thoroughly interesting and instructiveand we value them as much as some of our articles:
“The February issue of THE FANTASY FAN was splendid and a markedimprovement over the previous issue. It is rather difficult to pick outany high spot; but the articles and stories by Lovecraft, Barlow,Smith, and Petaja were all fine, to say nothing of the column, ‘Howlfrom the Ether.’
“I particularly enjoyed Clark Ashton Smith’s article on M. R. James. Itwas an admirable essay on an author who is far too little known andappreciated on this side of the water, and I dare say, on the otherside also. Dr. James, who apparently has a tremendous amount ofantiquarian and archeological information at his fingertips, is also,in my humble opinion, the greatest modern exponent of the ghost story.I heartily second Smith’s recommendation that all lovers of the weirdand supernatural procure a copy of the Longman’s Green and Companyvolume. They will not be disappointed. Incidentally, for theinformation of readers who are perhaps interested in the separatevolumes of James’ work rather than in the complete collection, theindividual titles of his books (not mentioned in Smith’s article) areas follows:
1. Ghost Stories of an Antiquary 2. More Ghost Stories of an Antiquary 3. A Thin Ghost and Others 4. A Warning to the Curious
“By the way, M. R. James should not be confused with G. P. R. James whowrote that interesting romance, ‘The Castle of Ehrenstein, Its LordsSpiritual and Temporal; Its Inhabitants Earthly and Unearthly.’ This isa book, which, while probably somewhat tiresome to the general reader,should prove of considerable interest to the student of the ghost story(I am fortunate to have a first edition of this book in three volumespublished in 1847).
“Emil Petaja’s article on ‘Famous Fantasy Fiction’ was also fine but tome far too short. I could add dozens of other interesting anthologiesto his list but a few of the more important ones will suffice. Mr.Petaja called attention to Dorothy Sayers’ ‘Omnibus of Crime.’ Itshould be noted that Miss Sayers edited a second series of storiesentitled, ‘Detection, Mystery, and Horror.’ Another worth-while groupof stories has been collected and edited by Montague Summers under thetitle, ‘The Supernatural Omnibus.’ This volume has a splendidintroduction by the Rev. Summers and contains, among other stories,‘The Upper Berth’ by Crawford, and ‘The Damned Thing’ by Bierce.Another well-rounded collection was gotten together by Colin de la Mareunder the title, ‘They Walk Again.’ This book contains ‘The Voice ofthe Night’ by Hodgson and ‘The Beckoning Fair One’ by Oliver Onions.
“Perhaps at times I have been somewhat harsh in my criticisms, but I amglad that you have taken them in the right spirit.”
We know that you will be pleased to note that we are lengthening theinstallments of Lovecraft’s article hereafter.
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Gods of the North
by Robert E. Howard
The clangor of the swords had died away, the shouting of the slaughterwas hushed; silence lay on the red-stained snow. The pale bleak sunthat glittered so blindingly from the ice-fields and the snow-coveredplains struck sheens of silver from rent corselet and broken blade,where the dead lay in heaps. The nerveless hand yet gripped the brokenhilt; helmeted heads, back-drawn in the death throes, tilted red beardsand golden beards grimly upward, as if in last invocation to Ymir thefrost-giant.
Across the red drifts and mail-clad forms, two figures approached oneanother. In that utter desolation only they moved. The frosty sky wasover them, the white illimitable plain around them, the dead men attheir feet. Slowly through the corpses they came, as ghosts might cometo a tryst through the shambles of a world.
Their shields were gone, their corselets di
nted. Blood smeared theirmail; their swords were red. Their horned helmets showed the marks offierce strokes.
One spoke, he whose locks and beard were red as the blood on the sunlitsnow.
“Man of the raven locks,” said he, “tell me your name, so that mybrothers in Vanaheim may know who was the last of Wulfhere’s band tofall before the sword of Heimdul.”
“This is my answer,” replied the black-haired warrior: “Not inVanaheim, but in Vallhalla will you tell your brothers the name of Amraof Akbitana.”
Heimdul roared and sprang, and his sword swung in a mighty arc. Amrastaggered and his vision was filled with red sparks as the bladeshivered into bits of blue fire on his helmet. But as he reeled hethrust with all the power of his great shoulders. The sharp point drovethrough brass scales and bones and heart, and the red-haired warriordied at Amra’s feet.
Amra stood swaying, trailing his sword, a sudden sick wearinessassailing him. The glare of the sun on the snow cut his eyes like aknife and the sky seemed shrunken and strangely far. He turned awayfrom the trampled expanse where yellow-bearded warriors lay locked withred-haired slayers in the embrace of death. A few steps he took, andthe glare of the snow fields was suddenly dimmed. A rushing wave ofblindness engulfed him, and he sank down into the snow, supportinghimself on one mailed arm, seeking to shake the blindness out of hiseyes as a lion might shake his mane.
A silvery laugh cut through his dizziness, and his sight clearedslowly. There was a strangeness about all the landscape that he couldnot place or define—an unfamiliar tinge to earth and sky. But he didnot think long of this. Before him, swaying like a sapling in the wind,stood a woman. Her body was like ivory, and save for a veil ofgossamer, she was naked as the day. Her slender bare feet were whiterthan the snow they spurned. She laughed, and her laughter was sweeterthan the rippling of silvery fountains, and poisonous with cruelmockery.
“Who are you?” demanded the warrior.
“What matter?” Her voice was more musical than a silver-stringed harp,but it was edged with cruelty.
“Call up your men,” he growled, grasping his sword. “Though my strengthfail me, yet they shall not take me alive. I see that you are of theVanir.”
“Have I said so?”
He looked again at her unruly locks, which he had thought to be red.Now he saw that they were neither red nor yellow, but a gloriouscompound of both colors. He gazed spell-bound. Her hair was likeelfin-gold, striking which, the sun dazzled him. Her eyes were neitherwholly blue nor wholly grey, but of shifting colors and dancing lightsand clouds of colors he could not recognize. Her full red lips smiled,and from her slim feet to the blinding crown of her billowy hair, herivory body was as perfect as the dream of a god. Amra’s pulse hammeredin his temples.
“I can not tell,” said he, “whether you are of Vanaheim and mine enemy,or of Asgard and my friend. Far have I wandered, from Zingara to theSea of Vilayet, in Stygia and Kush, and the country of the Hyrkanians;but a woman like you I have never seen. Your locks blind me with theirbrightness. Not even among the fairest daughters of the Aesir have Iseen such hair, by Ymir!”
“Who are you to swear by Ymir?” she mocked. “What know you of the godsof ice and snow, you who have come up from the south to adventure amongstrangers?”
“By the dark gods of my own race!” he cried in anger. “Have I beenbackward in the sword-play, stranger or no? This day I have seen fourscore warriors fall, and I alone survive the field where Wulfhere’sreavers met the men of Bragi. Tell me, woman, have you caught the flashof mail across the snow-plains, or seen armed men moving upon the ice?”
“I have seen the hoar-frost glittering in the sun,” she answered. “Ihave heard the wind whispering across the everlasting snows.”
He shook his head.
“Niord should have come up with us before the battle joined. I fear heand his warriors have been ambushed. Wulfhere lies dead with all hisweapon-men.
“I had thought there was no village within many leagues of this spot,for the war carried us far, but you can have come no great distanceover these snows, naked as you are. Lead me to your tribe, if you areof Asgard, for I am faint with the weariness of strife.”
“My dwelling place is further than you can walk, Amra of Akbitana!” shelaughed. Spreading wide her arms she swayed before him, her golden headlolling wantonly, her scintillant eyes shadowed beneath long silkenlashes. “Am I not beautiful, man?”
“Like Dawn running naked on the snows,” he muttered, his eyes burninglike those of a wolf.
“Then why do you not rise and follow me? Who is the strong warrior whofalls down before me?” she chanted in maddening mockery. “Lie down anddie in the snow with the other fools, Amra of the black hair. You cannot follow where I would lead.”
With an oath the man heaved himself upon his feet, his blue eyesblazing, his dark scarred face convulsed. Rage shook his soul, butdesire for the taunting figure before him hammered at his temples anddrove his wild blood riotiously through his veins. Passion fierce asphysical agony flooded his whole being so that earth and sky swam redto his dizzy gaze, and weariness and faintness were swept from him inmadness.
He spoke no word as he drove at her, fingers hooked like talons. With ashriek of laughter she leaped back and ran, laughing at him over herwhite shoulder. With a low growl Amra followed. He had forgotten thefight, forgotten the mailed warriors who lay in their blood, forgottenNiord’s belated reavers. He had thought only for the slender whiteshape which seemed to float rather than run before him.
Out across the white blinding plain she led him. The trampled red fieldfell out of sight behind him, but still Amra kept on with the silenttenacity of his race. His mailed feet broke through the frozen crust;he sank deep in the drifts and forged through them by sheer strength.But the girl danced across the snow as light as a feather floatingacross a pool; her naked feet scarcely left their imprint on thehoar-frost. In spite of the fire in his veins, the cold bit through thewarrior’s mail and furs; but the girl in her gossamer veil ran aslightly and as gaily as if she danced through the palms and rosegardens of Poitain.
Black curses drooled through the warrior’s parched lips. The greatveins swelled and throbbed in his temples, and his teeth gnashedspasmodically.
“You can not escape me!” he roared. “Lead me into a trap and I’ll pilethe heads of your kinsmen at your feet. Hide from me and I’ll tearapart the mountains to find you! I’ll follow you to hell and beyondhell!”
Her maddening laughter floated back to him, and foam flew from thewarrior’s lips. Further and further into the wastes she led him, tillhe saw the wide plains give way to low hills, marching upward in brokenranges. Far to the north he caught a glimpse of towering mountains,blue with the distance, or white with the eternal snows. Above thesemountains shone the flaring rays of the borealis. They spread fan-wiseinto the sky, frosty blades of cold flaming light, changing in color,growing and brightening.
Above him the skies glowed and crackled with strange lights and gleams.The snow shone weirdly, now frosty blue, now icy crimson, now coldsilver. Through a shimmering icy realm of enchantment Amra plungeddoggedly onward, in a crystalline maze where the only reality was thewhite body dancing across the glittering snow beyond his reach—everbeyond his reach.
Yet he did not wonder at the necromantic strangeness of it all, noteven when two gigantic figures rose up to bar his way. The scales oftheir mail were white with hoar-frost; their helmets and their axeswere sheathed in ice. Snow sprinkled their locks; in their beards werespikes of icicles; their eyes were cold as the lights that streamedabove them.
“Brothers!” cried the girl, dancing between them. “Look who follows! Ihave brought you a man for the feasting! Take his heart that we may layit smoking on our father’s board!”
The giants answered with roars like the grinding of ice-bergs on afrozen shore, and heaved up their shining axes as the maddenedAkbitanan hurled himself upon them. A frosty blade flashed before hiseyes, blinding him with its brightness, a
nd he gave back a terriblestroke that sheared through his foe’s thigh. With a groan the victimfell, and at the instant Amra was dashed into the snow, his leftshoulder numb from the blow of the survivor, from which the warrior’smail had barely saved his life. Amra saw the remaining giant loomingabove him like a colossus carved of ice, etched against the glowingsky. The axe fell, to sink through the snow and deep into the frozenearth as Amra hurled himself aside and leaped to his feet. The giantroared and wrenched the axe-head free, but even as he did so, Amra’ssword sank down. The giant’s knees bent and he sank slowly into thesnow which turned crimson with the blood that gushed from hishalf-severed neck.
Amra wheeled, to see the girl standing a short distance away, staringin wide-eyed horror, all mockery gone from her face. He cried outfiercely and the blood-drops flew from his sword as his hand shook inthe intensity of his passion.
“Call the rest of your brothers!” he roared. “Call the dogs! I’ll givetheir hearts to the wolves!”
With a cry of fright she turned and fled. She did not laugh now, normock him over her shoulder. She ran as for her life, and though hestrained every nerve and thew, until his temples were like to burst andthe snow swam red to his gaze, she drew away from him, dwindling in thewitch-fire of the skies, until she was a figure no bigger than a child,then a dancing white flame on the snow, then a dim blur in thedistance. But grinding his teeth until the blood started from his gums,he reeled on, and he saw the blur grow to a dancing white flame, andthe flame to a figure big as a child; and then she was running lessthan a hundred paces ahead of him, and slowly the space narrowed, footby foot.