tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62733172896687074162024-02-20T12:55:31.932-08:00Charles Hoffman: Essays and FictionCharles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-21289238626640906032016-03-12T20:46:00.000-08:002016-03-12T20:48:44.512-08:00Making Excuses for Lovecraft's Racism<br />
By Charles Hoffman (copyright 1999, 2016)<br />
<br />
In 2015 it was announced that the World Fantasy Award would no longer bear the likeness of H. P. Lovecraft. This decision was made in the wake of complaints that Lovecraft’s privately-expressed racial views were so offensive that a miniature bust of HPL was an inappropriate trophy to present as an award, especially to minorities, in the 21st Century. <br />
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For the most part, Lovecraft fans and scholars have been straightforward in acknowledging Lovecraft’s racial prejudices. Of course there have been attempts to mitigate the charges of racism leveled against him. In <i>Crypt of Cthulhu</i> # 98, Dirk W. Mosig asked the question “Was Lovecraft a Racist?” in his essay of that title. Mosig observes that Lovecraft did not actually commit any antisocial acts, and even befriended people of various ethnic backgrounds. He also cites the stress Lovecraft endured during his New York years, when some of HPL’s most offensive diatribes were written. Mosig makes the valid point that racial attitudes were far different in Lovecraft’s day, but is on shakier ground in asserting that Lovecraft was only telling certain correspondents what they wanted to hear. While admitting “HPL indeed disliked aliens”, [1] Mosig concludes that H. P. Lovecraft was not a racist in any meaningful sense.<br />
<br />
Nice try. Now here’s the rebuttal: “When, long ago, the Gods created Earth, / In Jove’s fair image Man was shap’d at birth…” [2] Need I go on? In his biography,<i> H. P. Lovecraft: A Life</i>, S. T, Joshi concludes that Lovecraft’s racial views are “the one true black mark on his character”. [3] While endeavoring to place those views in context, Joshi is nonetheless forthright in admitting that Lovecraft was a racist. Knowing that to conquer death you only have to die, Joshi elects to censure and move on.<br />
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In this article, I’m taking a different approach from either Mosig or Joshi. I bluntly admit that Lovecraft was a racist. I also bluntly admit that I’m going to make excuses for him. This approach can’t help but to generate controversy. Race is a taboo subject today, just as sex was for the Victorians. Any frank discussion of it is nearly impossible. In the wake of the O. J. Simpson murder trial, former president Bill Clinton called for a “national dialogue” on race. This was doomed to failure due to the fearsome taboo surrounding the subject (plus the fact that Clinton was essentially saying “Let’s you and him fight.”) Another point of controversy will be my attempt to lighten things up with humor along the way. In the current climate of “political correctness,” people are incredibly thin-skinned. Mel Brooks’ outrageous film<i> Blazing Saddles</i> could not be made today. My attempts at levity may actually increase tension rather than ease it, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.<br />
<br />
Why even bother to make excuses? Because everybody else does it. Bleeding-heart liberals routinely excuse violent criminals based on their disadvantaged background. In fact, they make so many excuses that it seems like racism is the only thing they find morally reprehensible. Unfortunately for H. P. Lovecraft, his main character flaw just happens to be the one thing most thoroughly condemned in today’s society. His reputation could never have been so besmirched by alcoholism, drug abuse, or most other forms of private behavior. Thus I feel the need to defend him, or at least place his attitudes in perspective.<br />
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Here, without further ado, are my excuses for Lovecraft’s racism.<br />
<i><b><br />1. It wasn’t such a big deal back then.</b></i><br />
<br />
As far as I’ve been able to determine, the terms “racist” and “racism” first appeared in the English language around the turn of the 20th Century --and not always as pejoratives. Comparatively few people in Lovecraft’s day would have even known what the hell a racist was. It’s important to realize that the very concept underlying the term “racism” is a fairly recent development. For uncounted millennia, human society consisted of small groups banded together against outsiders. Distrust of the stranger was universal. As tribes grew into nations, first contact with foreigners usually proved antagonistic. For a very long time, most wars were waged between hereditary foes. Squabbles among neighboring peoples of similar ethnicity and language were troublesome enough. When exploration and expansion finally brought the different races into contact with one another the differences they noted in language, culture, and physical appearance were that much more pronounced. That the outsider was as either a threat or fair game is the sad story of humanity. Whether you like it or not, what we call “racism” is in unfortunate fact the default state of human perceptions regarding other ethnic and racial groups. Aggression is innate; ethics are learned behavior.<br />
<br />
Of course multi-ethnic societies did eventually come into being, but these were usually restricted to port cities, border towns, and caravan crossroads. The truest multi-ethnic, multi-racial civilization came about very recently, in America in the 19th and early 20th centuries. The process was by no means a smooth one. The Statue of Liberty with its “huddled masses” poem was a slick attempt to make a virtue of necessity. During the Gilded Age, America was making a transition from an agrarian society to an industrial one. Cheap labor was needed for industry, and immigration provided this. As America struggled to assimilate wave after wave of immigrants, the commonplace ethnic stereotypes (the drunken Irishman, the amorous Frenchman, etc.) became staples of pulp fiction and the Vaudeville stage. With the latter, humor helped to break the ice between groups. Today this sort of ethnic comedy is usually viewed in hindsight as wrong-headed, despite the innovative use of such humor by Lenny Bruce, Mel Brooks, Richard Pryor, and others. <br />
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In any event, it is important to realize that social evolution is the slow work of centuries. We don’t live long enough to see the big picture. One can only expect so much progress during one’s own lifespan. I consider myself fortunate to have witnessed the progress in race relations since my birth in the mid-fifties. We’ve come a long way, but we have a long way to go. I do think we’ve turned a corner, however. Various groups were once seen as being more different then they were alike. Now, I believe, people are seen as being more alike than they are different. This is a fairly recent outlook that owes much to technological advances in transportation and communications that have taken place over the last two centuries --not a terribly long time in the course of human events. The average Englishman in 1800 had only a vague idea what a Chinese even looked like. Inventions such as photography and, later, motion pictures, helped to show people societies in distant parts of the world. But in 1900, mass communication was in its infancy. We need to keep that in mind as we consider my next point.<br />
<b><i><br />2. HPL was a product of his environment.</i></b><br />
<br />
The wave of foreign immigration was at its high tide during Lovecraft’s boyhood in the 1890s and early 1900s. As Mosig points out, many of his attitudes concerning various ethnic groups were widespread and respectable. The world was a larger place when Lovecraft was born, with no movies or television to show Americans distant corners of the globe. The newcomers, with their strange tongues and peculiar ways, were regarded with curious bewilderment. One can easily imagine Grandpa Whipple, role model for the young HPL, expressing his dismay around the supper table. Mosig and Joshi concur that many of Lovecraft’s more severe ethnic diatribes were expressed in letters to his Aunt Lillian. This indicates that his attitude was shared by his immediate family. Such views were commonplace in the social class into which HPL was born.<br />
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Even so, some of Lovecraft’s utterances are unforgivably harsh whatever the context. We can’t let him off the hook simply because of his environment. However, it is folly to hold Lovecraft and his contemporaries to the same post-1960s standards of tolerance that we expect of our fellows. Previously racial and ethnic distinctions were given more attention, though not necessarily in a disparaging way. It was common to speak of the “English race” and the “German race” and so forth. I’ve noticed this through personal observation. I once mentioned to my aunt, a member of the World War II “Greatest Generation,” that Bruce Lee was one quarter German. She was moved to remark that that meant Brandon Lee was five eighths white. I replied, “Yeah, I guess so.“ My aunt did not have a mean bone in her body; it was just a more significant fact to her than it was to me. <br />
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<b><i>3. Nobody’s perfect.</i></b><br />
<br />
This is a matter of who gets to cast the first stone. I doubt that anyone walking the earth today is totally bereft of some form of prejudice. Even the most enlightened, gentle person is tainted by it. We have to acknowledge that people are not perfect. For example, I’m not homophobic and have really liked nearly every gay person I’ve ever met. Yet I was not always above an occasional remark like, “J. R. R. Tolkien is for faggots.” I suppose it stems from growing up in a society in which homosexuals were universally scorned (plus not really being into the little Hobbits.) Most of the time, though, I endeavor to be sensitive, yet still inadvertently commit the occasional gaffe. Not long ago, someone objected to my use of the term “Chinaman.” To me this was no different than referring to someone as an Englishman or a Frenchman, but apparently not everyone sees it this way.<br />
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Most people are no better than I am regarding prejudice of one form or another. I doubt, however, that we’ll see many people come clean about this anytime soon. One of the most insidious things about political correctness is the way in which one need only step a little out of line in order to be branded a racist, a sexist, a homophobe, or whatever. This can only lead to rancor and ill feeling far more serious than that which originally existed. James Ellroy remarked that it is very difficult for hidebound liberals to see a person’s racism as a casual attribute rather than a defining characteristic, even when such is the case. In such a climate, a “national dialogue” on race can only do harm rather than good. It would be just like picking at a scab.<br />
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Of course in Lovecraft’s case, it’s obvious from the virulence of some of his rants that he was affected by more than vestigial traces of prejudice clinging to him like gum to the sole of his shoe. Yes, Lovecraft could be an ass. He could also be much more than that. Just as people are not perfect, they are not always on their best behavior. Some commentators on Lovecraft --De Camp comes to mind-- seem unable to tell when he is serious and when he is kidding, when he is being thoughtful and when he is being flippant, when he is good humored and when he is cranky. In his letters, Lovecraft presented all his thoughts in the same lucid style. Thus it is not so surprising that a commentator might give the same weight to Lovecraft’s snap judgments and hasty generalizations as to his most carefully considered opinions. <br />
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Then there’s the matter of all those letters. Lovecraft wrote thousands of letters, a mere fraction of them published in the five volumes of his <i>Selected Letters</i>. The Cardinal Richelieu once said that, given ten lines written by any man, he could find something in them to hang him. With Lovecraft, Richelieu would have had millions of lines to work with. Lovecraft’s letters to far-flung correspondents took the place of face-to-face conversation and could range over a broad spectrum of topics. Sometimes he presented careful systematic arguments, but at other times he was simply speaking his mind at the moment. Who of us could not be condemned to the pit for some utterance made while mouthing off in private?<br />
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Lovecraft’s letters, along with his essays and other writings, cover the full range of his thoughts and beliefs concerning civilization, aesthetics, history, science, current events, philosophy, and so much more. He put it all down on paper, basically documenting the complete workings of his mind. Such extensive documentations exists for no other figure that I know of. Essentially, we have an extremely comprehensive catalog of a man’s mind and its contents, and guess what? It’s not all sunshine and lollipops.<br />
<br />
We all have a dark side, boys and girls. Some darker than others. The brighter the picture, the darker the negative. Here’s the negative of “The Shadow Out of Time”:<br />
<br />
On the Creation of Niggers<br />
<br />
When, long ago, the Gods created Earth,<br />
In Jove’s fair image Man was shap’d at birth.<br />
The beasts for lesser parts were next design’d;<br />
Yet were they too remote from humankind.<br />
To fill this gap, and join the rest to man,<br />
Th’ Olympian host conceived a clever plan.<br />
A beast they wrought, a semi-human figure.<br />
Fill’d it with vice, and call’d the thing a NIGGER. [4]<br />
<br />
Don’t blame me; I didn’t write it. I only bring it up to make a point. First, somebody out there just laughed. Like a lot of tasteless ethnic jokes, this is funny (less so if your people are the butt of the joke.) The humor derives from the juxtaposition of the high-flown language and classical imagery with the crude, heartless vulgarity of the last six words. So to create this, Lovecraft had to have realized that he was being crude, heartless, and vulgar. By extension, he knew he was being an ass. Sometimes people are just being nasty and they know it.<br />
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It’s also worth noting that Rap-master H. P. was only 21 or 22 when he wrote this charming ditty. A callow youth, in other words. When I was 21 or 22, my friends presented me with a birthday cake with an enormous red swastika drawn in icing on top of it. It was a “German chocolate cake,” get it? It didn’t mean we were pro-Nazi.<br />
<br />
“Creation” is indeed a smoking gun for anyone seeking to condemn Lovecraft on the count of racism. HPL left a lot of ammunition lying around too. In putting so much of himself on paper, Lovecraft allows us to see him at his worst. He did not intend to, however. Each letter he wrote was intended for the addressee alone, and there are times when we would do well to remember that. “Creation,” too, was doubtless intended for very few eyes. Most of us can breathe a sigh of relief that our own worst foibles have never been brought to light. Lovecraft’s racist and anti-Semitic rants in his private correspondence are the equivalent of venting behind what he thought were closed doors. They are not what he endeavored to offer the world. That would be “The Dunwich Horror,” <i>At the</i> <i>Mountains of Madness</i>, and his other literary creations.<br />
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<b><i>4. Lovecraft’s bark was worse than his bite.</i></b><br />
<br />
The portrait of Lovecraft the bigot has always been balanced by the portrait of Lovecraft the gentleman. The latter has long been the trump card of apologists like myself. Lovecraft’s adherence to a gentlemanly code of conduct is perhaps the best-documented aspect of his personality. Lying at the core of HPL’s system of ethics, this code demanded that others be treated with civility, courtesy, and respect. It extended to members of various minority groups, regardless of how much Lovecraft may have despised the group as a whole in abstract. Why he actually had Jewish friends and even married a Jewess,<i> et cetera, et cetera.</i><br />
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Usually this has been weighed as a mitigating factor whenever Lovecraft’s bigotry has been considered. Of course, it has also led to charges of hypocrisy on Lovecraft’s part as well. People are so hard to please. More serious is Joshi’s suggestion of the possibility that Lovecraft wasn’t all mouth. In <i>H. P. Lovecraft: A Life</i>, he recounts Lovecraft’s recollection of his high school days in which HPL remarks, “I became rather well known as an anti-Semite…”.[5] Joshi comments that this “is considerably embarrassing to those who wish to exculpate Lovecraft on the ground that he never took any direct action against the racial or ethnic groups he despised but merely confined his remarks to paper…[C]learly some form of physical demonstration, if only verbal, is suggested.”. [6]<br />
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Since I wish to exculpate Lovecraft, I would like to point out that HPL was thirteen or fourteen at the time. An obnoxious teenager; imagine that. Also, Lovecraft was a frail, sickly boy, so it’s hard to picture him going around picking fights. Crude taunts like “Hey, Hebe,” don’t seem his style either. If he confronted Jewish students directly, he’d be more likely to say something like, “I’m sorry, but your culture is clearly inferior.” In all probability, however, he just ran them down in conversation with non-Jewish classmates.<br />
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As an adult, Lovecraft avoided shrill rancorous arguments as distasteful. Therefore he tended to share his more bigoted opinions with those whom he believed would not be offended. In general, he did not look for trouble. I can’t help but regard this as at least somewhat commendable, considering my next point.<br />
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<b><i>5. He really had it rough.</i></b><br />
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Here’s a brief biographical sketch of H. P. Lovecraft: Lovecraft was born into an affluent family of old New England stock, and reared amid an environment of culture and privilege. The bottom fell out of everything during his adolescence, when his family lost all of its money. As an adult, Lovecraft endured humiliation and poverty.<br />
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You really could not come up with a better scenario for warping someone’s personality if you planned it that way. And it should come as no surprise that Lovecraft’s bigotry became most strident during his “New York exile,” the most miserable period of his entire life.<br />
<br />
All things considered, it’s remarkable that HPL remained as stable as he did. Some of the tribulations he endured were worse than previously thought. Joshi quotes a letter from Lovecraft’s New York period in which HPL enthuses about having acquired a heater that would enable him to prepare hot meals. Lovecraft mentions subsisting on cold beans out of a can and (yuck!) cold canned spaghetti. Possibly, he had been doing so for many months. Yet he didn’t go to a tower with a sniper rifle, or send out any letter bombs, or physically lash out at anyone even in a small way. He simply did not have it in him. I, too, have known hard times, though not as hard as Lovecraft’s. From experience, I know that his despair and inner rage must have been monumental at times. Can we cut him any slack on the racism yet?<br />
<br />
It is no mere happenstance that Lovecraft held himself together by adopting a dispassionate low-key outlook on life. Freaking out was not an option for him. Both his parents died insane, and the specter of insanity was his ultimate terror in both his life and fiction. He had personally known chronic headaches, depression, and bad nerves. As an adult, he remained vigilant against any pressures capable of spiraling him down into a withdrawal or breakdown from which he might not be able to emerge. The stress brought on by his poverty and humiliating circumstances was no mean threat. Lovecraft had to muster every inner resource at his disposal. Among his chief defense mechanisms were the aristocratic values of his native class and culture.<br />
<br />
Lovecraft would have considered the preservation of stoic dignity in the face of adversity the attribute of a true gentleman. Money he may lack. Material comfort he may lack. But his aesthetics and values could not be taken from him. He clung to these desperately, like a miser hoarding gold coins. One unfortunate result is that unsympathetic critics have ridiculed him for affectation and snobbery. More unfortunate is the fact that the Phillips family values included assumptions of Anglo-Saxon superiority.<br />
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The most insidious thing about our prejudices is that, even if we try to shed them, they’re always there to fall back on in a pinch. Lovecraft’s served him as a security blanket most of his life, but never more than in New York. There a number of factors combined to make Lovecraft’s intolerance all the more livid.<br />
<br />
First, having lived in New York myself for more than a decade, I can attest that nothing brings out the worst in people like piling eight million on top on one another. Add to this HPL’s abject poverty. Finally, whereas Lovecraft had previously dealt with various ethnic types mostly in the abstract, he was now forced to deal with them in the flesh on a daily basis. He was trapped in a world he never made, where all the bad buttons were being pressed. Hence the rants about the “loathsome Asiatic hordes who trailed their slimy carcasses where white men once walked.”<br />
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<b><i>6. Lovecraft mellowed with age.</i></b><br />
<br />
Here is another big favorite of us apologists. Lovecraft took back a lot of his intolerant rhetoric in later life. Even L. Sprague de Camp, who hammered HPL on bigotry throughout his biography, gives him credit on this score. It need not surprise us. Lovecraft was only 46 when he died, but certain comments made during his last years indicate his awareness on some level that time was running out. Many a man has sought to put aside old hatreds late in life.<br />
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This is particularly true of those who have fought long and hard against someone. For example, the brilliant Confederate cavalry commander Nathan Bedford Forrest was a slave trader before the Civil War. During the war, troops under his command carried out the infamous Fort Pillow massacre of black Union soldiers. During Reconstruction, he was appointed the first Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. Yet Forrest ultimately repudiated the Klan’s racial hatred and publicly ordered it to disband. (It actually died out in the 1870s; the modern KKK began as a recreation, circa 1920, with no links to the original organization.) He ended his days as a racial moderate, believing blacks had much to contribute to American society.<br />
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Had Lovecraft lived a fuller lifespan, he would have been seventy in 1960. He would have lived to see the early stages of the Civil Rights Movement. It seems reasonable to assume that his views would have become progressively more tolerant.<br />
<b><i><br />7. Some of Lovecraft’s views on race and culture actually have merit</i></b>.<br />
<br />
I believe I may be the first to make this point. Lovecraft may have been misguided in his strident insistence that Jews and foreign immigrants would pollute the integrity of Anglo-American culture. However, in formulating his argument, he did recognize that various peoples’ distinctive cultural traditions were worthy of preservation.<br />
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Such recognition is especially notable in a spate of letters HPL wrote in 1933. At that time the Nazis had just come to power in Germany, and Lovecraft discussed the pros and cons of Hitler’s policies with various correspondents. Lovecraft has taken considerable flak for his alleged sympathy for Hitler. It is worth noting that HPL died in early 1937, well before Crystal Night of 1938 marked the true beginning of the holocaust. Five years earlier, in 1933, Hitler had just been elected chancellor. Lovecraft is therefore discussing a figure currently in the news, not “history’s greatest monster.” Even so, HPL is astute enough to declare Hitler an “unscientific extremist” [7] and “a clown.” [8] He qualifies his view of Hitler’s policies, adding, “I do not mean to imply that his actual programme is not extreme, grotesque, and occasionally barbarous.” [9]<br />
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One element of the Hitler agenda that HPL did respond to sympathetically was the perception that the indigenous German culture was being undermined by foreign (Jewish) influences. Lovecraft often expressed the opinion that Jews wielded too much influence in New York’s literary, artistic, and intellectual circles, and this was antithetical to mainstream American culture. HPL considered this Jewish influence incompatible with American society purely on the basis of culture, rather than biology (he was not so charitable in regard to blacks). Time and again he stressed that minorities should conform to the society in which they cast their lot. However, he did not hold that Anglo-American culture, or Western European culture, was intrinsically superior to all others.<br />
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Lovecraft does indeed remark that, “Aryans ought not to leave their guidance and interpretation to persons of an irreconcilable Semitic culture,” but in the same breath insists that “Chinamen ought not to let American missionaries dictate & interpret their policies.” [10] He qualifies his anti-Semitism by saying, “If the Jews had a nation of their own (and they would if they had our guts and self-respect) I’d be the first to insist that it be kept free of Aryan influences. As it is, I honestly regret the Aryan taint (any infusion is a taint if it’s where it doesn’t belong) in the noble and ancient culture of Japan.” [11] That same year, Lovecraft prophetically warns that America must be prepared to respond to an inevitable military onslaught by Japan at some point in the future. All the same, he is moved to comment, “The Japanese carry the spirit of art into the smallest details of life more fully than any other people since the Greeks -- & it will be an irreparable loss if their newer generations lost the old spirit of it in an effort to assimilate western traditions. Hybridism never pays.” [12]<br />
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Today, there is a word for this sort of outlook; multiculturalism. It is a contemporary view that negates the old ideal of the “melting pot.” Extreme versions of it can be found on both ends of the political spectrum. On the right, we encounter white separatists (as opposed to white supremacists), who believe the races should dwell in peace, but apart. On the left, similar notions are held by Louis Farrakhan and his followers.<br />
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To weigh the validity of this position, we must consider the plight of the American Indian. In America, we revile the Nazi “Final Solution.” After all, it’s not like we ever tried to kill every Indian on the prairie. Oops, never mind. Seriously, though, it is believed that Hitler was inspired by the institution of the “reservation” to try something similar. Truly, the expansion of European civilization into the Western hemisphere was a catastrophe for the indigenous peoples. However, not every white person in 19th Century America was blithely indifferent to it. The subjugation of the Indian was roundly and rightly condemned in the liberal press. This, however, brings us to an important point: Even the most bleeding-heart liberal --even the most saintly pacifist-- felt that American Indians should be transformed into Christian farmers. The modern notion of “culturecide” did not as yet exist. And yet H. P. Lovecraft would have immediately recognized and condemned this development, even if he didn’t have the trendy catchphrase.<br />
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It is supremely ironic that certain of Lovecraft’s racial views would now actually be considered progressive. Certainly, they seem less offensive now than they did forty years ago.<br />
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<b><i>8. Remarkable individuals often do have flaws commensurate with their stature.</i></b><br />
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Imagine John Lennon beating the snot out of friend and fellow band member Stu Sutcliffe. It’s easy if you’re aware that he had a bad temper and violent streak that led to the physical and mental abuse of his wives. Alfred Hitchcock had an unhealthy obsession with his female stars, and sabotaged Tippi Hedren’s subsequent film career. Dwight Eisenhower, John Kennedy, and Martin Luther King engaged in extramarital affairs. Henry Ford was a notorious anti-Semite, as was Richard Wagner. Woodrow Wilson was an unreconstructed Southerner with all the racist views that went along with it. Thomas Edison had a reputation for unscrupulous business practices and cheating important colleagues like Nikola Tesla.<br />
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Narrowing our focus to notable literary figures, it is disconcerting to learn that Charles Dickens was a xenophobe who subjected his wife to extreme mental cruelty. Sylvia Plath, like many another writer, was suicidal --so much so that she took her life even though she was abandoning two small children. Oz creator L. Frank Baum once advocated the extermination of American Indians. In addition to being a chronic alcoholic, Jack London expressed racist sentiments, particularly in regard to the “yellow peril.” Knut Hamsun, Nobel Prize winner and Norway’s greatest author, was a Nazi sympathizer and outspoken supporter of Hitler. Ezra Pound supported Mussolini and Hitler, and even made propaganda radio broadcasts on behalf of Italy’s Fascist regime. Both Hamsun and Pound were formally charged with treason. So why isn’t Ezra Pound currently being subjected to the same flak as Lovecraft? Possibly because there are no Cantos role-playing games. Unfortunately, Lovecraft is to some extent a victim of his own popularity and posthumous success. <br />
<br />
H. P. Lovecraft was in good --or bad-- company, depending on your point of view. Also it is worth noting that Lovecraft’s bigotry remained confined to his privately-expressed personal views and did not lead him to undertake any form of political activism. <br />
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<b><i>9. H. P. Lovecraft would not be the same man, or the same writer, without the rough edges</i></b>.<br />
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And now for the big one. If this whole essay consisted of just this one point, it would be more than enough. It really renders my first eight excuses superfluous. I just wanted to stack the deck in HPL’s favor as much as possible. But the bottom line is this: what looms larger in the big picture? Is it tasteless comments and faulty reasoning expressed to friends and relatives? Or is it “The Rats in the Walls,” “The Call of Cthulhu,” “The Dunwich Horror,” and <i>At the Mountains of Madness</i>? And, yes, the former does have something to do with the latter.<br />
<br />
The most telling thing about Lovecraft’s bigotry is not its depth but its breadth. Lovecraft routinely vents his spleen on more than just the usual suspects (blacks and Jews). He remarks that, “in New England we have our own local curses…in the form of Simian Portugese, unspeakable Southern Italians, and jabbering French-Canadians. Broadly speaking, our curse is Latin, just as yours is Semitic-Mongoloid, the Mississippian’s African, the Pittsburgher’s Slavonic, the Arizonian’s Mexican, and the Californian’s Chino-Japanese.” [13]<br />
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Thus we realize that to do Lovecraft’s “racism” justice, we must call it by its proper name: xenophobia. The term “xenophobia” has long been used in connection to Lovecraft due to the fact that his aversion to various ethnic types extends to virtually all non-WASPs. Nor does he stop with the squalling Italians and jabbering Portuguese. I even recall him referring to a fellow New Englander as a “Massachusetts high hat.” Clearly, Lovecraft was capable of regarding anyone whose background disturbed him in some way as an alien.<br />
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Recognizing Lovecraft as a xenophobe does alter our estimation of him somewhat. The term indicates a deep-seated pathological dread, no less real than an acrophobic person’s fear of heights or a claustrophobic person’s terror of enclosed spaces. This in itself mitigates Lovecraft’s intolerance just a little. He was not indulging in hate for hate’s sake. Rather, he was seriously troubled by a sense of fear and revulsion that was deeply rooted in the core of his personality. Possibly, he is more deserving of pity than contempt. That said, I’m not about to excuse the neo-Nazi or Klansman on the basis of their insecurities or inadequacies. No one is likely to mistake either of these for kindly gentlemen. Lovecraft, on the other hand, seems to me not truly a bigot, but a man with a bigot on his back.<br />
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The notion of bigotry as a kind of personal demon is by no means exclusive to Lovecraft. It’s important to recognize that bigotry bedevils good men as well as bad. We can admire individuals for their accomplishments without condoning everything they do. Again, nobody’s perfect. It is largely a matter of degree that determines how reprehensible the presence of racism is in an individual, since it is hard to do away with it completely. Everyone is prey to fear and insecurity, and these are the natural manure of intolerance. Nowhere is this more true than in regard to sex.<br />
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Bet you didn’t see that coming. Sex is the true litmus test for vestigial racism among basically tolerant, easy-going males. I’ve seen more than one white liberal clutch his Channel 13 tote bag a little more tightly when some athletic black man happened to glance in the direction of his significant other. Lovecraft’s colleague, Robert E. Howard, cuts to the heart of the matter in one of his reincarnation fantasies, making this bold statement:<br />
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<i>A man is no better and no worse than his feelings regarding the women of his blood, which is the true and only test of racial consciousness. A man will take to himself the stranger woman, and sit down at meat with the stranger man, and feel no twinges of race-consciousness. It is only when he sees the alien man in possession of, or intent upon, a woman of his blood, that he realizes the difference in race and strain. So I, who had held women of many races in my arms, who was blood brother to a Pictish savage, was shaken to mad fury at the sight of an alien laying hands upon a woman of the Aesir.</i> [14]<br />
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Yow! Sounds like something touched a nerve. We also detect a little bit of a double standard here. I should point out that Howard, though he did make use of racial stereotypes, was also capable of portraying blacks and other ethnics sympathetically. In the thirties, this was a rather rare quality among Southerners, and even some New Englanders. I cite the paragraph above to call attention to a common, if not universal, male insecurity. It begins as an extension of simple jealousy; the average male doesn’t really care to see an attractive female in the arms of any other man, let alone a [fill in the blank]. This particular prejudice is common to all males, regardless of their ethnicity. It has to do with competition for females, which reaches back to the dawn of time. It must, therefore, be regarded in some sense as innate and instinctive, as Howard seems to suggest in the above passage. Only social conditioning can serve to alleviate this tendency.<br />
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I mention all this because it lies at the root of the concept of miscegenation. Miscegenation, of course, was the name given to the concern that a people’s bloodline would be tainted if diluted with an incompatible foreign (read: “inferior”) strain. The term is not heard so much today, but it was bandied about freely in Nineteenth Century America. Lovecraft was most definitely familiar with it. The very word “miscegenation” was a weighty expression with the power to batten and feed on men’s most morbid anxieties. The Nazis got considerable mileage out of crude caricatures of troll-like Jews slavering over golden-haired Rhine maidens. Of course, the double standard decrees that women of other races are fair game. A white man lying with a black woman is having an adventure; a black man lying with a white woman threatens the pillars of civilization.<br />
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This is no mere digression as far as HPL is concerned. H. P. Lovecraft wrote the great parable of miscegenation, “The Shadow Over Innsmouth.” Ironically, the asexual Lovecraft was among the small minority of men least likely to be troubled personally by sexual jealousy and its resultant anxieties. However, he did buy heavily into the belief that miscegenation posed a ghastly threat to the white race and Western civilization.<br />
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“The Shadow Over Innsmouth” stands as one of the best-known horror stories of the Twentieth Century, and rightly so. Generations have been enthralled by Lovecraft’s tale of the isolated, decaying New England seaport and its sinister inhabitants. These inhabitants, hybrids of human beings and the ocean-dwelling “Deep Ones,” are one of Lovecraft’s most fully realized horrors. They represent a nightmare of miscegenation.<br />
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Readers will recall that the Innsmouth natives begin life as more-or-less normal looking humans. As they mature, however, they acquire the loathsome “Innsmouth look,” with its leathery skin, bulging eyes, and so on. Finally, they complete their metamorphosis into full-blown Deep Ones, leaving the land behind to dwell in the depths of the ocean.<br />
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Lovecraft considered the malign suspension of natural law the most terrible conception of the human brain. With the Deep Ones, we see evolution itself thrown into reverse. Life began in the oceans, slowly migrated onto land, and developed into complex organisms. The Deep One hybrids start out on land and return to the sea. The life-cycle of natural amphibians begins with the water-breathing tadpoles that mature into air-breathing frogs and salamanders. The people of Innsmouth start out human, then devolve into sea creatures. The human fetus passes through an early stage in which vestigial gills are present, then vanish. This too is reversed in the case of Lovecraft’s Deep Ones, resulting in a backwards-running parody of natural growth.<br />
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The spawn of human and Deep One does not ultimately take after the human parent. In the end, humanity is only made monstrous. Thus we see that one of Lovecraft’s most famous classics is based on the theme of miscegenation, rooted in the author’s xenophobia.<br />
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But wait. The relationship of Lovecraft’s racism to his art involves more than just the simple equation “no xenophobia = no ‘Shadow Over Innsmouth.’” Let’s look at the Lovecraft canon as a whole. Lovecraft’s vision of cosmic horror depicts a universe in which humanity’s position is threatened by the encroachment of alien beings. These alien beings are possessed of an intelligence that is foreign to us, so much so that their mindset, objectives, and place in the universe are all utterly incompatible with our own. Sound familiar?<br />
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To read Lovecraft is to evoke the gripping dread of paranoia. This is not to say that Lovecraft was fundamentally a “paranoid.” The cogency with which he framed his thoughts in his letters, and the stoic dignity that he exhibited during hardship and before his death, indicate that he was fundamentally stable. Lovecraft’s xenophobia was an aberration, a fluke in his behavior where we can actually catch him frothing at the mouth on occasion. Here’s a memorable example from a March 1924 letter to Frank Belknap Long:<br />
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<i>…I find it hard at present to conceive of anything more utterly and ultimately loathsome than certain streets of the lower East Side where Kleiner took Loveman and me in April 1922. The organic things --Italo-Semitico-Mongoloid-- inhabiting that awful cesspool could not by any stretch of the imagination be call’d human. They were monstrous and nebulous adumbrations of the pithecanthropoid and amoebal; vaguely moulded from some stinking viscous slime of earth’s corruption, and slithering and oozing in and on the filthy streets or in and out of windows and doorways in a fashion suggestive of nothing but infesting worms or deep sea unnamablities. They --or the degenerate gelatinous fermentation of which they were composed-- seemed to ooze, seep and trickle thro’ the gaping cracks in the horrible houses…and I thought of some avenue of Cyclopean and unwholesome vats, crammed to the vomiting-point with gangrenous vileness, and about to burst and inundate the world in one leprous cataclysm of semi-fluid rottenness</i>. [15] <br />
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It is revealing to note that such racist rants are the portions of Lovecraft’s non-fiction writing that most closely resemble key passages of his horror fiction. Lovecraft’s xenophobia had one positive aspect --and by no means an insignificant one-- in the sense that <i>it put him in touch with an emotional state that he was able to approximate for creative purposes in his fiction</i>. It was, therefore, <i>germane to his art.</i><br />
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For this reason, it should not be glossed over by scholars. Many commentators, due to their personal fondness for HPL, tiptoe around his xenophobia unless it is simply unavoidable. Intellectually, there is no need for such coyness. Since at least some of his racist paranoia was sublimated into his art, it requires no apology. The panicked racist dementia Lovecraft was moved to express in the 1924 letter to Long noted above came to infuse his 1925 story, "The Horror at Red Hook." In this story Lovecraft's terror of the malignant alien invader becomes globalized, permeating the universe, but his presentation was embryonic. The following year, 1926, Lovecraft escaped New York and the foreign element that so distressed him, and returned to his native Providence. Later that same year he composed "The Call of Cthulhu," inaugurating the cycle of fully-realized cosmic horrors upon which his literary reputation rests. Interestingly, as Lovecraft's cosmic horror becomes more cogently expressed in fiction, his racist views begin to mellow and abate. I do not consider this a matter of coincidence. Rather, I see it as an example of anxiety and aggression being channeled into a positive creative outlet.<br />
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If, however, we must demand some punishment of Lovecraft for the crime of racism, let it be this: HPL’s bigotry stands out as an ugly crack in his cherished façade of an emotionally low-key personal demeanor befitting a coolly rational intellect. In spouting bile and pseudo-scientific claptrap, he allows emotion to overwhelm intellect --and veers closer to unreason and dreaded insanity than he’d care to realize..<br />
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And that should be enough to quiet the voices of indignation. It would be unwise to tamper with an artist’s personality for the sake of “improvement” even if we could. It would be like pulling on a thread in a tapestry; you can’t change one thing without changing everything. Could Robert E. Howard have written so convincingly of carnage and doom if he hadn’t been suicidal? Could H. P. Lovecraft have portrayed malignant alien beings so grippingly if he hadn’t regarded non-WASP ethnics with some degree of suspicion or even revulsion? It’s hard to say. Better we never find out.<br />
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Since no scholarly treatise is complete without a <i>Star Trek</i> analogy, I’m going to cite an early episode of the original series, “The Enemy Within” by Richard Matheson. This is possibly one of the most insightful dramatic works ever televised. In it, a teleportation accident splits Captain Kirk into two beings, one good and one evil. The evil Kirk guzzles “Saurian brandy,” sexually harasses a micro-skirted crewwoman, and causes all sorts of trouble. However, the point of the story is that the good Kirk can’t function without him. The latter is a marshmallow, unable to make the harsh but necessary decisions that enable him to command.<br />
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Consider the result of a similar experiment on Lovecraft. The bad Lovecraft might be out burning crosses, while the good HPL is home writing for <i>Parisian Life</i> or<i> Baseball Stories</i>. Maybe --just maybe-- the bigot is Lovecraft’s “enemy within.”<br />
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And with that, I’m plumb out of excuses. And I hope my attempts to lighten things with levity didn’t backfire on me. I certainly do not take bigotry itself lightly. To prove just how seriously I take it, I offer this parting message to each individual reader out there: You may be black, or you may be white. You may be a woman or you may be a man. You may be a Christian, a Jew, a Muslim, a non-believer, or something else. But whatever the case, I absolutely guarantee that there are plenty of other people out there who would be very happy to see you dead because of it. So you see, this really is everyone’s problem.<br />
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No, I’m not making light of racism. I’m just making excuses for Lovecraft.<br />
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NOTES<br />
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[1] Dirk W. Mosig, “Was Lovecraft a Racist?”, <i>Crypt of Cthulhu</i> No. 98 (Eastertide 1998), p. 6.<br />
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[2] HPL, in S. T. Joshi, <i>H. P. Lovecraft, A Life</i> (West Warwick, RI; Necronomicon Press, 1996) p. 90.<br />
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[3] S. T. Joshi, <i>H. P. Lovecraft, A Life</i> (West Warwick, RI; Necronomicon Press, 1996) p. 651.<br />
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[4] <i>Op cit</i>. See note No. 2.<br />
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[5] Joshi, p. 70.<br />
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[6] <i> Ibid</i>.<br />
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[7] HPL to J. Vernon Shea, 25 September 1933 (<i>Selected Letters IV</i>, p. 247).<br />
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[8] <i> Ibid</i>., p. 257.<br />
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[9] HPL to J. Vernon Shea, 14 August 1933 <i>(Selected Letters IV</i>, p. 235).<br />
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[10] HPL to J. Vernon Shea, 29 May 1933 (<i>Selected Letters IV</i>, p. 194).<br />
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[11] HPL to James F. Morton, 12 June 1933 (<i>Selected Letters IV</i>, p. 206).<br />
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[12] HPL to Elizabeth Toleridge, 25 March 1933 (<i>Selected Letters IV</i>, pp. 164-5).<br />
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[13] HPL to Frank Belknap Long, 21 August 1926 (<i>Selected Letters II</i>. p. 69).<br />
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[14] Robert E. Howard, <i>Marchers of Valhalla</i> (New York, Berkley Medallion, 1978), pp. 105-6.<br />
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[15] HPL to Frank Belknap Long, 21 March 1924 (<i>Selected Letters I</i>, pp. 333-4).Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-90427247656604099162016-01-20T00:40:00.000-08:002016-01-20T00:40:17.765-08:00Robert E. Howard's Big Book of Revenge<span lang="EN">
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Compiled by Charles Hoffman</div>
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Some years back Rick McCollum wrote an interesting essay entitled “The Valley of the Worm: A Gathering of Howard’s Essential Creative Themes.” He posited that “The Valley of the Worm” was the “one essential Howard tale” because it encompassed a number of familiar themes or motifs dealt with separately or a few at a time in other stories. Those cited are: Racial Drift, The Picts, Reincarnation, History, The Physical Superiority of the Barbarian, The Moral Superiority of the Barbarian, Bloodshed and Battle as a Commonplace Event, Hate and Revenge, Lost Civilizations, Unnatural Enemies, One Strong Man Against All Odds, Beneath the Earth Lurks Horror, Serpents and Apes.<br />
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Most of these occur in Howard’s fantasy tales --fittingly so, since Howard’s chief claim to fame is as a fantasist-- and to a lesser extent his horror stories. The most notable exception is Hate and Revenge, with an emphasis on revenge. Tales with a revenge theme can be found in every series and every genre in which Howard wrote. The revenge theme occurs in heroic fantasies, historical tales, horror stories, Westerns and even comedies. In some stories revenge is given a passing reference, while in others it lies at the heart of the tale. Over time I have compiled a list of 144 stories and 32 poems featuring some element of revenge. There are undoubtedly examples I have overlooked. In any event, these comprise a sizable portion of Howard’s literary output. Viewed collectively, they suggest the strength of the grip of the revenge theme on Howard’s imagination. All told, Robert E. Howard may well have written more extensively of revenge than any other author apart from George Hayduke (author of such revenge instruction manuals as <em>Get Even, Make `Em Pay, Up Yours</em>, and <em>Screw Unto</em> <em>Others</em>.)<br />
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The ubiquitous nature of revenge in Howard’s fiction stands in contrast to its comparative scarcity in everyday life. Consider how few people actually swear vendettas or embark on schemes of revenge. Usually they are deterred by legal consequences, potential repercussions, and/or moral inhibitions. It is much more common in fiction, as it furnishes a motive for the protagonist that leads to conflict and action. Howard was especially adept at using revenge as a goad for his often dark and obsessed characters. It is notable, however, that in his more distinctive tales, such as “Red Shadows” and “The Tower of the Elephant,” vengeance is undertaken on behalf of some helpless, innocent party who has been grievously wronged. And, most interestingly, his masterpieces “Red Nails” and “Worms of the Earth” are centered on the negative, toxic effects of revenge.<br />
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Here, then, are the stories and poems that make up Robert E. Howard’s Big Book of Revenge:<br />
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ALLEYS OF PERIL. Steve Costigan swears vengeance against the crooked referee who cheated him: "'I'll get you for this!' I bellered." The White Tigress informs Steve of her grudge against the same man: "'I, too, want revenge,' she breathed."<br />
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ALMURIC. After killing Boss Blaine, Esau Cairn realizes that he "could not hope to escape the vengeance of the machine that controlled the city." On Almuric, he vows vengeance against the Yagas: "And out of my sick horror grew a hate that steeled me for whatever might come, in the grim determination to ultimately repay these winged monsters for all the suffering they had inflicted."<br />
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BASTARDS ALL! Eve Hotbreech executes a plan of vengeance against Gowtu, for spanking her. Gowtu swears vengeance in kind: "'Thy vengeance, hussy! Thou'lt pay dear for thy vengeance an I be a true man!'"<br />
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BEYOND THE BLACK RIVER. Zogar Sag's plan to wipe out the Aquilonian settlers is motivated by revenge for his being thrown in a cell, "'the worst insult you can give a Pict.'" Conan and Balthus confront "`a forest devil summoned by Zogar Sag to carry out his revenge.'"<br />
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BILL SMALLEY AND THE POWER OF THE HUMAN EYE. Bill swears vengeance against a Cree Indian he believes has stolen a bear from his trap: “’My bear came along and fell into the snare,’ he orates, ‘then some son-of-a-sea-horse came along and stole my rightful prey, Grrrrrrr, wengeance gr!!’” <br />
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THE BLACK BEAR BITES (BLACK JOHN'S VENGEANCE). Black John O'Donnell invades the Dragon House to avenge the murder of Bill Lannon: "I was not seeking escape, but vengeance."<br />
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BLACK HOUND OF DEATH. Adam Grimm seeks revenge against Richard Brent for abandoning him to a hideous fate: "'I was upheld by the thought of vengeance!'"<br />
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THE BLACK STRANGER. Count Valenso flees to a remote outpost to escape a demon: "'Then I knew that the black one had escaped from the hell where the magician had bound him, and that he would seek vengeance upon me.'"<br />
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BLACK TALONS. The Ekoi tribe of West Africa sends a "leopard man" to slay Jim Reynolds for stealing their gold and killing one of their priests.<br />
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BLACK VULMEA'S VENGEANCE. Terence Vulmea seeks vengeance against John Wentyard: "'I ought to split your skull,' he wound up. 'For years I've dreamed of it, especially when I was drunk.'"<br />
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BLACK WIND BLOWING. John Bruckman is marked for death by the Black Brothers of Ahriman for deserting them.<br />
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THE BLOCK. Man swears vengeance after losing money on the stock market due to bad advice: "'If you ever cross my trail again, I'll kick you clear to Hell!'" <br />
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THE BLOOD OF BELSHAZZAR. Toghrul Kahn devises a "plan of vengeance" against Jacob.<br />
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BLOOD OF THE GODS. El Borak plans to kill Hawkston to avenge Salim.<br />
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THE BLUE FLAME OF VENGEANCE. Solomon Kane kills Jonas Hardraker in a knife fight to avenge the daughter of a friend: "'I came, following the trail of vengeance.'"<br />
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THE BULL DOG BREED. Steve Costigan fights to avenge an injury to his bull dog, Mike.<br />
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CASONETTO'S LAST SONG. The devil-worshipper Casonetto attempts to gain "promised vengeance" on Stephen Gordon from beyond the grave.<br />
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THE CASTLE OF THE DEVIL. Solomon Kane plans to avenge the victims of Baron Von Staler. "'It has fallen upon me, now and again in my sojourns through the world, to ease various evil men of their lives.'"<br />
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THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT. O'Donnel plans to kill Ketrick to avenge his people in a previous incarnation.<br />
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THE COMING OF EL BORAK. British colonel threatens to wipe out Afghan tribe if his kidnapped daughter is not returned unharmed: "'...[T]he mullah fears the vengeance of Yar Ali and the British.'"<br />
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CUPID FROM BEAR CREEK. Breckinridge Elkins loses a girl to a rival: "And they ain't no use in folks saying that what imejitly follered was done in revenge for Dolly busting me in the head with that cuspidor."<br />
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THE CURSE OF THE GOLDEN SKULL. Rotath the sorcerer places a dying curse on his own bones "that they might bring death and horror to the sons of men."<br />
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THE CURSE OF GREED. James beats the bootlegger Scarlatti for poisoning people with bad whiskey. <br />
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THE DARK MAN. Turlogh O'Brien plans to rescue Moira from the Vikings, or failing that to kill as many Vikings as possible in revenge: "'[B]ehold this token of vengeance!' And he held forth the dripping head of Thorfel."<br />
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THE DAUGHTER OF ERLIK KHAN. El Borak seeks to avenge Ahmed: "Ahmed had been his friend and had died in his service. Blood must pay for blood."<br />
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DAUGHTERS OF FEUD. The Pritchards seek to exact vengeance against Braxton Brent for siding with their foes in the Pritchard-Kirby feud.<br />
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THE DEAD REMEMBER. Ghosts gain supernatural vengeance against their murderer: "'You've killed Joel and you've killed me, but by God, you won't live to brag about it.'"<br />
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DELENDA EST. Genseric is aided in his vendetta by a mysterious stranger: "'Rome shall pay for this.'"<br />
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DERMOD'S BANE. The ghost of the fiendish Dermod O'Connor attempts to lure Michael Kirowan to his death, to avenge his own death at the hands of Kirowan's ancestor.<br />
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THE DEVIL IN HIS BRAIN. Steve beats up his wife-beating brother-in-law.<br />
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THE DEVIL'S JOKER. Black Jim Buckley wants to see Sheriff John McFarlane dead, because the Sheriff killed Buckley's brother. <br />
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THE DEVILS OF DARK LAKE. Jilted suitor Rackston Bane concocts "a devilish scheme of revenge."<br />
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THE DRAGON OF KAO TSU. Bull Davies swears vengeance for the thwarting of his plans: "'I'll get even with somebody, I bet!'"<br />
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DRUMS OF THE SUNSET. Steve Harmer swears vengeance against the Navajos he believes killed Joan Farrel: "'They killed her!' he screamed, beating his forehead with his clenched fists. 'And by God, I'll kill 'em all! I'll kill - kill -'"<br />
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A ELKINS NEVER SURRENDERS. Breckinridge Elkins becomes embroiled in a family feud: "'Nothin' but blood can wipe out a wrong to a Elkins!'"<br />
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FANGS OF GOLD. Steve Harrison agrees to help Celia Pompoloi get revenge against John Bartholomew: "'You want revenge on Bartholomew. All right; guide me there and I'll see that you get plenty.'"<br />
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THE FEUD BUSTER. Breckinridge Elkins becomes embroiled in the Warren-Barlow war.<br />
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FIST AND FANG. Santos threatens Steve Costigan with the Death of a Thousand Cuts as revenge for a humiliating defeat that ended Santos' ring career: "'Aaahhh! I pay you back!' He looked like a madman, gnashing his teeth and rolling his eyes as he roared at us."<br />
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FISTS OF THE DESERT. Boxer Kirby Karnes vows vengeance against the crooked manager who exploited him: "'I'm goin' back to the desert, where I belong --after I’ve settled this score.'"<br />
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THE GARDEN OF FEAR. Hunwulf kills Heimdul the Strong to possess Gudrun; "And then follows our long flight from the vengeance of the tribe."<br />
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GATES OF EMPIRE. Sir Guiscard de Chastillon seeks vengeance against Giles Hobson.<br />
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GENERAL IRONFIST. After being embroiled in all sorts of trouble, Steve Costigan ends up chasing Soapy Jackson "breathing threats of vengeance."<br />
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A GENT FROM THE PECOS. Jabez Watkins sees a chance to "'git even'" with Esau Hawkins.<br />
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GENTS ON THE LYNCH. After getting shot in a scheme gone wrong, Polk Williams swears vengeance against Pike Bearfield: "`I'll git even with you for this if it takes a hundred years!'“<br />
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THE GODS OF BAL-SAGOTH. Turlogh O'Brien seeks to kill Athelstane the Saxon, an ally of the Gael's hereditary foes the Vikings, because "seas of spilled blood call for vengeance!" <br />
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GRAVEYARD RATS. Joel Middleton swears "still greater vengeance against the Wilkinsons." <br />
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THE GREY GOD PASSES. Conn seeks to slay Thorwald Raven, in revenge for enslaving him.<br />
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GUNMAN'S DEBT. Joan Laree tries to kill John Kirby because he refused to kill the man who had jilted her. John Kirby and Jim Garfield are determined to kill each other because of a family feud.<br />
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GUNS OF KHARTUM. Emmett Corcoran promises an emir, "'I'll vouch for you to my Ethiopian friends, and among them you'll be safe from the vengeance of the Dervishes.'"<br />
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THE HAND OF THE BLACK GODDESS. Smuggler is marked for death by Thugs for stealing an Indian treasure.<br />
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THE HAUNTER OF THE RING. Jilted suitor Joseph Roelocke plots revenge against a happy couple.<br />
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HAWK OF THE HILLS. El Borak seeks Afdal Khan: "An urge painful in its intensity beat at his brain like a hammer that would not cease: revenge! revenge! revenge!"<br />
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HAWKS OF OUTREMER. Cormac FitzGeoffrey seeks to avenge Gerard de Gissclin: "'Hate and the glutting of vengeance!' he yelled savagely..."<br />
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HAWKS OVER EGYPT. Diego de Guzman searches for an enemy after his release from a Moorish prison: "'It was another year before I could take the road of vengeance.'"<br />
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THE HEATHEN. Town drunk mocks religion. When he falls out a window to his death a year later, the local preacher declares, "'He defied the Lord, and the Lord has taken vengeance!'"<br />
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HIGH HORSE RAMPAGE. Cousin Bearfield Buckner plans to scalp Breckinridge Elkins alive, break his legs and leave him for the buzzards after Breck’s blunders ruin Bearfield’s wedding plans.<br />
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THE HOUR OF THE DRAGON. Conan frees galley slaves, who take vengeance on their masters: "Conan's ax rose and fell without pause, and with every stroke a frothing, screaming black giant broke free, mad with hate and the fury of freedom and vengeance." Valerius suffers the vengeance of his many victims. <br />
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THE HOUSE OF OM. John Stark plans revenge against Joel Bainbridge for abandoning him to the priests of inner Mongolia: "Om told Hawksbane that he had accomplished his vengeance on Bainbridge, for the latter's treachery..."<br />
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INTRIGUE IN KURDISTAN. El Borak makes war against the Turks: "'For burned cities, for murdered children, for unarmed men massacred, for the raping of girls and the enslavement of women, Turkey is my foe.'"<br />
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IRON SHADOWS IN THE MOON. Conan hacks Shah Amurath to pieces to avenge the slaughter of the Free Companions: "'You Hyrkanian dog!' mouthed this apparition in a barbarous accent. 'The devils of vengeance have brought you here!'"<br />
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KHODA KHAN'S TALE. Yar Ali Khan vows to avenge El Borak: "'And if the Matabele slew El Borak, I will slay thee, also, Lal Singh.' said the Afghan in a voice that was like the snarl of a blood-hungry wolf."<br />
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KID GALAHAD. Kid Allison vows to avenge a damsel in distress: "'[S]how me the skunk which done this here vile and contemptible deed and I will flail the livin' daylights outa him.'"<br />
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KINGS OF THE NIGHT. Cormac of Connacht intends to slay Bran Mak Morn in retribution for the sacrifice of the Viking warriors.<br />
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KNIFE, BULLET AND NOOSE. Grizzly Gullen wants to kill the Sonora Kid to avenge Bill Galt, whom the Kid killed to avenge a cowhand.<br />
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THE LAST RIDE. Buck Laramie avenges his brother Luke by killing his murderer, Killer Rawlins.<br />
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LAW-SHOOTERS OF COWTOWN. Grizzly Elkins, jailed by corrupt lawmen, vows to "'scour the street with their blasted carcasses!'" <br />
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THE LION OF TIBERIAS. After twenty years as a galley-slave, John Norwald escapes to take vengeance on Zenghi: "'When I fainted at the oar, it was not ripping lash that roused me to life anew, but the hate that would not let me die.'"<br />
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LORD OF THE DEAD. Joan La Tour desires revenge against Steve Harrison because she believes he killed her brother Josef: "'I thought you killed him, yourself...I wanted revenge.'"<br />
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LORD OF SAMARCAND. Donald MacDeesa seeks vengeance against both Bayazid, to avenge thousands, and Timour, to avenge one. "...Donald's was the vengeful heart of those wild folk who keep the fires of feud flaming for centuries and carry grudges to the grave."<br />
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THE LOSER. Man seeks revenge against rival who cheated him at cards.<br />
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THE LOST RACE. The Picts tell Cororuc how they prey on the Britons in revenge for being driven into exile: "'You have made a free, prosperous nation into a race of earth-rats!...But at night! Ah, then for our vengeance!'"<br />
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THE MAN ON THE GROUND. Cal Reynolds seeks to kill his old enemy Esau Brill: "After a man has felt his adversary's knife grate against his bones, his adversary's thumb gouging at his eyes, his adversary's boot-heels stamped into his mouth, he is scarcely inclined to forgive and forget, regardless of the original merits of the argument."<br />
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THE MAN-EATERS OF ZAMBOULA. Conan delivers Aram Baksh to the cannibals to avenge many innocent victims: "Conan’s vengeful fingers strangled the yell in his throat."<br />
<br />
MARCHERS OF VALHALLA. Ishtar destroys Khemu in reprisal for her abuse and imprisonment by its priests.<br />
<br />
A MATTER OF AGE. Jealous wife spanks her underage rival.<br />
<br />
MISS HIGH HAT. An “insolent flapper” is publicly spanked as a comeuppance for her haughty ways.<br />
<br />
MISTRESS OF DEATH. Dark Agnes must contend with a resentful suitor: "'I know well why you wish to arrest me, Tristan,' I said coldly, approaching him with an easy tread. 'I had not been to Chartres a day before you sought to make me your mistress. Now you take this revenge upon me. Fool! I am mistress only to Death!'"<br />
<br />
MOON OF ZAMBEBWEI. The treachery of Richard Ballville and John De Albor set Bristol McGrath on a "path of vengeance."<br />
<br />
MURDERER'S GROG. Enemies conspire to get Wild Bill Clanton intoxicated on bhang, the "'drink of murder,'" in the hopes of setting him off on a rampage of revenge against a British deputy-commissioner. <br />
<br />
NAMES IN THE BLACK BOOK. Steve Harrison and Joan La Tour are marked for death by Erlik Khan for foiling his evil schemes. They are aided by Khoda Khan, an Afghan warrior "'raised in a code of blood-feud and vengeance.'"<br />
<br />
NEKHT SEMERKEHT. Plains Indian attempts to slay invading conquistador: "A vengeful yell of triumph quivered in the late afternoon stillness."<br />
<br />
NERVE. Man vows to avenge his brother: "'That was supposed to be a fair fight,' he says, 'and you, you dirty coyote, you've killed him. Well, you've got the knife and I've got nothing, but I'm going to kill you.'"<br />
<br />
THE NIGHT OF THE WOLF. Picts battle Vikings: "Driven to madness by countless outrages, the Picts were glutting their vengeance to the uttermost, and the Norse people neither looked nor asked for mercy." <br />
<br />
THE NOSELESS HORROR. A mummy takes revenge against the man responsible for its hideous fate.<br />
<br />
THE NUT'S SHELL. Barber kills unfaithful wife with a razor.<br />
<br />
OLD GARFIELD'S HEART. Jack Kirby "recovered, swearing vengeance" after the narrator scars him in a knife fight.<br />
<br />
PAY DAY. Wage slave shoots his wife's boss to avenge an insult to his wife: "Joe collapsed like an empty sack, holding his guts and howling in frightful agony and Bill emptied the gun into his jerking carcass."<br />
<br />
THE PEACEFUL PILGRIM. Bill Price swears vengeance against Breckinridge Elkins: "He shook a quivering fist at me and croaked: 'You derned murderer! I'll have yore life for this!'"<br />
<br />
THE PEOPLE OF THE BLACK CIRCLE. Yasmina plans to use Conan to get revenge on the Black Seers for the murder of her brother: "'I have devoted my life to the destruction of his murderers.'"<br />
<br />
THE PEOPLE OF THE BLACK COAST. After super-intelligent giant crabs kill his fiancée, the narrator undertakes his "red work of vengeance."<br />
<br />
THE PHOENIX ON THE SWORD. Thoth-amon summons a demon to wreak vengeance on Ascalante: "'[B]y the serpent-fangs of Set, you shall pay--'"<br />
<br />
PIGEONS FROM HELL. Joan seeks supernatural vengeance against Celia Blassenville: "'And why should one become a <i>zuvembie</i>? ' asked Buckner softly. 'Hate,' whispered the old man. 'Hate! Revenge!'"<br />
<br />
THE PURPLE HEART OF ERLIK. Wild Bill Clanton vows to avenge Arline Ellis's rape by Woon Yuen: "'I'll get that filthy cur for that!'"<br />
<br />
QUEEN OF THE BLACK COAST. Conan kills a monstrous winged ape to avenge Belit. "The black fury in his soul drove out all fear."<br />
<br />
RATTLE OF BONES. An evil inn-keeper gloats over a fallen foe: "'Now your gold shall be mine; and more than gold --vengeance!'" A sorcerer gains supernatural vengeance from beyond the grave.<br />
<br />
RED NAILS. The Techultli pound red nails into the "pillar of vengeance" to represent slain enemies.<br />
<br />
RED SHADOWS. Solomon Kane hunts down Le Loup to avenge an innocent girl: "When the full flame of his hatred was wakened and loosed, there was no rest for him until his vengeance had been fulfilled to the uttermost."<br />
<br />
RESTLESS WATERS. A ghost frightens his murderer to death.<br />
<br />
THE RIGHT HAND OF DOOM. A sorcerer gains supernatural vengeance from beyond the grave.<br />
<br />
A RINGTAILED TORNADO. Breckinridge Elkins shoots up Ace Middleton’s bar: "'You dern murderer!' says he passionately. 'I'll have yore life for this!' 'Shet up!' I snarled. 'I'm jest payin' yuh back for all the pain and humiliation I suffered in this den of iniquity.'"<br />
<br />
THE RIOT AT COUGAR PAW. Breckinridge Elkins breaks the toe of his brother John, who swears "'...I'll have his heart's blood if it's the last thing I do.'"<br />
<br />
THE ROAD OF AZRAEL Kosru Malik joins forces with Sir Eric de Cogan: "'Whither do you ride? To seek vengeance? I will ride with you.'"<br />
<br />
THE ROAD OF EAGLES. Ivan the Cossack is offered a chance to trap an enemy: "'You wish vengeance --here is a chance for both vengeance and profit...'"<br />
<br />
ROGUES IN THE HOUSE. Conan drops his treacherous former lover into a cesspool in return for betraying him to the police.<br />
<br />
SAILOR DORGAN AND THE DESTINY GORILLA. Gangster seeks revenge against Dennis Dorgan for refusing to throw a fight: "'You'll regret this,' he promised. 'I'll get you, Dorgan...'"<br />
<br />
SAILOR DORGAN AND THE TURKISH MENACE. Bill McGlory resents Abdullah's cheating to win a wrestling match: "Bill said he was going to find that Terrible Turk and beat up on him if it was the last thing he ever did."<br />
<br />
THE SCALP HUNTER. Breckinridge Elkins tracks down parties he believed scalped Uncle Jeppard Grimes: "Them fellers would be put in the pen safe out of my rech, and Uncle Jeppard's sculp was unavenged!"<br />
<br />
THE SCARLET CITADEL. Pelias the wizard gains vengeance against Tsotha-lanti for the former's imprisonment.<br />
<br />
SEA CURSE. The witch Moll Farrell places a curse on John Kulrek and his crony Lie-lip Canool after Moll's niece is "put to shame" by Kulrek: "'The sea has taken vengeance and has given me mine.'"<br />
<br />
THE SHADOW OF THE BEAST. Fugitive criminal Joe Cagle threatens an innocent girl: "'...Cagle shot my brother, and snarling like a wild beast, promised to revenge himself on me, also.'" Cagle flees from "the vengeful white men combing the country."<br />
<br />
THE SHADOW OF THE VULTURE. Suleyman has Mikhal Oglu hunt down Von Kalmbach for wounding him.<br />
<br />
SHE DEVIL. Wild Bill Clanton attacks Buck Richardson as soon as he sees him because Richardson once stole a girl from Clanton.<br />
<br />
SHIP IN MUTINY. Wild Bill Clanton thrashes Tanoa for attempting to rape Raquel O'Shane: "But for his insane fury Clanton might have wreaked his vengeance and escaped, but the American was in the grip of a berserk rage."<br />
<br />
THE SILVER HEEL. Ti Woon plans to behead Steve Harrison, whom he believes killed Ahmed: "'Blood must pay for blood.'"<br />
<br />
SKULL-FACE. Stephen Costigan seeks revenge against Kathulos for making him a drug-addicted pawn: “A fierce wild exultation surged over me. Now I could begin to pay the debt I owed Kathulos and all his hellish band!” <br />
<br />
SKULLS IN THE STARS. Solomon Kane helps a vengeful spirit find peace: "'Naught but your death will lay that ghost.'"<br />
<br />
SLUGGERS OF THE BEACH. Steve Costigan seeks to settle a score with crooked referee Red Hoolihan.<br />
<br />
SON OF THE WHITE WOLF. El Borak seeks to kill Osman to avenge a massacre: "[H]e had taken the death-trail and would not turn back while he lived."<br />
<br />
SONS OF HATE. Factions pursue a generations-old vendetta: "What a heritage of hate was theirs, molding their lives into vessels of vengeance for men who had died before they were born."<br />
<br />
THE SOPHISTICATE. Man shoots a rival for cuckolding him.<br />
<br />
SPEARS OF CLONTARF. Conn seeks to slay Thorwald Raven, in revenge for enslaving him. <br />
<br />
THE SUPREME MOMENT. Scientist Zan Uller gets revenge on humanity for the many cruelties he has suffered by allowing the world to come to an end when he could have prevented it: "'Gentlemen, this is my vengeance, this <i>the supreme moment</i>!'"<br />
<br />
SWORD WOMAN. Dark Agnes forgoes vengeance against Etienne.<br />
<br />
SWORDS OF THE NORTHERN SEA. Viking seeks combat with his hated rival: "'Vengeance!' murmured Wulfhere softly. His fierce eyes gleamed in the starlight and his huge hand locked like iron about the handle of his battle-axe."<br />
<br />
SWORDS OF THE RED BROTHERHOOD. Count Henri d'Chastillon flees to a remote outpost to escape a ju-ju man he cheated in the slave trade: "'He swore an awful vengeance upon me...'"<br />
<br />
THE THUNDER-RIDER. The Sioux slaughter Iron Heart's brother, Red Knife: "And the purpose of my life thereafter was to pay the Sioux the debt I owed them...I was Iron Heart, the Scalp-Taker, the Vengeance-Maker, the Thunder-Rider."<br />
<br />
A TOUCH OF COLOR. Robber swears vengeance against gang member who betrayed him to the police: "'I cursed him and promised to repay him when my time was up.'"<br />
<br />
THE TOWER OF THE ELEPHANT. Conan enables Yag-kosha to take vengeance on Yara: "Yara threw up his arms and fled as a madman flees, and on his heels came the avenger."<br />
<br />
THE TRACK OF BOHEMUND. Galley slave Roger de Cogan escapes and strangles his captor in his sleep.<br />
<br />
UNTITLED DRAFT. Enraged by an insult, Kull pursues Felgar. “’Men avenge their own insults in Atlantis --and though Atlantis has disowned me and I am king of Valusia-- still I am a man, by Valka!’”<br />
<br />
UNTITLED STORY ("EXILE OF ATLANTIS"). Tribesmen of Atlantis attempt to kill Kull "for violating their strange and bloody code of morals."<br />
<br />
UNTITLED SYNOPSIS ("Steve Harrison received a wire from Joan Wiltshaw..."). Joe Barwell waits "ten years to consummate his vengeance..."<br />
<br />
THE VALE OF LOST WOMEN. Livia plans to enlist Conan to gain vengeance against Bajujh: "'Kill that black dog Bajujh! Let me see his cursed head roll in the bloody dust! Kill him! <i>Kill him!</i>'"<br />
<br />
THE VALLEY OF THE LOST. The story takes place in the fifteenth year of the Reynolds-McCrill feud: "He had grown up in the atmosphere of the feud, and it had become a burning obsession with him."<br />
<br />
THE VALLEY OF THE WORM. Niord resolves to slay the Worm after the monster wipes out a settlement of his fellow <span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Æ</span>
sir.<br />
<br />
THE VOICE OF THE MOB. Wrongly accused black man fears a vengeful lynch mob.<br />
<br />
THE VULTURES OF WAHPETON. Corcoran kills Middleton to avenge Glory Bland, his sweetheart: "But if she had been a stranger, or even a person he had disliked, he would have killed Middleton for outraging a code he considered absolute." <br />
<br />
WAR ON BEAR CREEK. Uncle Jeppard Grimes swears vengeance against J. Pembroke Pemberton: "'Nothin' but blood can wipe out the stain on the family honor!...I'll git that English murderer if it's the last thing I do..."<br />
<br />
WATERFRONT LAW. Steve Costigan agrees to a grudge match with Bucko Brent: "'At last, you blasted Yank,' says he, 'I got you where I want you.'"<br />
<br />
THE WEST TOWER. Steve Allison narrates a tale of the Scottish clans: "The clashing of sword on sword ran through his narrative, oppression and rebellion, cruel injustice and savage vengeance and the ambition of a strong man."<br />
<br />
WHEN BEAR CREEK CAME TO CHAWED EAR. Breckinridge Elkins forgoes vengeance against Margaret Devon and J. Pembroke Pemberton. Wild Bill Donovan sets Breckinridge up to get even for losing Cap'n Kidd. <br />
<br />
WHEN SMOKE ROLLED. Boone Elkins writes: "You jest wait; the Sioux nation will regret shooting a Elkins behind his back."<br />
<br />
WILD WATER. Jim Reynolds seeks revenge against financier Saul Hopkins for his abuses of common people. A vengeful Bill Emmett attempts to destroy a dam to flood the town of Bisley: "'Damn 'em, oh, damn 'em! Bisley's goin' to pay! I'm goin' to wipe her out!'" <br />
<br />
WINGS IN THE NIGHT. Solomon Kane destroys the akaana to avenge the Bogondi: "'Tell me more of these devils, for by the God of my people, this deed shall not go unavenged, though Satan himself bar my way.'"<br />
<br />
A WITCH SHALL BE BORN. Conan satisfies his "red lust for vengeance" against Constantius for the former's crucifixion.<br />
<br />
WORMS OF THE EARTH. Bran Mak Morn summons the worms of the earth to take revenge on Titus Sulla: "'I will have a vengeance such as no Roman ever dreamed of!'"<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER">
POEMS</div>
<br />
AN AMERICAN EPIC. Hiram shoots hired man who kisses his girl.<br />
<br />
AT THE BAZAAR. Ghosts enact bloody vengeance against castrator of eunuchs. <br />
<br />
THE BALLAD OF BUCKSHOT ROBERTS. Billy the Kid and company lay siege to Roberts over a killing in the Lincoln County War.<br />
<br />
THE BALLAD OF KING GERAINT. Turlogh and Uther settle old scores.<br />
<br />
THE BALLAD OF NELL OF SINGAPORE. Nell murders unfaithful lover Cap McTee. <br />
<br />
BLACK HARPS IN THE HILLS. Gaels make war against hereditary foes.<br />
<br />
THE CUCKOO'S REVENGE. Deranged rejected suitor bites woman's buttocks.<br />
<br />
DEAD MAN’S HATE. Walking dead man fulfills vow of vengeance made in life.<br />
<br />
THE DEAD SLAVER’S TALE. Murdered slaves sink a slave ship.<br />
<br />
A DUNGEON OPENS. Freed prisoner is eager for vengeance against Cromwell's Puritans.<br />
<br />
ERIC OF NORWAY. Herald of Norway seeks vengeance against Eric the Viking.<br />
<br />
THE FEAR THAT FOLLOWS. Dead woman haunts her murderer.<br />
<br />
THE FEUD. Man kills the brother of a man he also killed in retribution for the killing of his son during the Lincoln County War.<br />
<br />
HATE'S DAWN. World War I soldier kills an abusive officer.<br />
<br />
JOHN KELLEY. A cry for horrible vengeance against John Kelley.<br />
<br />
JU-JU DOOM. Plunderer of black people dies of voodoo curse.<br />
<br />
THE KING AND THE MALLET. Slave dreams of the bloody overthrow of his conquerors.<br />
<br />
THE ONE BLACK STAIN. Solomon Kane contemplates revenge against Francis Drake for an unjust execution.<br />
<br />
ONE WHO COMES AT EVENTIDE. Murderer knows his victim will rise from the dead to take revenge someday. <br />
<br />
REMEMBRANCE. Man is haunted by the ghost of a man he murdered in a previous incarnation.<br />
<br />
THE RHYME OF THE THREE SLAVERS. Slave traders suffer the supernatural vengeance of their victim.<br />
<br />
THE SAND-HILLS' CREST. Impoverished moonshiner waits to ambush an enemy who turned him in to the law.<br />
<br />
SHADOWS FROM YESTERDAY. Man is haunted by memories of a man he killed in a previous incarnation.<br />
<br />
SKULLS AND DUST. Man dies from ancient curse.<br />
<br />
SKULLS AND ORCHIDS. Scorned Athenian woman kills the boy her Spartan lover has spurned her for; she is killed in turn by the Spartan.<br />
<br />
A SON OF SPARTACUS. World War I soldier kills an abusive officer.<br />
<br />
SONG BEFORE CLONTARF. Oppressed know that vengeance will soon be theirs.<br />
<br />
TARANTELLA. Mob exults in its bloody vengeance against aristocrats during the French Revolution.<br />
<br />
THOR'S SON. Shipwrecked Viking, enslaved in the East, escapes to rejoin his comrades and return with "torch and axe."<br />
<br />
TO A FRIEND. Galley slaves revolt and kill their captors.<br />
<br />
TO A WOMAN. Dead man vows vengeance against a woman. <br />
<br />
THE WHOOPANSAT OF HUMOROUS KOOKOOYAM. Husband spanks unfaithful wife.</span><br />Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-67715330061783733302015-10-02T19:11:00.000-07:002015-10-02T19:11:38.068-07:00Return to Xuthal [Originally published in The Robert E. Howard Reader, edited by Darrell Schweitzer, The Borgo Press, 2010. Copyright 2010 by Charles Hoffman.]<br />
<br />
<b>RETURN TO XUTHAL</b><br />
<b>
Howard’s Original Sin City Revisited</b>
<br />
<br />
<b>A Tale of Two Lost Cities</b><br />
<strong></strong><br />
The first Robert E. Howard story I ever read was “Xuthal of the Dusk.” I discovered it in that great old Lancer paperback, <i>Conan the Adventurer</i>. “Xuthal of the Dusk,” appearing under the title “The Slithering Shadow,” was actually the second story in the collection. Preceding it was the novella “The People of the Black Circle,” one of the most popular and acclaimed of Howard’s works. “Black Circle” was an excellent choice to open the book, the first in a series of Conan paperbacks, and introduce the character to a new generation of readers. Many years later, I do not clearly recall why I postponed reading it when I first purchased Adventurer. Possibly because it ran to nearly a hundred pages and I wanted to sample the book’s contents with a story I could complete in one sitting. “Meet Conan, the gigantic adventurer from Cimmeria—and discover one of the greatest thrills in modern fiction!” the book’s cover copy had promised. As it happened, I first met Robert E. Howard’s giant Cimmerian in the lost city of Xuthal.<br />
<br />
Lost cities have been featured in many works of adventure fiction, most famously those of H. Rider Haggard and Edgar Rice Burroughs. At the turn of the 20th Century, Africa was still very much the Dark Continent, and both Haggard and Burroughs imagined its unexplored vastness to be honeycombed with the last surviving outposts of vanished civilizations. Robert E. Howard followed closely in their footsteps in the lengthiest of his Solomon Kane stories, “The Moon of Skulls.” Kane, in the course of his wanderings through 16th Century Africa, discovers the lost city of Negari. Like Burroughs’ Opar, Negari is a lost colony of Atlantis, and its alluring queen Nakari recalls both La of Opar and Ayesha, Haggard’s “She-who-must-be-obeyed.”<br />
<br />
It was while writing the Conan stories a few years later that Howard placed his own distinctive stamp on the lost civilization genre. Conan’s Hyborian world, itself a lost age remembered only in legend, is littered with remnants of even more remote antiquities. Haunted ruins are encountered from time to time in the course of Conan’s adventures, and the Cimmerian twice discovers an entire inhabited lost city while venturing into unexplored regions. The lost cities of Xuthal and Xuchotl are found in “Xuthal of the Dusk” and “Red Nails” respectively. In both stories, the societies within the cities are in decline. Howard frequently expressed the thesis that civilizations carry the seeds of their own destruction. Xuthal and Xuchotl are both microcosms that enable the author to portray a civilization in its death throes. Their cultural decadence is emphasized by being shown from the perspective of the wilderness-bred Conan.<br />
<br />
The importance of this theme to Howard, as well as his belief that he did not quite do justice to it in “Xuthal of the Dusk,” are both demonstrated by the fact that he felt moved to return to it at greater length in “Red Nails.” The novella “Red Nails” was Howard’s final Conan story and the last fantasy he wrote before pressing financial concerns forced him to abandon fantasy altogether in favor of more commercial fiction. For his final allegorical statement, Howard returned to the themes of “Xuthal of the Dusk.”<br />
<br />
“Red Nails,” to be sure, is the superior treatment of the themes. In fact, “Red Nails” has come to be regarded as not only one of the best Conan stories, but also as one of the finest of all Howard’s works. “Xuthal of the Dusk,” on the other hand, tends to be slighted as a mid-level Conan yarn at best. In his essay “Howard’s Fantasy,” Fritz Leiber singled it out as “a good (or bad!) example of a run-of-the mill Conan story.“ (1) Patrice Louinet, in “Hyborian Genesis Part III,” asserts that “Xuthal of the Dusk is a rather inferior Conan tale…The heroine was insipid and the story was clearly exploitative.” (2)<br />
<br />
I cannot help but to regard this out-of-hand dismissal of “Xuthal of the Dusk” as unfortunate. I have already acknowledged my personal sentimental reasons for liking the story. Also, I don’t think it’s too outrageous to suggest that it would be somewhat more highly regarded were it not overshadowed by “Red Nails.” More significantly, however, I believe that “Xuthal of the Dusk” has points of interest apart from the ingredients it shares with “Red Nails.” Facets of the tale serve to illuminate aspects of the character Conan and Howard’s writing, as well as foreshadowing trends in latter day popular culture. These attributes make “Xuthal of the Dusk” an intriguing story in its own right.
<br />
<br />
<b>Fear and Loathing in Xuthal</b><br />
<br />
The first noteworthy element of the story is its very title. The lost city of Xuthal is “of the Dusk.” It has reached the end of its day. Before the story even begins, Howard employs dusk as an unambiguous metaphor for the city’s impending doom. Unfortunately, the story did not originally appear under Howard’s title. For its initial publication in the September 1933 issue of Weird Tales, editor Farnsworth Wright changed the title to “The Slithering Shadow.” This title, lurid where Howard’s was subtle, was retained when the Conan stories were collected in the Gnome Press hardback editions of the 1950’s, and in the subsequent Lancer and Ace paperback editions of the 60’s and 70’s. Surely this proved a liability that further hindered appreciation of the story over the years. Consider the awkwardness of any discerning reader attempting to cite a story called “The Slithering Shadow” as a favorite.<br />
<br />
The next point of interest is a mere line drop away. The story opens:<br />
<br />
The desert shimmered in the heat waves. Conan the Cimmerian stared out over the aching desolation and involuntarily drew the back of his powerful hand over his blackened lips. He stood like a bronze giant in the sand, apparently impervious to the murderous sun, though his only garment was a silk loin-cloth, girdled by a wide gold-buckled belt from which hung a saber and a broad-bladed poniard. On his clean-cut limbs were evidences of scarcely healed wounds.
At his feet rested a girl, one white arm clasping his knee, against which her blond head drooped. Her white skin contrasted with his hard bronzed limbs; her short silken tunic, low-necked and sleeveless, girdled at the waist, emphasized rather than concealed her lithe figure.(3)<br />
<br />
If this description sounds familiar, it is because it was the basis of Frank Frazetta’s portrait of Conan that first graced the cover of Conan the Adventurer. Starting with this image of a battle-scarred titan in a loincloth, Frazetta fine-tuned some details, such as substituting a more characteristic broadsword for the saber, and so created both his own most famous painting and the depiction of Conan that influenced every subsequent illustration of the character. It is Frazetta’s masterpiece, an iconic image, and the definitive visual portrayal of Robert E. Howard’s Conan. And it didn’t come from “The People of the Black Circle.”<br />
<br />
In addition to offering this key image to Frank Frazetta, “Xuthal of the Dusk” was essential in defining the character of Conan to Howard’s original audience, the readers who saw the saga unfold in the pages of <i>Weird Tales</i>. “Xuthal of the Dusk” was the fifth Conan story to appear in Weird Tales. The first two tales featured Conan as the middle-aged king of Aquilonia, an adventurer who seized the throne from a tyrant. The third story, “The Tower of the Elephant,” presented Conan as a teenage thief green to civilization, indicating that subsequent installments would fill in the backstory of this remarkable individual. The fourth Conan adventure, “Black Colossus,” had Conan assume the role of mercenary warrior. “Xuthal of the Dusk” followed, again featuring Conan as a wandering soldier of fortune and thus suggesting that this was the Cimmerian’s usual occupation. The Conan series was off and running.<br />
<br />
In the story, Conan and his female companion, Natala, are survivors of a defeated army whose flight leads them to the lost city of Xuthal. Xuthal is located in a vast desert south of the proto-Egyptian realm of Stygia and the black kingdom of Kush. It is my opinion that in the Hyborian Age maps featured in various Conan volumes, the southern lands, Stygia and the black countries, are not to scale. This is not unlike the Eurocentric Mercator projection maps of our own world that diminish Africa’s true immensity. In his own sketches of Conan’s world, Howard allotted more space to Stygia. It follows that Xuthal is located in the vast “African” portion of the Hyborian supercontinent, making it in a sense an African lost city in the Haggard-Burroughs tradition.<br />
<br />
Conan and Natala explore the eerie walled city, finding it seemingly deserted and haunted by some strange menace. The mysteries of Xuthal are explained when they meet a stunningly beautiful woman called Thalis. Thalis is not a native of Xuthal, but a Stygian who arrived there as a young girl. She informs the wanderers that the people of Xuthal spend most of their time in death-like slumber, dreaming hallucinogenic visions induced by their consumption of the “black lotus.“(4) The city dwellers’ science is sufficiently advanced to provide for all their basic material needs without much effort on their part. Their lives have become “vague, erratic, and without plan.”(5) Thalis also tells of a shadowy horror called Thog that stalks the city and occasionally devours an inhabitant. The Xuthalians simply accept this gruesome state of affairs with a complacent fatalism. Thalis opines that this is not so different from the human sacrifices practiced in her native Stygia.<br />
<br />
Hearing this, Conan is moved to declare, “I’d like to see a priest try to drag a Cimmerian to the altar! There’d be blood spilt, but not as the priest intended.”(6) This sort of dry action-hero wit was not characteristic of such pulp magazine do-gooders as The Shadow and Doc Savage. Wry comments such as this are much more typical of latter day heroes such as James Bond or Dirty Harry.<br />
<br />
“Xuthal of the Dusk” is one of the tales in which Robert E. Howard delineated a new type of hero –cool, supremely confident, with more than a hint of ruthlessness and sinister menace. Let us call this sort of hero “the badass” for lack of a better name. Tough and lethal, ever ready for a brawl, the badass has more in common with the hard, dangerous enemies he fights than any candy-ass types he might end up protecting. The latter regard him not with fawning admiration, but with nervous relief that he’s on their side. Though popular enough in Howard’s day, the Conan character was destined to strike a chord with the reading public in the later, raucous decades of the 1960s and `70s.<br />
<br />
It comes as no surprise that Thalis, having tired of her city-bred lovers, is attracted to Conan. She therefore attempts to get rid of Natala --but not before tying her up and whipping her. Thalis is one of the more beguiling evil women to appear in Howard’s fiction. In his essay, Fritz Leiber describes her as “sophisticated, hard as nails, sadistic, catlike, and schooled in every vice.”(7) Her name appears to have been derived from Thais, a courtesan who became the mistress of Alexander the Great, and also the name of the title character of a novel by Anatole France and an opera based on it by Jules Massenet. In “The Garden of Fear,” Howard mentions Thais in company with Cleopatra and Helen of Troy.<br />
<br />
To the readers of <i>Weird Tales</i>, Thalis the Stygian was the first femme fatale to appear in a Conan story. Howard had previously introduced the golden-haired siren Atali in “The Frost-Giant’s Daughter,” but the story did not see print in the author’s lifetime.(8) In any event, Atali has little in common with the other femmes fatale encountered by Conan. She is not a poisonous seductress, but a kind of ultimate cock-tease able to get away with her adolescent cruelty thanks to the protection of her menacing big brothers and her daddy’s power and authority. Thalis, on the other hand, is a jaded sophisticate, and the femmes fatale who subsequently appear in the series –Akivasha, Salome, and Tascela- are brunette sybarites who resemble her so closely that they could all be members of the same clique.<br />
<br />
In fact, the next of these ubervixens Howard wrote of, Akivasha, so nearly mirrors Thalis that she, too, is a Stygian princess. It is interesting to compare Conan’s first sight of each. Howard’s initial description of Thalis reads:<br />
<br />
…A figure framed itself in the doorway…It was a woman who stood there staring at them in wonder. She was tall, lithe, shaped like a goddess; clad in a narrow girdle crusted with jewels. A burnished mass of night-black hair set off the whiteness of her ivory body…The Cimmerian had never seen such a woman; her facial outline was Stygian, but she was not dusky-skinned like the Stygian women he had known; her limbs were like alabaster.(9)<br />
<br />
And here is Howard’s introduction of Akivasha in The Hour of the Dragon, written nearly a year and a half later:
<br />
<br />
…A girl stood at the mouth of a smaller tunnel, staring fixedly at him. Her ivory skin showed her to be Stygian of some ancient noble family, and like all such women she was tall, lithe, voluptuously figured, her hair a great pile of black foam, among which gleamed a sparkling ruby. But for her velvet sandals and broad jewel-crusted girdle about her supple waist she was quite nude…(10)<br />
<br />
In much of his writing, Howard seems blessed with a pipeline to his reader’s unconscious. The provocative dream-like image of an alluring woman framed in a doorway or passageway, as though poised on some mysterious threshold, seems uncannily resonant. Clearly the image of Thalis lingered long in Howard’s imagination, and undoubtedly in Conan’s as well.<br />
<br />
The blonde Natala is the dark-haired Thalis’ victim, and a character generally deemed worthy of little attention. Some commentators on Howard’s work, in an effort to proactively appease feminist critics, cite the author’s ability to create “strong female characters.” Bêlit, Valeria of the Red Brotherhood, and the Devi Yasmina are dutifully trotted out. Of course a woman like Thalis is also a “strong female character,” but the femme fatale tends to be narrowly regarded as another demeaning stereotype, rather than seen as a powerful archetype. “Insipid” heroines like Natala, who merely spice up the story in their capacities as damsel-in-distress and/or sex kitten, are scornfully noted and quickly glossed over.<br />
<br />
Natala, however, merits scrutiny precisely<em> because</em> there is so little of the “strong female character” in her makeup; she is almost astonishingly weak and passive. Compared to Natala, heroines like Octavia and Sancha are like Amazons. Wandering through Xuthal with Conan, Natala is at all times timid and easily spooked. When they discover food and drink, Natala worries that they may anger someone by helping themselves, even though she and Conan are dying of hunger and thirst. A sex kitten character like Yasmela may not be much help to Conan, but Natala is explicitly shown to be a downright hindrance. She literally steps on Conan’s heels and endangers them both by clutching at his sword-arm.<br />
<br />
Early in the story, when they are stranded in the desert, Conan actually considers putting Natala to death as an act of kindness:<br />
<br />
[Conan] had not come to the limits of his endurance, but he knew that another day under the merciless sun in those waterless wastes would bring him down. As for the girl, she had suffered enough. Better a quick painless sword-stroke than the agony that faced him.(11)<br />
<br />
The point is made that Natala is not Conan’s equal when it comes to facing the perils of the wilderness. Interestingly, Thalis, like Conan, also regards Natala as less than an equal in terms of her fitness to survive. Rather than the wilderness, however, it is the urban perils of Xuthal that Thalis declares Natala unfit to face. Still, Thalis comes to the same conclusion as Conan when she suggests that Natala should be put to the sword because of it:<br />
<br />
“…[I]t would be better for you to cut that girl’s throat with your saber, before the men of Xuthal waken and catch her. They will put her through paces she never dreamed of! She is too soft to endure what I have thrived on…”(12)<br />
<br />
Natala is thus deemed inferior in some sense to both Conan and Thalis. This point is emphatically reinforced. Crossing the desert to reach Xuthal, Conan carries Natala not only figuratively, but also literally: “Stooping, he lifted Natala in his mighty arms as though she had been an infant. She resisted weakly.”(13) Later, Thalis carries Natala with similar ease: “With a lithe strength [Natala] would not have believed possible in a woman, Thalis picked her up and carried her down the black corridor as if she had been a child…”(14)<br />
<br />
Natala and Thalis contrast startlingly with one another, no less than De Sade’s virtuous Justine and her depraved sister Juliette. Natala, the fair, is meek but good-hearted. Thalis, the dark, is haughty and cruel. “I am the daughter of a king, no common woman,” boasts Thalis.(15) Concerning Natala’s background, we are told:<br />
<br />
The girl was a Brythunian, whom Conan had found in the slave-market of a stormed Shemite city and appropriated. She had had nothing to say in the matter, but her new position was so far superior to the lot of any Hyborian woman in a Shemitish seraglio, that she accepted it thankfully…(16)<br />
<br />
Among the secondary Conan women we find a “buccaneer’s plaything,”(17) a “dancing girl” or two, and even several designated “captive.” But it is Natala who is explicitly relegated to the role of slave. The “slave girl” is, of course, a common erotic fantasy figure, her popularity attested to by John Norman’s Gor series.<br />
<br />
To the extent that she conforms to the “slave girl” fantasy, Natala compliments Thalis as well as contrasting with her. In the whipping scene, they represent different sides of the same coin: top and bottom, dominant and submissive. It is revealing that both women arrived in Xuthal under similar circumstances:<br />
<br />
[Conan and Natala] were, so far as he knew, the sole survivors of Prince Almuric’s army, that mad, motley horde which, following the defeated rebel prince of Koth, swept through the Lands of Shem like a devastating sandstorm and drenched the outlands of Stygia with blood. With a Stygian host on its heels, it had cut its way through the black kingdom of Kush only to be annihilated on the edge of the southern desert…
From that final slaughter…Conan had cut his way clear and fled on a camel with the girl. Behind them the land swarmed with enemies; the only way open to them was the desert to the south…
For days they had fled into the desert, pursued so far by Stygian horsemen that when they shook off their pursuit, they dared not turn back. They pushed on, seeking water, until the camel died…(18)<br />
<br />
Natala’s backstory is recounted in the third person, while Thalis boldly narrates her own tale:<br />
<br />
“…I was abducted by a rebel prince, who, with an army of Kushite bowmen, pushed southward into the wilderness, searching for a land he could make his own. He and all his warriors perished in the desert, but one, before he died, placed me on a camel and walked beside it until he dropped and died in his tracks. The beast wandered on, and I finally passed into delirium from thirst and hunger, and awakened in this city. They told me I had been seen from the walls early in the dawn, lying senseless beside a dead camel…”(19)<br />
<br />
Thus, both Thalis and Natala owe their presence in Xuthal to the thwarted ambition of a “rebel prince” and a subsequent flight on camelback in the company of the sole surviving warrior. In Xuthal, Thalis and Natala become rivals for Conan’s attention, possibly due in part to Thalis’s memory of her own one-time protector. There the similarities between the two women end.<br />
<br />
While Thalis is contemptuous of Conan’s “little blond” (20), we are told that “[Natala] felt small and dust-stained and insignificant before this glamorous beauty.”(21) It comes as little surprise when Thalis and Natala are joined in a scene of girl-on-girl sadomasochism. Howard has done everything to depict Natala as a meek submissive short of spelling her name with a lower case “n.”<br />
<br />
The whipping scene itself is erotically charged:<br />
<br />
…As in a nightmare Natala felt her tunic being stripped from her, and the next instant Thalis had jerked up her wrists and bound them to the ring, where she hung, naked as the day she was born, her feet barely touching the floor. Twisting her head, Natala saw Thalis unhook a jewel-handled whip from where it hung on the wall, near the ring. The lashes consisted of seven round silk cords, harder yet more pliant than leather thongs.
With a hiss of vindictive gratification, Thalis drew back her arm, and Natala shrieked as the cords curled across her loins. The tortured girl writhed, twisted and tore agonizedly at the thongs which imprisoned her wrists…Every stroke evoked screams of anguish. The whippings Natala had received in the Shemite slave-markets paled to insignificance before this…(22)<br />
<br />
This may seem strong stuff for a magazine sold over the counter in 1933. Nevertheless, this very scene was depicted in full color on the September <em>Weird Tales</em> cover. One of Margaret Brundage’s exquisite pastel compositions illustrates the whipping of a demure Natala by a stern Thalis. In a 1973 interview, Mrs. Brundage revealed that the entire print run of that month’s issue sold out, and remarked that they could have used a couple thousand extra copies. Although this was the first Brundage <em>Weird Tales</em> cover to depict a whipping scene, it was not the last.<br />
<br />
It has been suggested that <em>Weird Tales</em> began to feature whipping scenes on its covers in a bid to remain competitive with the “weird menace” magazines or “shudder pulps” that began to appear in the mid-thirties. Lurid pulps like<em> Terror Tales</em> and <em>Thrilling Mystery</em> featured covers and stories that depicted grotesque acts of sadism in the tradition of the Grand Guignol Theater of Paris. However, the first shudder pulp was <em>Dime Mystery Magazine</em>, which adopted the weird menace format in October 1933, one month after Howard’s “Xuthal of the Dusk” appeared in <em>Weird Tales</em> as “The Slithering Shadow.” <em>Terror Tales</em> did not begin publication until September 1934, nearly a year later, and its companion magazine, <em>Horror Stories</em>, debuted in January 1935. <em>Weird Tales</em> did eventually feel the heat from this competition and attempted to get in the game by inaugurating the “Doctor Satan” series, concerning a costumed sadist, in the August 1935 issue.<br />
<br />
Howard himself dabbled in the weird menace genre, later contributing “Graveyard Rats” and “Black Wind Blowing” to <em>Thrilling Mystery</em>. It has therefore been suggested that the instances of flagellation and bondage that occur in the Conan stories are examples of the author “pandering” to his readers. However, a look at the contents of Howard’s library reveals a more than passing interest in sadomasochism. “I…have in my possession a very good book on sadism and masochism by a noted German scholar,”(23) he wrote to H. P. Lovecraft. His collection also included small press publications that could be considered soft-core erotica, such as <em>An Amateur Flagellant: Experiences</em> <em>of Flagellation</em> and <em>A History of the Rod</em>. A listing of additional titles for sale such as<em> Painful</em> <em>Pleasures</em> and <em>Presented in Leather</em> was found among his papers. Glenn Lord believed that Howard was interested in acquiring such volumes for “research” purposes. The amount of “research” essential for writing for the shudder pulps notwithstanding, mild sadomasochism, such as the spanking of adult women, occurs in some of Howard’s erotic poetry as well. This does seem to indicate something more than academic interest. Considering that REH was a physically vigorous young male with no regular sexual outlet and possessed of one of the most vivid imaginations on the planet, it would actually be surprising if he possessed no kinks whatsoever.<br />
<br />
Returning to the perils of Natala, we find things going from bad to worse. Natala’s screams attract the blob-like monster Thog, which engulfs Thalis and carries her off. Before long Thog returns for Natala:<br />
<br />
…A dark tentacle-like member slid about her body, and she screamed at the touch
of it on her naked flesh. It was neither warm nor cold, rough nor smooth; it was like nothing that had ever touched her before, and at its caress she knew such fear and shame as she had never dreamed of. All the obscenity and salacious infamy spawned in the muck of the abysmal pits of Life seemed to drown her in seas of cosmic filth. And in that instant she knew that whatever form of life this thing represented it was not a beast.(24)<br />
<br />
In his essay, Fritz Leiber notes that, “The lost city is terrorized by the beast-god Thog, who dwells in a deep well which strikes me as a symbol (unconscious? –probably) of female sexuality, and who is an amorphous and ravening Lovecraftian monster with the addition of an unlikely sexual hunger…Thog kills Thalis and at least attempts the rape of Natala.”(25)<br />
<br />
Thog is some sort of gelatinous invertebrate, solid but shapeless, and Leiber regards the notion of such a creature lusting after a human female as outlandish. To Howard, however, this sequence represents a kind of ultimate perversity. Boneless, Thog is a creature composed entirely of hungry flesh, essentially a monstrous roaming appetite. We are told that the Xuthalians themselves “`live only for sensual joys. Dreaming or waking, their lives are filled with exotic ecstasies, beyond the ken of ordinary men.’”(26) Lustful and voracious, Thog is the embodiment of the city-dwellers’ unwholesome appetites. However, Thog is also a step above the Xuthalians on the food chain, devouring and defiling them in the manner of a natural predator.<br />
<br />
We have already seen that Howard was ahead of the curve when it came to introducing sadomasochistic elements into pulp fiction. In depicting Natala being violated by Thog, he was a good half-century ahead of his time. Today there is an entire pornographic sub-genre of Japanese anime commonly referred to as “tits and tentacles.” These adults-only animated cartoons portray the plight of young women, usually teenage schoolgirls, who are sexually abused by monsters very much like Thog.
<br />
<br />
The only thing even remotely resembling this in the pulps was to be found in the science fiction magazines. There covers depicted attractive female astronauts clad in skintight spacesuits and fishbowl space helmets being menaced by “bug-eyed monsters.” No sexual context was explicit or implied; it was simply a way to pair a cute damsel-in-distress with a scary monster. And again, this could not have influenced Howard. Mort Weisinger introduced the bug-eyed monster format when he became editor of <em>Wonder Stories</em> (which then became Thrilling Wonder Stories) with the August 1936 issue. Howard was dead by the time it appeared.<br />
<br />
All things considered, Natala was perfectly justified regarding her many forebodings of dread concerning Xuthal. Conan has his work cut out for him in dealing with the city’s menaces. And here too we see how Howard was ahead of his time as a purveyor of popular entertainment.<br />
<br />
When Conan and Natala first enter the city, they find the gatekeeper lying motionless in the courtyard. Cold and lifeless upon examination, the supposedly dead man rises and attacks moments later. The presumed dead or defeated menace that abruptly launches a new attack has become a horror movie cliché in recent decades. This episode is the first of several plot elements of “Xuthal of the Dusk” that exemplify motifs which became commonplace in later works of popular culture.<br />
<br />
Later, Conan finds himself under attack by twenty swordsmen of Xuthal. Unskilled and inexperienced, they are no match for Conan as he slices through them and escapes. In Fritz Leiber’s words, “Conan cuts up a besworded bunch of the `ridiculously slow and clumsy’ drug addicts in a battle described with butcher-shop thoroughness.”(27) Fred Blosser has observed that Leiber’s remarks about “butcher-shop thoroughness” seem quaint in light of today’s ultra-violent entertainment. <br />
<br />
Taking this observation further, it is worth noting that the battle of a lone protagonist against numerous multiple attackers is the chief scenario of modern video games. Frequently censured for their violence, such games often feature the hero (the game-player’s surrogate) slaughtering whole herds of enemies in bloody combat. Though seemingly hopelessly outnumbered, the hero is possessed of great prowess while his opponents are comparatively lousy. The latter are like the walking dead in George Romero-type zombie movies –another modern violent entertainment—in that they are not all that dangerous one-on-one, but potentially lethal<em> en masse</em>.<br />
<br />
In the end, of course, Conan prevails and rescues Natala. Natala believes that Conan’s flirtation with Thalis led to their troubles, and Fritz Leiber admits that “Conan’s humorous and matter-of-fact, happy acceptance of the two girls’ rivalry for him is refreshing.”(28) In her last thoughts concerning Thalis herself, Natala admits, “`She tortured me – yet I pity her.’”(29)<br />
<br />
Submissive to the last.<br />
<br />
<b>Xuchotl of the Dusk (or, Red Nails in the Sunset)</b><br />
<br />
Long after the sun set on Xuthal, Conan would tread the gloomy corridors of another lost city with a similar name, Xuchotl, in his final adventure, “Red Nails.” Like Xuthal, Xuchotl is home to a decaying civilization; only here the inhabitants are addicted to homicidal mayhem rather than sex and drugs.<br />
<br />
This was not the first instance of Howard’s reworking elements of early Conan stories into later installments of the series. Fred Blosser described how Howard recycled plot elements from “Black Colossus” and “The Scarlet Citadel” to create the novel The Hour of the Dragon, an example of what Raymond Chandler called “cannibalizing.” In this case, Howard was revamping and improving some of his best material to make his only book-length Conan adventure as hard-hitting as possible.<br />
<br />
In other instances, however, Howard may have felt that he had failed to do justice to ideas with greater potential. “Xuthal” and “Red Nails” together comprise the most notable example of this principle, but not the only example.
“Iron Shadows in the Moon,” written in November 1932, and “The Devil in Iron,” written in October 1933, both feature Conan in the Eastern lands of Hyrkania. In both stories, he is a member of the <em>kozaks</em>, marauders of the wastelands who prey on civilized outposts. However, in the former story, the power of the <em>kozaks</em> has been broken and Conan is first seen as a hunted fugitive hiding in swamps. In the latter tale, Conan is the chieftain of all the kozaks and a thorn in the side of the king himself. Both stories feature similar supernatural menaces found in an island’s haunted ruins. Yet the earlier story’s menace consists of mere “Iron Shadows,” statues that mysteriously come to life and kill some people offstage. The later story raises the stakes with a veritable “Devil in Iron” –a demon walking the earth in a body of iron because flesh is too fragile to contain it. Here we see Howard reworking the story to give it more of a punch.<br />
<br />
Howard could also revamp the concept of a previous story to create a purer subtext. Case in point: “The God in the Bowl” and “Rogues in the House.” “The God in the Bowl,” written in March 1932, was Howard’s third Conan story. It was rejected by Weird Tales, and he subsequently reconfigured elements of it in the composition of “Rogues in the House,” believed to have been written in January 1933. In both stories Conan is a youthful thief at odds with civilized society. The action of each story takes place mostly indoors, within some sort of bizarre edifice where a strange creature is on the loose.<br />
<br />
Each story was also written as an exposé of the hypocrisy and corruption of civilized authority. Characters in “The God in the Bowl” include a wealthy merchant who plans to steal a treasure and set up an employee as the fall guy, and a foppish young nobleman after the same treasure who hires and then betrays Conan. Then there are police officials who routinely torture confessions from suspects. However, the cast also includes honest men just trying to do their jobs.<br />
<br />
In “Rogues in the House,” on the other hand, <em>no one</em> is pure. The “rogues” of the title are Conan, thief and hired assassin; Murilo, another unscrupulous, foppish young nobleman; the Red Priest Nabonidus, who exploits his power in the kingdom for his own gain; and arguably the ape-man Thak, a missing link who endeavors to become more human through murder and theft. But, as though that were not enough, there is also an assortment of unsavory minor characters as well. These include Conan’s partner in crime, who deserted from the army; a priest who plays both ends against the middle as both a fence for stolen goods and a police informer; the girl who sells out Conan to the police; the girl’s new lover, yet another thief; and a jailer who accepts bribes and has underworld ties. There is also an honest jailer, but he is portrayed as petty and drunk with his own authority. A group of assassins attempt to kill the Red Priest for the good of the kingdom, but they are assassins nonetheless. Everyone is guilty of something or has something to hide.<br />
<br />
Returning to “Red Nails” and “Xuthal of the Dusk,” we find that “Red Nails” owes much more to its predecessor than those other examples of reworked stories. The lost cities of Xuthal and Xuchotl have nearly identical names, sharing the same first syllable and beginning with the letter “X” –a similarity that invites comparison. They are both located somewhere south of the black kingdoms of Kush and Darfar. Hyborian Age maps show them in roughly the same vicinity. The twin “X” cities are the Sodom and Gomorrah of Conan’s world.<br />
<br />
Conan is amazed to discover that the city of Xuchotl is constructed almost entirely of jade. In his earlier adventure, he observed that Xuthal was constructed of “a smooth greenish substance that shown almost like glass.”(30) Green or “greenish” building materials are used from time to time in the Conan series to impart a hint of eldritch menace to mysterious ruins or alien structures. The “shadowy ruins”(31) discovered in “Iron Shadows in the Moon” were built of “greenish stone.”(32) The ruins on Xapur in “The Devil in Iron” that were inexplicably rebuilt overnight, a thing “monstrously out of joint,”(33) were also erected with the “iron-like green stone found only on the islands of Vilayet.”(34) The citadel of the inhuman giants in “The Pool of the Black One” is composed of some “green semi-translucent substance”(35) that heightens the effect of architecture “alien to human sanity.”(36) Outside of the Conan canon, the winged man’s tower in “The Garden of Fear” is also built “of a curious green stone, highly polished, and of a substance that created the illusion of semi-translucency.”(37) One wonders if REH would have described the Emerald City of Oz as “monstrously out of joint” or “alien to human sanity.”<br />
<br />
In addition to being composed of similar building materials, Xuthal and Xuchotl are constructed along similar lines. Each city actually consists of a single massive self-contained structure. In “Red Nails,” this is obvious to Conan as he enters Xuchotl. In “Xuthal of the Dusk,” however, he is unaware that the buildings of Xuthal are all interconnected until Thalis so informs him. Her revelation comes when the story is well underway, suggesting that this detail occurred to Howard as he was writing it. An embryonic concept in “Xuthal of the Dusk,” the enclosed city is one of the most striking elements of “Red Nails.”
<br />
<br />
Other similarities between the two cities include the fact that the inhabitants of both have abandoned agriculture and livestock raising. Instead, all food is produced indoors. The inhabitants of Xuchotl cultivate fruit that “obtains its nourishment out of the air.”(38) In Xuthal, food is manufactured out of the “primal elements.”(39) Each city is illuminated by gems or fossils with luminescent properties. And more interestingly, each city is home to a dark-haired femme fatale whose name begins with the letter “T”—Thalis of Xuthal and Tascela of Xuchotl.<br />
<br />
Of course there are differences as well as similarities between the two stories, and the most striking departure from the earlier tale is undoubtedly the depiction of Conan’s romantic interest. In “Red Nails” the demure Natala is replaced by the bold warrior-woman, Valeria of the Red Brotherhood. Natala and Valeria are both blondes, but there the similarities end. Valeria fights at Conan’s side and more than holds her own.<br />
<br />
“Red Nails” is not without its “exploitative” elements. As in “Xuthal,” sadomasochistic elements enter the story. Unlike the winsome Natala, however, Valeria assumes the dominant role. When a young woman of Xuchotl attempts to drug her, Valeria strips her naked, ties her up, and whips her, as Thalis whipped Natala, with “hard-woven silken cords.”(40) Nevertheless, Valeria meets her match in Xuchotl’s resident femme fatale, Tascela. Their encounter ends with Valeria herself in bondage and finally nude. Readers are treated to the spectacle of a dominant woman being dominated herself.<br />
<br />
Throughout “Red Nails,” Valeria of the Red Brotherhood is presented as a fitting companion for Conan, nearly his equal --yet not quite. Mention is made of the fact that, due to spending so much of her life aboard pirate ships, Valeria cannot run very fast or very far. Therefore, when they are pursued by a carnivorous dinosaur en route to the city, Conan must pick her up and carry her along. Not unlike the meek Natala, Valeria has to be carried by Conan…for a little while at least.<br />
<br />
<b>Conclusions</b>
<br />
<br />
In evaluating “Xuthal of the Dusk” in his essay, “Hyborian Genesis,” Patrice Louinet remarks, “The basic plot of the tale –Conan and a woman finding an isolated city peopled by decadent inhabitants and a wicked woman—would indeed be considerably enriched and developed in the future Red Nails (1935). The theme had profound psychological resonance in Howard’s psyche. In late 1932, however, Howard was not ready to give it the treatment it deserved, and Xuthal of the Dusk pales in comparison with the future Conan tale.”(41)<br />
<br />
Perhaps so. Yet it bears repeating that if “Red Nails” had not been written, “Xuthal of the Dusk” would almost certainly be held in higher esteem. Apart from that, “Xuthal” deserves to be seen as more than just a kind of blueprint or rough draft for “Red Nails.”<br />
<br />
If Robert E. Howard is remembered for nothing else, he merits recognition as an important figure in twentieth century art for his key role as a pioneer of sexy, violent entertainment. Howard understood clearly that consumers of narrative art have an innate hunger to identify with protagonists placed in extreme circumstances. After all, Romanticism and its Gothic subgenre were all about unusual situations, intense moods and heightened emotional states. Sex and violence in entertainment are routinely condemned by politicians, teachers, and other authority figures that have an interest in keeping the masses docile. On the other hand, every storyteller, good or bad, knows instinctively that no situation is more dramatic than physical conflict, and that no concept is more compelling than the prospect of total sexual fulfillment. Sex and violence are like the primary colors of the artist’s palette, regardless of how they may subsequently be blended, softened and refined. Howard was adept in employing the “primal elements” of sex and violence in his prose. He made use of them in ways that were decades ahead of his time, and did so in a sure, knowing fashion. Conan eventually superseded Tarzan in the popular imagination owing in part to Howard’s awareness that the typical male’s macho fantasies don’t consist of monogamy and beating up animals.<br />
<br />
Howard was without question an accomplished purveyor of electrifying entertainment, but of course that wasn’t all he was. Many readers come to REH for the high adventure, the action and horror, the sex and violence; but they stay for the darker, more compelling aspects of his artistic vision. Howard regarded writing as a profession-- he worked at it; he didn’t play at it. He believed in giving his readers their money’s worth, yet as H. P. Lovecraft noted in his obituary of Howard, he was adept at embodying his worldview within even his most outwardly commercial fiction. Martin Scorcese acknowledged a similar practice among filmmakers when he referred to “the director as smuggler.” <br />
<br />
Concerning “Xuthal of the Dusk,” Howard wrote to Clark Ashton Smith that, “It really isn’t as exclusively devoted to sword-slashing as the announcement [in Weird Tales] might seem to imply.”(42) Even so, he later admitted to Lovecraft that he wrote “Red Nails” because “I have been dissatisfied with my handling of decaying races in stories…”(43) “Xuthal of the Dusk” may not rank among the best of the Conan stories, but as we have seen, it is a virtual showcase for the innovative manner in which Howard crafted sexy, violent entertainment. For that reason alone, it merits some attention in its own right. <br />
<br />
“Red Nails” casts a deep shadow, but “Xuthal of the Dusk” has been obscured by that slithering shadow for far too long.<br />
<br />
<strong>Works Cited:</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
Herron, Don (ed.). <em>The Dark Barbarian</em>. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1984<br />
<br />
Howard, Robert E. <em>The Bloody Crown of Conan</em>. New York: Del Rey Books, 2004.<br />
<br />
_____. <em>The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian</em>. New York: Del Rey Books, 2003.<br />
<br />
_____. <em>The Conquering Sword of Conan</em>. New York: Del Rey Books, 2005.<br />
<br />
_____. <em> Eons of the Night</em>. New York: Baen Books, 1996.<br />
<br />
_____. <em>Selected Letters, 1931 1936</em>. West Warwick, RI: Necronomicon Press, 1991.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Notes</strong>.<br />
<br />
1 Fritz Leiber, “Howard’s Fantasy,” in The Dark Man (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1984 ) p. 9.<br />
2 Patrice Louinet, “Hyborian Genesis III,” in The Conquering Sword of Conan (New York: Del Rey Books, 2005) p. 383.<br />
3 Robert E. Howard, “Xuthal of the Dusk” in The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian (New York: Del Rey Books, 2003) p. 219.<br />
4 Ibid. p. 230.
<br />
5 Ibid.<br />
6 Ibid., p. 231.
<br />
7 Leiber, op cit., pp. 9-10.<br />
8 Although Howard did donate a variant version of the tale, with the hero’s name changed to Amra of Akbitana, to a fan publication. This version has appeared under the titles, “The Frost-King’s Daughter” and “Gods of the North.”<br />
9 Howard, “Xuthal”, op cit., p. 228.<br />
10 Robert E. Howard, The Hour of the Dragon in The Bloody Crown of Conan (New York: Del Rey Books, 2004) p. 214.<br />
11 Howard, “Xuthal”, op. cit., p. 220.<br />
12 Ibid., p. 232.<br />
13 Ibid., p. 220.<br />
14 Ibid., p. 236.<br />
15 Ibid., p. 232.<br />
16 Ibid., p. 221.<br />
17 Robert E. Howard, “The Pool of the Black One” in The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian (New York: Del Rey Books, 2003) p. 255.
<br />
18 Howard, “Xuthal”, op cit., pp. 220-21.<br />
19 Ibid., p. 232.<br />
20 Ibid.<br />
21 Ibid., p. 229.<br />
22 Ibid., p. 237.<br />
23 Robert E. Howard to H.P. Lovecraft, 5 December 1935, in Selected Letters 1931-1936 (West Warwick, RI: Necronomicon Press, 1991) p. 68.<br />
24 Howard, “Xuthal”, op cit.., p. 238.
<br />
25 Leiber, op cit., p. 10.<br />
26 Howard, “Xuthal”, op cit., p. 233.<br />
27 Leiber, op cit., p. 10.<br />
28 Ibid.<br />
29 Howard, “Xuthal”, op cit., p. 247.<br />
30 Ibid., p. 221.<br />
31 Robert E. Howard, “Iron Shadows in the Moon” in The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian (New York: Del Rey Books, 2003) p. 198.<br />
32 Ibid., p. 194.
<br />
33 Robert E. Howard, “The Devil in Iron” in The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian (New York: Del Rey Books, 2003) p. 330.<br />
34 Ibid., p. 322.
<br />
35 Howard, “Pool”, op cit., p. 260.<br />
36 Ibid.
<br />
37 Robert E. Howard, “The Garden of Fear” in Eons of the Night (Riverdale, NY: Baen Books, 1996) p. 45.<br />
38 Robert E. Howard, “Red Nails” in The Conquering Sword of Conan (New York: Del Rey Books, 2005) p. 246.<br />
39 Howard, “Xuthal”, op cit., p. 230.<br />
40 Howard, “Red Nails”, p. 254.<br />
41 Patrice Louinet, “Hyborian Genesis” in The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian (New York: Del Rey Books, 2003) p. 449.<br />
42 Robert E. Howard to Clark Ashton Smith, quoted by Patrice Louinet in “Hyborian Genesis”, op cit., p. 449.<br />
43 Howard to Lovecraft, op cit., p. 72.
Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-90717471476945978292011-06-22T16:43:00.000-07:002012-01-11T15:12:50.909-08:00Remembering Wolfshead[Originally published in <em>The Dark Man: The Journal of Robert E. Howard Studies</em>, Vol. 5, No. 1, March 2010. Copyright 2010 by <em>The Dark Man</em>.]<br /><br />Robert E. Howard has been a huge part of my life. Amazing to think that I have been reading, enjoying, studying, reflecting on, and commenting on writings by and about Howard for a little over four decades. Today I am recalling a major milestone in my development as a Howard enthusiast --the 1968 Lancer Books paperback <em>Wolfshead</em> (ISBN: 0-447-73721-060).<br /><br />Like many Howard readers of my generation, my first exposure to the author's work was with my discovery of the Lancer Conan series. Marc Cerasini introduced me to the Lancer series when I was twelve. To this day, every time I hear The Doors' "Light My Fire" I flash back to when I was lying on my couch in my old house reading <em>Conan</em> <em>the Warrior</em> while the song was playing on the radio. I am not kidding when I say this happens every time I hear that song. That's the sort of impact the Conan books had on me --it was a formative, transcendental, life-altering experience. At the time I was introduced to them, four Conan volumes had already appeared: <em>Adventurer, Warrior, Conqueror</em>, and<em> Usurper</em>. These were soon followed by <em>King Kull</em> and the volume simply entitled <em>Conan</em>. I vividly recall my first sight of these on the book racks of various drug stores and 5&10 stores of that vanished era.<br /><br />I was no less excited when I first beheld the cover of <em>Wolfshead</em> displayed on the book rack. My eyes were drawn right to it, for here was another glorious, eye-popping cover painting by Frank Frazetta. The cover depicts a barbarian swordsman, this one a Nordic blond, grappling with a monstrous green serpent in some ancient temple. In the background lurks a mysterious robed figure. Now please remember that I was only thirteen at the time, and Howard was being marketed as the master of "sword and sorcery" fiction. But my initial reaction was like, wow, here's another cool barbarian character --some guy named Wolfshead!<br /><br />The other feature of that cover that immediately caught my eye was something that doesn't embarrass me now. That was the author line: Robert E. Howard. It just said "Robert E. Howard" --no "and L. Sprague de Camp," no "and Lin Carter," no "edited by L. Sprague de Camp." I grabbed the book like a junkie seizing a package of unadulterated heroin.<br /><br />When I got home I was able to examine the book more closely. I soon realized that I had embarked on a voyage of discovery. As I looked over the back-cover copy, it began to dawn on me that this was <em>not</em> a collection of stories about a single character like the previous Howard volumes. Opening the cover to the teaser page, I found the opening of the story "Wolfshead" quoted. Okay: "Wolfshead" was the name of a story and not a character. Silly me. But what hit me was that, unlike the previous Howard stories I had read, this one was written in the first person. And it was a horror story, not a heroic fantasy. In his Conan introductions, de Camp had made passing mention of the fact that Howard had written in a variety of genres. At that time, for some reason, I hadn't expected to read any of these other works. But now, I was getting my first indication that Howard was also a noteworthy author of horror stories.<br /><br />On to the introduction: The back-cover copy had promised "a special introduction by the author." I was looking forward to reading it. Finally, an introduction that did not consist of some editor's or "posthumous collaborator's" evaluation of Howard's fiction --just Howard's own take on his writing. I read what Howard had to say with interest, but in the back of my mind, I wondered when and why he had written these words. Then I reached the end of the piece, where I was startled to learn that it was an excerpt from a letter to H.P. Lovecraft. I had not read Lovecraft at this point, but was aware of him. I could not fail to recall the peculiar name I knew by reputation as that of a great horror writer. So, here was another major discovery: the Lovecraft-Howard correspondence.<br /><br />In the days that followed, I devoured the collected stories and was not disappointed. First up, "The Black Stone." This was the first Howard story that I read in a genre other than heroic fantasy, and the genre was horror. The first-person narrative was different from the third-person action tales I had read previously, but no less compelling. I savored this eerie story of mystery and menace, and it remains a favorite to this day.<br /><br />The second story in the collection was "The Valley of the Worm." I was pleased to find that heroic fantasy was by no means absent from <em>Wolfshead</em>. What do I need to say about "The Valley of the Worm"? It's a top-of-his-game Howard story, and a top-ten favorite on everybody's list. And I first read it in <em>Wolfshead</em>.<br /><br />After "Valley," we come to the story that gives the collection its title. Here was Howard's non-traditional take on a traditional icon of Gothic horror, the werewolf. "Wolfshead" is more interesting to me now in retrospect than it was upon first reading. The story, with its colorful cast gathered at a remote outpost and stalked by a demonic figure, can be seen as a precursor to a much later tale, "The Black Stranger." I'm still not quite sure why "Wolfshead" was chosen to serve as the title story for the collection when there were more impressive stories to choose from. My guess is that the title is both brief and very distinctive. And if some kid was fooled into thinking this was a collection about a new series character, that probably didn't hurt either.<br /><br />The following story, "The Fire of Asshurbanipal," contained some more notable firsts. Since I read Wolfshead long before any of Howard's westerns, I was thrilling to his depiction of gunfights for the first time. Until now it had all been swords, battle axes, and the like. And it would be years before a specialty publisher issued the tales of El Borak. "The Fire of Asshurpanipal" provided my first encounter with one of Howard's Middle Eastern adventurers.<br /><br />"The House of Arabu" was the second story in the collection to feature a blond barbarian, so the Frazetta cover wasn't totally misleading. Although the cover does not depict an actual scene from either "The Valley of the Worm" or "The House of Arabu," it captures the mood of the latter quite nicely.<br /><br />"The Horror from the Mound" was the first story I read in which the author utilized a regional Southwestern setting based on his first-hand knowledge. (Little did I then know that this story was actually Howard's first attempt to use the Southwest in his fiction.) In any case, Howard was on to something. The descriptions of the protagonist's hardscrabble existence lingered with me long after the story's vampire menace had faded.<br /><br />Rounding out the collection was "The Cairn on the Headland." This remains one of my favorite Howard horror stories. In this tale, the narrator glimpses the horrific metaphysical reality underlying the myths of old. Here also was the first reference to the battle of Clontarf that I encountered in a Howard story --or anywhere else for that matter.<br /><br />Such are my memores of <em>Wolfshead</em>, all those years ago. Hopefully, they might shed a little light on Howard's literary reemergence after decades of obscurity. Certainly that old paperback, now crumbling with age, holds a pivotal place in my own development as a Howard reader. "The Black Stone," "The Valley of the Worm," "Wolfshead," "The Fire of Asshurbanipal," "The House of Arabu," "The Horror from the Mound," and "The Cairn on the Headland" --all these are Robert E. Howard stories I read before I read Bran Mak Morn and Solomon Kane. The Dell paperback <em>Bran Mak Morn</em> was issued in 1969, and three paperbacks collecting the Solomon Kane stories appeared soon afterwards. I consider it fortuitous that publishers did not wait until all the fantasy series characters were in paperback before issuing Howard stories from other genres. Had this been so, Howard would have been pigeon-holed as a "sword and sorcery guy" that much longer.<br /><br />That is why I consider the publication of <em>Wolfshead</em> something of a milestone. In the beginning there was just Conan, King Kull, and "sword and sorcery." <em>Wolfshead</em> took me to the next level.Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-12453678943467245532010-10-28T20:06:00.000-07:002010-10-28T20:48:32.026-07:00Guns of the Border Region -- Chapter EightCHAPTER EIGHT -- HOMECOMING<br /><br />[Here it is at last, the wrap-up. And, of course, all the previous installments can be read by scrolling down. What I've tried to do here was to create a pulp adventure novel that wasn't retro, ala Indiana Jones. And the novel is autobiographical in the sense that it concerns my homeland of Southwestern Pennsylvania --not as it is, or was, but as it pleases me to imagine it.<em> Copyright 2009 by Charles Hoffman.</em>]<br /><br />The following afternoon a small group gathered for Arthur’s funeral. Pops, Shadow, Leon, Christian, and Cathy Gorman were in attendance, along with some allies from the previous day’s faction fight who wished to pay their respects. They were assembled in the small forest glade on Pops’ property where Pops had buried Steffy.<br /><br />“Room enough here for a few more graves,” Pops told Leon, “Steffy and I never had a son. Arthur is more than welcome here. I guess I’ll be joinin’ `em ere long.” He paused and looked about. Sunlight parted the clouds and slanted through the mostly-bare trees. A passing breeze rattled the boughs. A few brown leaves drifted down. “Yep,” Pops said thoughtfully, “This will be a nice little cemetery.”<br /><br />In the glade a fresh grave had been dug. A simple pine coffin had been lowered into it. Arthur rested within the coffin with the Arkansas toothpick he had borne in battle.<br /><br />Pops gave the eulogy.<br /><br />“We lay to rest a man of the Border Region. The compass of his soul guided him here, to his home. This land will be stronger with his bones in the ground.”<br /><br />Afterwards Christian led Leon, Cathy and some of the others in a prayer. Pops and Shadow stood nearby with bowed heads.<br /><br />When all was said, Pops and Leon picked up shovels and began to fill in the grave. Cathy Gorman burst into tears as the first damp clods struck the coffin lid. She sobbed more loudly as each shovelful of dirt fell. Shadow remained silent, her face as immobile as a stoic Indian’s, but tears streamed freely down her cheeks.<br /><br />Shadow lingered after the others had departed. The last words uttered at Arthur’s graveside that day were hers.<br /><br />“Fare thee well, friend. Your love was not wasted.”<br /><br />#<br /><br />Shadow found Pops seated before his fireplace. Pain dozed at his feet. Shadow took a seat on the floor next to the dog.<br /><br />Pops contemplated the flames for a moment before saying, “I guess you’re pissed at me for not letting old Pain here tear that boy’s throat out.”<br /><br />It was the first time they had spoken of it. Shadow looked up and said, “No. Not actually. I just wish I understood things better.”<br /><br />“I had to put an end to it,” Pops explained. “You dealt Mad Dog two terrible hurts. You took away his favorite son and crippled him for life. Now he’s physically handicapped and doesn’t have Sailor to back him up. His power is broken and so is he. I saw the fire go out of him, which is sad in a way, but it took the bitterness with it. He became a changed man before my eyes. Yes, it can come over a man just like that. I’ve lived a long time. I’ve seen it happen before more than once.<br /><br />“But Clanton has friends. They wouldn’t look on it too kindly if I had taken Joel from him after he had begged and pleaded with me for his life. It would be seen as an act of cruelty, me tearing the last pitiful remnants from weak grasping fingers. It would have prolonged the feud, whatever the outcome of the faction fight.<br /><br />“As it is, Clanton is forever in my debt. Everyone sees him as beholden to me. No one would back him in a move against me. Not that he would attempt such a thing now. He is not without honor in his fashion. And he may be hobbling on a stick from now on, but at least he can rightfully boast that he once used it to best Connor O’Rourke in single combat. No one can take that away from him.<br /><br />“Arthur sacrificed his life to save you,” Pops concluded, “And by dying in your stead he bought us the peace.”<br /><br />#<br /><br />After hearing Pops’ explanation, Shadow went in search of Christian. She found him out back by the still.<br /><br />“I’ve been looking for you,” she told him, “We need to talk.”<br /><br />“About what?” Christian asked.<br /><br />“About what you’re doing here. I want to know why you really came to the Border Region. And don’t give me that lame routine about looking for the girl. Anyone with more than two brain cells would have to know how futile that was. I didn’t care because I was getting paid. But now I want the real story.”<br /><br />“I was going to tell you anyway,” Christian said as he began his tale, “I’m an accountant from North Carolina, like I said. I was working in Liberty’s City as a low-level bean counter for the Confederate government. And I really was engaged to Angel. That much was true. But I did deceive you about her whereabouts. I’ve always been pretty sure she’s in New York. I didn’t lie when I said she left me. She ran off with a Muslim from the Islamic States.”<br /><br />“I suspected something of the sort,” Shadow informed him, “Go on.”<br /><br />The whole story came out. The other man was an ISA diplomat who came to Liberty’s City on a state visit. Angel met him at a party and had been swept off her feet by his debonair charm. When he returned home, she went with him. Christian had been left heartbroken and humiliated. He was plunged into a deep depression and his work suffered. At this point he was approached by a government intelligence agency, the heir to the Old Union’s CIA.<br /><br />High government officials were concerned about the possibility of a growing Muslim presence in the Border Region. The New American Confederacy, the Free Republic of Alaska, and the Border Region all formed a loose-knit confederation. In addition to utilizing a common currency, Alaskans and Border Regioners could serve in what was referred to as the American Military. The main purpose of the alliance was mutual defense. Though not a part of the New American Confederacy, the Border Region remained connected to it in certain respects. Therefore any encroachment upon the Border Region on the part of the Islamic States of America could be viewed as an indirect threat to the Confederacy. Muslims from the Islamic States might emigrate to certain areas of the Border Region and in time achieve majority status there. Then, theoretically, sections of the northern and eastern Border Region could be subsumed into the ISA county by county. For this reason, the number and location of Muslims residing in the Border Region was of concern to the Confederate government.<br /><br />Unfortunately, Confederate intelligence resources were meager compared to those of the Old Union. This was where Christian came in. He was tapped to play the jilted lover wandering the Border Region in search of his runaway sweetheart. Enough of the story was true that he could act the part convincingly. The plan was for him to get far into the rural reaches of the Border Region to scout out Muslim enclaves, if any. The Confederate spy masters had little doubt that Christian would agree to take the mission. Assuming the role of a daring secret agent would act as a balm to his injured male pride. And if he helped thwart the designs of the Islamic Federation, he would gain a measure of revenge. He was the perfect cat’s-paw.<br /><br />“You Border Regioners are suspicious of outsiders,” Christian told Shadow, “A trained agent attempting to infiltrate would be spotted a mile off. But a rank amateur like me just might be able to get away with it. Anyway, that’s what the people who recruited me thought. And that’s the whole story.”<br /><br />Shadow punched Christian in the mouth. “And that’s for lying to me in the first place,” she said as she stormed off.<br /><br />Christian rubbed his jaw and watched her ass sway as she walked away from him. He grinned sheepishly. He knew full well that if Shadow had nailed him with her best shot, he’d be flat on his back, out cold. Still, it was probably best to stay out of her way until she cooled off. That evening he unrolled his sleeping bag on Pops’ porch and slept outdoors.<br /><br />#<br /><br />Christian awoke early the next morning to the smell of venison sausage cooking inside the cabin. Shadow came out with some breakfast.<br /><br />“Rise and shine, Churchy,” she said cheerfully, “I brought you sausage and eggs.”<br /><br />“Uh, so you’re not still upset with me?” he asked.<br /><br />“We’re good,” she replied. “I just needed to be mad for a little bit.”<br /><br />They sat on the steps and ate breakfast together. When they finished she informed him, “I’m pulling out of here this morning. Have you had enough of the New Settlements?”<br /><br /><em>Merciful Lord, yes!</em> he thought. “Where are you headed?” he said.<br /><br />“Tionesta. That’s up north. Northwest, actually. It’s a couple days’ ride. I have family up there. I think you’d like it. It’s in the middle of some real nice country. And the community there is thriving. It’s a little city-state, almost. They have solar and wind electricity, and a lot of modern conveniences. It’s not like here at all.”<br /><br />“Then I’m for Tionesta!”<br /><br />After breakfast they said their goodbyes to Pops. Not long afterwards they were on the road again. Shadow rode Incitatus. Christian was astride the horse formerly owned by the late Sailor Clanton.<br /><br />Their route took them down from the mountains and back onto the main roads. The trip proved uneventful. They passed the time in conversation. Shadow mentioned looking forward to the big Halloween festival in Tionesta. <br /><br />“Halloween is not that widely celebrated in the Confederacy,” Christian informed her, “Most people tend to look on it as a pagan celebration. It’s not unheard of, but it’s sort of frowned upon.”<br /><br />“Well, Halloween is the biggest holiday in the Border Region. Hands down,” Shadow said. She went on to explain its historical and cultural significance in the Region.<br /><br />The Pennsylvania Uprising that ultimately led to the formation of the Border Region had its beginning in the Pittsburgh area. The Westsylvania secession movement started small, with a series of peaceful demonstrations. However, when a local congresswoman disparaged movement leaders as losers and misfits, things turned ugly. On the night of October 31, 2081, secession sympathizers retaliated by firebombing the congresswoman’s upscale home. This became known as the “Halloween Hellfire” incident. It was the first documented episode of violence associated with the Westsylvania secession movement. Things snowballed from there. Cities and counties erupted in rioting, open rebellion, and finally armed insurrection.<br /><br />“And today Halloween is celebrated with wild partying all over the Border Region,” Shadow concluded, “I’ve been to some really big blow-outs in Wheeling and Pittsburgh. And, as you might expect, they do it up big in Transylvania. But usually I enjoy getting back to Tionesta for the celebration.”<br /><br />It was also during the journey that Shadow filled Christian in concerning the Muslim population of the Border Region.<br /><br />“I’ve traveled all over the Region. I’ve probably wandered over more of it than most. And I really haven’t encountered all that many Muslims. You probably have just as many, or more, still residing in the Confederacy. There are no Muslim ‘enclaves’ that I know of. Just a family here and there. And these tend to be free thinkers looking to practice a less strict form of their religion. As long as they just want to live in peace and do their own thing, they’re welcome. But if they were to try and proselytize and gain converts, they would be made to feel most unwelcome. That sort of thing doesn’t go over well here.”<br /><br />Christian questioned Shadow concerning the specifics of where and when she had encountered Muslims in the Region. Finally he felt satisfied that he had enough information to put in his report when he got back to the Confederacy.<br /><br />“Why even go back?” Shadow asked, “You should stay here. You belong here. Think about it. You killed your first man before you fucked your first woman. That makes you Border Region in my book, son.”<br /><br />Christian didn’t have an answer for that one. He rode on in silence. But he did think about it.<br /><br />#<br /><br />Tionesta was an isolated community up north in Forest County. Throughout the 20th and 21st Centuries the town had been frequented by visitors. Surrounded by woodlands teeming with game and adjacent to a large lake suitable for fishing and boating, it was a popular getaway destination. Many of the residences were hunting cabins and vacation homes unoccupied for most of the year. A small permanent population provided various goods and services.<br /><br />Following the Westsylvania secession, the character of the town began to change. Counties to the north including Erie, Crawford, and Warren remained in the Pennsylvania commonwealth by treaty so as to furnish a corridor linking the Northeastern and Midwestern Islamic states. Non-Muslim residents of those areas faced the choice of abiding by Islamic authority or relocating. Many displaced residents came to resettle in and around Tionesta, swelling the population. By the early 22nd Century, Tionesta had become the model of a vital self-sufficient community. It was the northernmost outpost of the Border Region.<br /><br />Shadow and Christian arrived in Tionesta at about noon on the 31st. They headed for the center of town. There holiday festivities were already underway. The whole downtown area had been transformed into an enormous street fair. Lively crowds milled about everywhere. Handcrafted items and food of every sort was being sold at open stalls. Smoke from the grills scented the air.<br /><br />“It goes on all day and well into the night,” Shadow informed her companion, “Right now there’s feasting and dancing. After dark there’ll be masquerades.”<br /><br />After stabling the horses they joined the crowds. Before long Shadow was greeted by an old friend. At the sound of a melodic voice calling her name, she and Christian turned to see a stunning blonde coming their way. The newcomer looked to be a year or so older than Shadow and was roughly the same height and build. Christian watched the two women embrace. Then Shadow made the introductions.<br /><br />“Christian, this is Anime, or Anna Mae if you prefer. She was my partner in crime during my younger, wilder days. We used to perform in Pittsburgh clubs as a trash dance combo called Filth.”<br /><br />Christian didn’t ask what a trash dance combo was. Anime warmed him with a smile that would make any man do her bidding. “Pleased to meet you, Chris.”<br /><br />“She used to be cool,” Shadow said tartly, “Then she settled down and married my blockhead brother.” To Anime, “Where is Hondo, anyway?”<br /><br />“He’s down in Clarion visiting your parents and your kid sister Penny,” Anime replied, “Any plans to go see them?”<br /><br />“Maybe at Thanksgiving. I’ve been thinking of going down to Pittsburgh. I could book some sessions at Madame Irene’s and be back up here in time for deer season.”<br /><br />Shadow noticed the look of sick horror on Christian’s face. She set him straight. “Will you fucking relax, already? I just do domination.”<br /><br />Turning back to Anime, she asked, “So where are the kiddies?”<br /><br />“I left them with my friend Sophie to watch while I came over to see you.”<br /><br />As if on cue two little girls, perhaps four and five, came scampering out of the crowd. They ran straight to Shadow.<br /><br />“Aunt Tam!” they squealed in unison.<br /><br />Shadow cast a sidelong glance at Christian. “Not a word out of you, Church-boy.”<br /><br />Shadow knelt and hugged the children. Straightening she said to Christian, “These are my little nieces that I told you about, Lois and Margo.”<br /><br />The kids were clearly excited by a visit from their aunt. One of the tots looked up and asked, “Can we ride Incitatus?”<br /><br />“You sure can!” Shadow promised.<br /><br />Christian was moved to inquire, “Will Incitatus like giving pony rides to children?”<br /><br />“I’ll bust him in the snoot if he doesn’t,” Shadow said, then added meaningfully, “You have to show big dumb animals who’s boss.”<br /><br />Sensing something unspoken between the man and woman, Anime laughed. “You guys must be hungry,” she said.<br /><br />The group left the street fair and strolled over to a nearby park. There were more crowds of people, and more stalls selling food. Beer, wine, moonshine and cider were sold and consumed in great quantities. From a central pavilion, a band entertained the crowd. Christian remarked that the Halloween celebration seemed to have incorporated elements of Oktoberfest.<br /><br />For lunch the companions dined on pierogis at one of the picnic tables. The adults drank 33 while the kids enjoyed draft root beer. Following the meal the women got caught up. Shadow narrated her recent adventures, glossing over some of the gorier details. Anime wiped away a tear when told of Arthur’s sacrifice.<br /><br />Christian proposed a toast --”To Arthur.” He and the women raised their drinks.<br /><br />The adults sat in respectful silence for awhile. The children played nearby. The youngsters’ laughter proved infectious and the mood at the picnic table began to lighten once more.<br /><br />“You have to come up to the house and get your vampire costume,” Anime said to Shadow, “You can change before it gets dark.”<br /><br />“Great,” Shadow replied, “What about you? Are you wearing yours? It’ll be the return of the toothsome twosome.” <br /><br />“No, I’m afraid not. I’ve agreed to play Sandy this year.”<br /><br />Shadow laughed loudly and raised her beer in salute. “Halloween Hellfire!” she declared.<br /><br />From the context Christian assumed this to be a popular toast for the occasion. The reference to “Sandy” puzzled him, however. Anime filled him in.<br /><br />Sandra Popplevich was the name of the congresswoman whose home had been burned in the Halloween Hellfire episode back in `81. Over the years she became the basis for “Sandy,” an evil witch character in tales told to children. Now on Halloween in communities throughout the Border Region a local woman would dress as Sandy. The children would chase her around and she would pretend to hide. A dummy in similar attire would then be brought forth and set ablaze. <br /><br />“It’s become a big tradition,” Anime concluded, “And all the kids love it.”<br /><br />Later that afternoon the group adjourned to Anime’s home. It was located in a semi-rural area not far from the center of town. Shadow and Christian rode there on horseback. Anime and the kids drove in the family horse-and-buggy.<br /><br />Upon arrival Shadow treated Lois and Margo to the promised pony rides on Incitatus. She then stabled her horse with the others in a small barn to the rear of Anime’s property. After providing the horses with some feed, she rejoined her companions in the house.<br /><br />Anime was entertaining Christian in the living room. As Shadow came in she was telling him more about life in Tionesta; “As far as essentials are concerned, we’re totally self-sufficient. If we were cut off from the outside, we’d be okay. All of our power is wind and solar. People have been experimenting with wind and solar energy since the late 20th and early 21st Centuries, but it wasn’t produced on a large scale. Advances in the technology finally made it feasible. With communities that are energy self-sufficient, the power doesn’t have to be transmitted over long distance. So you don’t have this vast complicated infrastructure that can collapse like a house of cards.”<br /><br />Shadow yawned loudly to get their attention. “Glad to see you’re fascinating our guest. If either of want me, I’ll be upstairs getting changed.” So saying, she disappeared up the stairs.<br /><br />She came down a short time later. Christian turned at the sound of her footstep on the stair and actually caught his breath at the sight of her. Time seemed to slow and she appeared to drift down the stairs in slow motion.<br /><br />Shadow was dressed to impress. She wore a tight black merry widow corselet. Its heavily-wired cups lifted the ivory globes of her breasts, thrusting them out. Garters from the corselet extended past black panties to uphold stockings woven in an intricate spider-web pattern. On her slender feet she wore open-toed shoes with high stiletto heels. Long satin opera gloves of a deep burgundy hue extended past her elbows. Draped about her shoulders was a black velvet hooded cloak with a red satin lining.<br /><br />When Christian found his tongue he stammered, “I-I thought you were supposed to be a vampire.”<br /><br />“I’m a sexy vampire!” she said playfully.<br /><br />“You look great,” he admitted.<br /><br />“Thanks. But I still have some bruises on my face make-up won’t cover. So I’m wearing this.”<br /><br />Shadow produced a mask from somewhere. It was a grotesque affair constructed of several segments of stiff molded leather fastened together with small brass rivets. The segments --smooth domed forehead, cheekbones, upper jaw-- fitted together seamlessly to form the face of a glossy black leather skull. Christian watched uneasily as Shadow slipped the mask on. An elastic band encircling her head held it in place. Most of her face was covered by the skull mask. Only her eyes, nose and chin remained visible. She raised the hood of the cloak.<br /><br />“I can’t see your face,” Christian objected.<br /><br />“So look at my tits.”<br /><br />#<br /><br />After dusk they all headed back to town for the Halloween masquerade. The whole group managed to fit in Anime’s buggy for the ride down. Christian thought the kids looked cute in their costumes; Lois as a ghost and Margo as a black cat. Anime wore no costume, but a bag at her side contained her Sandy outfit for later. Shadow rode in silence. It was as though in donning cloak, hood and mask she had adopted a more somber, mysterious demeanor.<br /><br />The center of town was closed to vehicular traffic due to the street fair. Anime dropped Christian and Shadow off at the outskirts of the festivities, then drove away to corral the horse and buggy. The children waved goodbye as they departed.<br /><br />Night had fallen and most people at the fair were now cavorting in costume. Shadow said nothing but took Christian by the hand and led him deep into the crowds of revelers, Here there was food and drink, music and merriment. The only thing resembling this anywhere in the Confederacy was the New Orleans Mardi Gras. This seemed different and darker, however. Christian noticed that there were no funny costumes, but all the familiar figures of folklore and Gothic horror were present. And then there were the women, flaunting themselves in all manner of provocative attire. Christian, accustomed as he was to women modestly dressed, was soon sporting an erection. With an effort he avoided looking at them, and gradually it subsided.<br /><br />Shadow led Christian to the town square. Here a stage had been set up and the community’s children, including Lois and Margo, were being entertained by a puppet show. In the middle of the performance a strange costumed figure came skulking onto the stage. Christian recognized Anime despite her ragged robes, pointed witch’s hat and fake hook nose. She now began to lurch about making menacing gestures. The puppet master reacted in mock horror. “Oh no, it’s Sandy!” he cried, “Help me, kids, help me!”<br /><br />Dozens of laughing, screaming, jumping children rose up en masse and stormed the stage. “Sandy” was forced to retreat. The crowds parted to allow the youngsters to pursue the robed figure through the streets. She eventually took refuge in one of the shops along the main drag. The door locked behind her and she vanished into one of the back rooms.<br /><br />Presently two large men in devil costumes emerged bearing a dummy garbed as Sandy on pitchforks. They went forth into the streets brandishing the dummy aloft. The children followed them through the cheering, jeering throngs as they returned to the town square. There a noose had been thrown over a lamppost. The neck of the dummy was placed in the noose and the mannequin was hoisted upwards. A third man in a devil costume stepped forward holding an upraised torch and set the dummy afire. Cries of “Halloween Hellfire” echoed through the crowd.<br /><br />“A bit gruesome,” Christian observed.<br /><br />“Let’s take a walk through Pumpkin-Land,” Shadow said in response, “It might calm your nerves.”<br /><br />He did not question her as she took his hand once more and led him away. The din of the crowd faded behind them as they entered the park where they had eaten lunch that afternoon. In a meadow and along the slope of a hill the townsfolk had placed hundreds of glowing jack-o-lanterns. Pumpkins large and small had been carved into an assortment of frightful and mournful visages. The candles flickering within them cast a pale unsteady illumination, like that produced by scores of winking fireflies. Shadow and Christian were not alone. Other couples sauntered about. The total effect of the scene was one of strange, eerie, peaceful beauty.<br /><br />Christian was deep in thought. This land, this Border Region, was a land a man like Arthur had watered with his blood. Christian now felt that he could make a home here. He thought of Anime. Had she not once been as wild as Shadow? Now she was wife to some lucky man.<br /><br />When he was ready, he spoke.<br /><br />“Shadow, will you take off your mask?”<br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />“I want to kiss you.”<br /><br />“Okay.”<br /><br />She lowered her hood and removed the mask. The couple embraced and kissed passionately. Shadow was impressed; the boy was learning.<br /><br />After they disengaged he said softly, “I’m planning on moving to the Border Region. I could probably make a good living in one of the city-states. I still have to go back and make my report, but then I’ll be free of obligations.”<br /><br />He paused, hesitated, and then continued, “And there’s another thing. I want to marry you.”<br /><br />Shadow was a little surprised, but only a little. <em>I’ll bet you do</em>, she thought, <em>We screwed out of wedlock, and that would give it a kind of retroactive legitimacy. Nice try, Church-boy</em>.<br /><br />“Not so fast,” she replied. She preferred doing things her way and she wanted to test him, so she said, “You can start off being my personal fuck-toy and we’ll work it from there. How’s that?’<br /><br />He had to think about it, but not for long. “That’ll be fine.”<br /><br />“Good. So when do you think you’ll be heading home?<br /><br />“I’ll be heading down the to the Confederacy in a day or two. Once there I can give my report and get my affairs in order. Then I’ll be back.<br /><br />“But as to when I’m heading home, I’m already home. Home is here. In the Border Region. With you.”Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-27810261901222664842010-10-13T18:40:00.000-07:002010-10-14T18:43:17.182-07:00Guns of the Border Region -- Chapter SevenCHAPTER SEVEN -- THUNDER OF THE FEUD<br /><br />[Copyright 2009 by Charles Hoffman]<br /><br /><em>This isn’t over by a long shot</em>. Such was Pops’ assessment of the situation when informed of the gory details of Shadow’s encounters with Karla and Sailor Clanton. He kept his thoughts to himself for the time being, however. There would be time enough to deal with matters and make future plans on the morrow. For this evening, he busied himself preparing a hearty supper. He knew Shadow and Christian would sleep better with a good hot meal in their bellies. He wanted them to be refreshed and rested when they drew their plans for the trouble that lay ahead.<br /><br />Shadow and Christian retired to Pop’s bedroom once again. There Christian unrolled his sleeping bag by the bed. <em>So we’re back to that</em>, Shadow thought.<br /><br />“It’s better this way, at least for now,” Christian said by way of explanation, “I know I let you down.”<br /><br />At first light, Pops set out for Leon’s cabin. Leon and Arthur had returned there on the same day Shadow and Christian had gone to Eden. Pops needed to inform them of recent developments and to learn if they had caught wind of any news that might have come drifting down the trails from the north.<br /><br />Back at Pops’ cabin Shadow and Christian took turns freshening up in the bathhouse. Shadow went first.<br /><br />While Christian made use of the facility, Shadow selected a change of clothes from a trunk of her belongings left in Pops’ keeping. Standing before a mirror she admired her reflection clad in the late Sailor Clanton’s red mesh tank top. <em>This thing</em> <em>shows pretty much everything I got</em>, she mused, <em>It would look</em> <em>jus</em><em>t hot enough if I wore it over one of Steffy’s black bras. But there’s</em> <em>no way I could fill one of</em> those <em>out</em>. Upon further reflection, she just decided to get rid of it. She really didn’t need any reminders of Sailor Clanton after all.<br /><br />She also decided that it was getting a little chilly for crotch-huggers. She switched those for a pair of waist-high leather pants. The top she selected was a simple black sleeveless t-shirt with a scoop neck. Shadow completed her ensemble with a new pair of unadorned wrist gauntlets that covered half the length of her forearms, furnishing protection and stability for her gun and knife hands. Now she felt ready for business.<br /><br />#<br /><br />It was late afternoon when Pops returned with Leon and Arthur. Pain’s bark alerted Shadow as they rode up. She greeted Leon and Arthur with warm hugs. Christian couldn’t help but notice that she seemed especially glad to see the latter. Presently they all gathered around Pops’ table to discuss matters. Leon and Arthur had already been given a summary of events. Now Shadow related a fuller account.<br /><br />“This touches us all,” she told the group, “So you have a right to know everything, and that means the ugly stuff.” She then proceeded to narrate her recent misadventures, omitting only the tryst with Christian. As she told of her abduction and rape by Clanton, she felt the mood in the room grow grim. She noted the firm set of Leon’s jaw and the outrage blazing in Arthur’s eyes. Most of all, she was acutely aware of the tremor of Pops’ tightly clenched fists. It was as though he was fighting to control their independent urge to rend and smash. Shadow hastened to the part of her tale that concerned her bloody revenge. She sensed the group’s mood shift again in light of that revelation and their growing awareness of her ability to give payback with liberal interest. All the men, except for Pops, grew very quiet and still after glimpsing this frightening side of her.<br /><br />“Anyway,” she concluded, “There’s more trouble on the way. Sorry, guys. The shit-storm about to come down is all my fault.”<br /><br />“That’s bullshit,” Leon objected, “This started when Clanton trespassed on my property, shot up my home and wrecked our still. He might not have actually been trying to kill Arthur and me, but it could have happened real easy.”<br /><br />“Maybe so,” Shadow admitted, “But there was no actual bloodshed until I got into the act. I went up the trail and left five bodies on the ground before I came back down.”<br /><br />Christian didn’t hesitate to correct her, “That’s just four bodies, actually. One of them was my doing, God forgive me.”<br /><br />Shadow favored him with a warm smile, “Thanks, Quick Draw.” <br /><br />“And Karla got dead by her own choice,” Leon added, eager to offer encouragement, “We heard about that the next day. You didn’t go for a weapon until she did. There were any number of people there who saw it and will swear to it.”<br /><br />“That’s all well and good, Leon. But what I did to Sailor Clanton’s boys was sheer murder.”<br /><br />Christian spoke up again, his voice uncharacteristically stern, “Shadow, I was there and didn’t lift a finger to stop you. If you’re guilty of something, so am I. But I’ll never forget how I found you.” He vividly recalled the sight of her bound, raped, flogged and pistol-whipped. The others could see the gun barrel-shaped bruise that marred her face. “They would hang in any state in the Confederacy,” Christian concluded.<br /><br />Now it was Pops’ turn. “Sailor Clanton has been running amok for years. There was bound to be a bullet with his name on it sooner or later. I say good riddance. The world becomes a little more like Hell every time an asshole gets his way.”<br /><br />“Who actually knows that you killed Clanton?” Arthur asked Shadow.<br /><br />“Just you guys,” she said, “But everyone in Eden knows I was looking for him. And somebody would have investigated the burnt cabin. The smoke could be seen for miles.” <br /><br />“So what kind of trouble are we looking at now?” asked Christian.<br /><br />“Feud,” Pops said simply. And to Leon and Shadow, that one word spoke volumes. It told of bloody ambushes, of furtive shapes skulking through the night, shots in the dark fired at silhouetted figures in cabin windows, men treading softly and looking ever over their shoulders. It told of creeping paranoia, fear, suspicion and death.<br />Once started a feud could drag on for years, even decades. Many people could be drawn into it before it was all over. People in isolated frontier regions grew to depend on one another in ways inconceivable to those dwelling in a more civilized milieu. Ties between members of large extended families remained strong. Bonds of friendship were forged of steel. Therefore, if someone on the periphery of a feud --say, the friend of a relative of one of the main combatants-- were to fall, then one of his friends could take up the vendetta and the whole bloody business would ripple outwards. Pops, Leon and Shadow had all spent enough time in the New Settlements to be familiar with such strife, but none of them had actually become embroiled in a feud. Until now.<br /><br />Pops explained the grim nature of mountain feuds to Christian and Arthur. They both sat silently and absorbed it all. After digesting it all for a moment, Christian asked, “So who’s going to be on the warpath?”<br /><br />“Mad Dog Clanton,” Pops grunted. The words seemed to hang in the air like the rumble of distant thunder. “That’s Sailor’s old man,” he added after a meaningful pause, “And he is one nasty son of a bitch.”<br /><br />This was an understatement. Mad Dog Clanton was a veritable devil. He had been likened to a walking mass of muscle and rage. The elder Clanton was not quite as tall as Pops, but more broadly built and decades younger. Though powerful, his physique was not comely and symmetrical like that of his son Sailor or his rival, Pops O’Rourke. In places he looked almost grotesquely overdeveloped, his terrible thews bunched and knotted like those of a gorilla. Adding to his bestial appearance was the unkempt shock of thick black hair and a bristling black beard. Wiry black hair covered his massive chest, broad back and wide shoulders as well. When his face was contorted by rage, as it frequently was, it was enough to make demons take fright. Mad Dog Clanton would not have looked out of place lurking in a cave and wielding a stone axe.<br /><br />Pops thought of Mad Dog Clanton as an atavism, a throwback to some dark lost age. He was an outcast from civilization. Even in the wilder towns such as Weirton he would have been shot dead had he chosen to linger there. The more organized criminal elements would have scant tolerance for such a loose cannon rolling around on their deck. In areas and communities still struggling to rebuild atop the ruins of war, he would be even less welcome. But the New Settlements were home to those who, for whatever reason, had chosen to turn their backs on everything that had come before and hew out a rude new world in the midst of virgin forest.<br /><br />It was in this backwoods setting that Mad Dog Clanton had made his home. A grim, towering figure, he could win a dominant position in such a society. He assumed the mantle of a lord and raised his eldest son, Sailor, in the manner of a prince. Sailor’s Adonis-like good looks had been an immense source of pride to his brutish father. Mad Dog especially enjoyed basking in the reflected glory of his son’s sexual conquests. He had egged Sailor on, had urged him to take what he wanted, had fostered a sense of entitlement in his son by asserting his “God-given right” to this or that. Mad Dog had no small hand in making Sailor Clanton the monster he became.<br /><br />Pops said little of this to the others, but was careful to emphasize just how tough and dangerous the elder Clanton was. “They don’t call him Mad Dog for nothing.”<br /><br />“So how much trouble is this guy going to be?” Arthur asked, “I mean, who would side with someone like that? Who’s backing him up?”<br /><br />“The bad elements mostly. The McCleans, the Martenses, the Wolanskis.”<br /><br />“Anybody on our side?” It was an innocent enough question, but it evoked a strong response from Pops.<br /><br />“I’ll be damned if there ain’t!” Pops replied testily, as though his integrity had been impugned, “I’ll walk right out of here and head straight into Hell if my name doesn’t carry more weight in these settlements than some piece of psycho scum like Mad Dog Clanton.”<br /><br />“So who can we count on for certain?”<br /><br />“The Woods, the Nixons, the Parkers. The Gormans for sure.”<br /><br />The latter were distant kin of Shadow’s. Centuries earlier the Gormans had drifted south and west and finally settled in West Texas. After the War, most of the Southwest seceded from the Old Union and rejoined Mexico. The Gormans then relocated once again, this time to the Border Region.<br /><br />“So what do we do now?” Christian asked.<br /><br />“We assemble our allies,” Pops told him, “I expect that’s what Mad Dog Clanton is doing even as we speak. So there’s no time to lose. I’ll be on the road first thing tomorrow. I’m going to travel through the Settlements and talk with those people I mentioned, and some others. There are plenty who are spoiling for a fight with Clanton and his ilk. Others will offer support and backup. I intend to bring as many as possible into the fold. Leon and Arthur will accompany me. Christian and Shadow will stay here with Pain to guard the cabin. I suggest we all turn in early. It’s going to be a busy day.”<br /><br />#<br /><br />Pops slept in his own bed that night. The others bedded down in their sleeping bags. Before retiring, Pops took a moment to reflect.<br /><br /><em>I swear I don’t know if the New Settlements will ever amount to anything</em>, he thought. <em>What have we wrought here? A log-walled, dirt floor hell? Why did we do it? There was plenty of challenging work to be done in the years after the War. Most anywhere in the Border Region, in the city-states, in the rural areas, a man could carve out a niche for himself in any number of new societies springing up from the ashes. Why take to the deep woods with axes? Why take it all the way back to frontier days?</em><br /><br />“A clean break with the past” was an expression that had been bandied about often. But Pops had been well aware, even at the outset, that Americans had always tended to romanticize the frontier life of the early pioneers. Yet such a life must have entailed no small measure of dark, grim, primitive squalor. Perhaps that was why the New Settlements drew dark, grim, primitive men like Mad Dog Clanton. As for Pops, he had been a restless giant seeking to grapple with the greatest challenge a brave new world had to offer.<br /><br /><em>Still had plenty of juice back then, even though it was only twenty-odd years ago</em>, he recalled. <em>Can’t believe Steffy went along with it, considering the world she came from. Still, she had that adventurous spirit.</em><br /><br />The trouble was, Pops mused, that the New Settlements may have started as crude clusters of log cabins, but they shouldn’t remain as such. Maybe if certain undesirable elements --for instance, Mad Dog Clanton-- were taken down, the Settlements might yet amount to something. But a bloody protracted feud in these hills would only make matters worse. Pops did have a plan for ending the feud before it really got rolling. The only problem was that it probably wasn’t going to be pretty.<br /><br />#<br /><br />Pops arose during the darkness that foreruns the dawn. He, Leon and Arthur set out shortly after the first glimmer of daylight.<br /><br />Christian and Shadow remained behind with Pain. At first a tense awkward silence hung between the man and woman. Christian attempted to engage in idle conversation. Shadow remained sullen. Gradually, however, she warmed to his boyish charm. She relaxed and began to engage in some small talk. It still seemed like something was bothering her, but he didn’t ask what it was. Following a lull in the conversation, she let him know.<br /><br />“Christian, I want you out of here,” she said bluntly, “This is no place for you. Bad shit is about to go down. It could make the trouble you’ve seen so far look like a church picnic. You can get yourself killed or really, really messed up.”<br /><br />Christian paused for a moment to digest this before raising any objection. At length he said, “But I’m a part of this too. The blood isn’t only on your hands. I killed that guy Chester.”<br /><br />“Chester was a nobody. No one will give a shit about him. The riff-raff around here shoot and stab each other all the time. You saved my life. You’ve done more than enough.”<br /><br />Another pause. Christian seemed to choose his words carefully before he spoke. “That may very well be true. But I can’t leave you. I cast my lot with you when I came to the New Settlements. I would not have left you before, and now, well…honor demands that I stay.”<br /><br />Shadow rolled her eyes at the last part. “Okay Galahad, have it your way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”<br /><br />#<br /><br />It was early afternoon when Pops and the others came riding back at the head of a dozen men on horseback, all heavily armed. Shadow recognized members of the Nixon and Gorman clans. The men dismounted. The newcomers began to unload gear from some spare horses and to pitch tents here and there on Pops’ property.<br /><br />Pops briefed Shadow and Christian concerning recent developments. “These men are solidly in our camp. Still others are out on the roads spreading the word. I’m hoping to herd as many as possible on our side, packing as much heat as possible. It’s not that I’m preparing for slaughter. On the contrary, I hope to avoid or minimize bloodshed. But it’s advisable to negotiate from a position of strength. It’s the only thing a man like Clanton understands. I mean to confront him with a really formidable show of force. My plan is to set up a meeting with Clanton. Douglas Parker is riding up to his territory under a flag of truce, with some tough hombres to watch his back. Doug’s a good man, respected by all. Leave it to him to arrange the meeting. Once it’s set, we’ll ride up in force. These men will go with us, and our other allies will muster at the location point.”<br /><br />“And where might that be?” asked Christian.<br /><br />“Jericho. That’s in the place we around here call Heaven. Neither side will hold any special advantage.”<br /><br />For Christian’s benefit, Pops explained the significance of those place names. Jericho was a log cabin settlement similar to Eden, only bigger. Its largest structure was sufficient to serve as a meeting hall. Because of its central location, Jericho was utilized as a gathering place for residents from throughout the settlements to address common concerns.<br /><br />Both Jericho and Eden lay within the area locals referred to as “Heaven.” When Westsylvania seceded from Pennsylvania, the old Commonwealth fractured along county lines. Heaven was a notable exception. It was carved out of the southwestern corner of Centre County by mountaineers who refused to abide by the county’s Islamic majority and refused to locate further west. Authorities in the sparsely-settled county eventually abandoned the area. One mountaineer referred to their new domain as “a little piece of Heaven” and the name stuck. The New Settlements were lawless enough, but Heaven was wholly without legal authority.<br /><br />Christian was incredulous. “And this is where you hope to avoid a bloodbath? I’m sorry, Mr. O’Rourke, but this all sounds like a blueprint for disaster.”<br /><br />Pops chuckled in spite of the gravity of the situation. The lad had a point. There might have been a very slim microscopic chance that Mad Dog Clanton could be persuaded to reason had both sides suffered casualties. But the bloodshed had been one-sided --thus far. The best Pops could hope for would be to get Clanton to agree to settle the matter by single combat or one pitched battle between groups of chosen warriors. At least that way the strife would remain small and short-lived.<br /><br />Pops admitted as much to Shadow and Christian. The latter remained skeptical. “I still don’t think this meeting or council or whatever you care to call it is a good idea. You’ll have all these angry men waving guns around. One shot and the whole thing turns into a massacre. I mean, what’s to stop it?”<br /><br />“The Amish,” Pops replied, smiling once more at Christian’s look of astonishment. “We’ll be arranging for some of the Amish Elders to preside over the meeting. This is customary when arbitrating disputes. The Amish are held in high esteem in rural Westsylvania. They were instrumental in teaching folks to become self-sufficient during those horrible years just after the War. You’re too young to remember. A good bit of the eastern part of the Old Union was buried in rubble back then. Just ruin and utter devastation. But it was the Amish that helped survivors get back on their feet. Today, they’re untouchable. None will raise a hand against the least of them; the person who did so would be totally ostracized, even by family members. Now by tradition the counsel of their Elders is sought. Even a fiend like Mad Dog Clanton will respect that tradition.”<br /><br />#<br /><br />A messenger came riding into the O’Rourke camp at daybreak the following morn. The rider dismounted. Pops strode forth to greet him. The men clasped hands.<br /><br />“Good to see you, Doug,” Pops said warmly. He introduced the man, Douglas Parker, to Christian and Arthur. “So what’s the good word?” Pops asked.<br /><br />“It’s all been set up,” the man replied, “The meeting will convene in Jericho as soon as everybody’s there. The Amish have agreed to send a couple of emissaries.”<br /><br />After breakfast, the O’Rourke faction broke camp and prepared for the trek to Jericho. Leon and Arthur loaded the wagon with provisions and some items Pops supplied. The dog Pain rode in the wagon. When everything was in readiness they all moved out. Pops rode at the head of the column.<br /><br />They rode north to Jericho passing through Eden. In Eden the sullen residents peered silently from cabins or stood about on the unpaved streets to watch the horsemen go by. Along the way the column was joined by others who had come up separate trails.<br /><br />The O’Rourke party arrived in Jericho early in the afternoon. Unlike Eden, where dark woodlands pressed in ominously on all sides, Jericho stood in the midst of a wide clearing. Its rough-hewn buildings were more numerous and better constructed than those of the smaller communities. There were several corrals for horses. Pops led his riders towards one of these. He saw another group assembling at a corral on the other side of the settlement.<br /><br />“Those would be Clanton’s men,” Pops informed Christian and Arthur, “But I don’t see Clanton himself.”<br /><br />Before long O’Rourke’s group was joined by other allies who had come down from the north. These included members of the Wood and Nixon clans and their kin. Still others had come to Jericho. These were of old Pennsylvania German extraction like the Huffmans and the Holcrofts. They were sympathetic to O’Rourke or neutral, but definitely no friends of the Clantons. When all were assembled, the O’Rourke faction numbered almost a hundred men and a few women. All were heavily armed, toting M-16s, Uzis, AK-47s and various other assault weapons including some very advanced models that had seen service in the War. This was in addition to the sidearms that all wore on their belts. The Clanton group was similarly outfitted. To Christian it seemed like half the guns of the Border Region were in the hands of these men.<br /><br />By Pops’ reckoning his group outnumbered Clanton’s people about three to one. Well, that’s good, he thought, Makes it less likely that Clanton will try to turn this into a gun battle.<br /><br />Pain leapt down from Leon’s wagon and trotted over to Pops. The beast growled as Pops forced it to submit to wearing a chain and collar. “Easy, boy,” Pops said soothingly while stroking the animal, “We just don’t want anyone around her getting antsy.”<br /><br />Elsewhere in the corral Shadow was introducing Christian and Arthur to a young girl of perhaps nineteen years. This was an attractive redhead named Cathy Gorman. Though not quite in Shadow or Karla’s league, Cathy could hold her own in most any kind of a brawl.<br /><br />“You’ve been holding out on me,” Cathy said cheerfully, “Keeping all these handsome men to yourself.” Cathy seemed especially attracted to Arthur, but he was uncertain of how to respond to the girl’s flirtation. “I hope to see you again soon,“ she told him, offering encouragement when they parted. It was the only light moment of a very grim day.<br /><br />Pops’ conversation with other of the newcomers was of an altogether more somber nature. As he had suspected, Chester, Mike and Lyle were as completely forgotten as though they had never existed. On the other hand, the popular Sailor Clanton and Karla were already being accorded the near-mythological status of Tristan and Isolde, Antony and Cleopatra, and other such star-crossed lovers. This did not bode well.<br /><br />“Still no sign of Mad Dog,” Pops muttered as he scanned the enemy camp. Probably waiting to make an entrance when things gets started. And he’s probably been told that I’ve arrived. It was then that he noticed some activity. The man had started to file out of the corral and head towards the settlement’s large central structure.<br /><br />“It’s on,” Pops informed his allies, “Let’s go.”<br /><br />The O’Rourke contingent now left the area about the corral where they had been congregating. A few men were left behind to guard the horses. Pops left Pain behind with Cathy Gorman, who had known the dog since he was a puppy. Everybody else began to make their way towards the central building. They moved slowly and warily, keeping pace with the men approaching from the opposite direction.<br />Jericho’s central building was a massive structure solidly built of sturdy timbers. Even from the outside it was apparent that the structure housed a single large room intended to serve as a gathering place for meetings, celebrations and other communal events. The building was rectangular in shape, with sets of double doors on either of the longer sides. It could hold about a hundred people. That meant that a number of those who had arrived in Jericho today would have to wait outside and observe the proceedings through windows and open doorways.<br /><br />Clanton’s men had already begun to enter the hall by the time O’Rourke’s group reached it. Douglas Parker insisted on going in first accompanied by some formidable companions to make sure that none lie in wait to bushwhack Pops or Shadow. Pops saw the wisdom of deferring to his friend’s prudent judgment. A large number of his party preceded Pops into the hall.<br /><br />Inside the hall local residents had made arrangements for the meeting. Two rows of benches had been set up with an aisle running between them. Clanton’s group had already taken seats on one side of the aisle and O’Rourke’s people were now filling the opposite row. Locals and other neutral parties occupied standing room in the rear. At the front of the hall a table had been placed on a raised platform along with two chairs reserved for the Amish Elders.<br /><br />Pops O’Rourke entered the hall flanked by Leon and Arthur, followed by Christian and Shadow. Muttering in the Clanton section died down as the giant O’Rourke strode in, but started anew when Shadow glided in after him, clad all in black, her duster billowing out behind her. A slender man rose and pointed an accusing finger.<br /><br />“That’s her!” he cried. It was Danny Martense, a high-strung youth with a reputation for being a hothead. “That’s the witch! That’s the witch that slew Sailor and Karla! Devil spawn! Devil spawn!”<br /><br />This was bad. It was just the sort of thing that could turn an already irate crowd into a howling mob shrieking for blood. One spark in that tinderbox could ignite a conflagration. This had to be stopped, and fast.<br /><br />In the space of a second O’Rourke stepped up to confront the youth, covering the distance with a few long strides. A single mild blow from Pops’ sledge-like fist was sufficient to knock Danny Martense back onto his seat with a fractured jaw.<br /><br />“Sit down and shut up!” Pops roared. He raised his clenched fists high. The gesture was a signal, understood by all, both that he held no weapon and that he would take on any of them mano a mano. He transfixed the crowd with his volcanic gaze. Pops didn’t know what to expect, but at least he had shifted the focus from Shadow back to himself. For a tense moment the tableau held. Then another spoke.<br /><br />“Let everyone settle down and be seated.” It was a rich, clear solemn voice laden with calm authority.<br /><br />All heads, including Pops’, turned toward the speaker. Two tall old men clad in the somber garb of the Amish stood framed in the doorway. Both were ancient, with long white beards reaching to their waists, but stood as straight and sturdy as oaks. They assumed their appointed place behind the table on the platform. The Elders had arrived.<br /><br />Pops and his companions seated themselves in the front row of their section. “My God,” Pops said in a hushed tone, “That’s Abner and Ebenezer.”<br /><br />Catching the note of awe in his voice, Arthur asked, “So are they, like, pretty big?”<br /><br />“There are none bigger.”<br /><br />Pops knew whereof he spoke. Yet his simple statement to Arthur failed to do justice to the true stature of Abner and Ebenezer among the Amish of Westsylvania. They were much more than community elders; they were patriarchs and living legends. Each had taken on the mantle of Moses during a latter-day Exodus.<br /><br />After the War, the Special Election of ‘81 established Islamic law in Pennsylvania. This in turn sparked the Pennsylvania Uprising that led to the secession of Westsylvania. However, the Amish of Lancaster County and environs remained isolated in the midst of what had been the eastern half of the old Commonwealth. If they remained there they would be obliged to accept Islamic rule. Abner had taken the initiative in planning and successfully orchestrating their relocation. He led his people westward into the mountains.<br /><br />Ebenezer had assumed a similar role, only in his case the circumstances were more complicated. In addition to those in Lancaster and the eastern part of the state, there were Amish enclaves in northwestern Pennsylvania as well. Most were centered around Spartansburg in Crawford County. Had Westsylvania come to include all the western counties of Pennsylvania the Amish there would have been able to continue to dwell there as before. Their brethren from Lancaster might even have joined them there. But as fate would have it, the northwestern counties became the subject of controversy.<br /><br />Westsylvania secession was ultimately achieved without bloodshed, but not without compromise. Secession leaders met with government officials in the state capital of Harrisburg to hammer out an agreement allowing for a peaceful separation. A major point of contention concerned the northwestern counties of Erie, Crawford, Warren and McKean. Political and religious leaders were already looking to the day when the Islamic States would achieve full independence. It was important to them that those four counties remain part of Pennsylvania to form a corridor linking the eastern Islamic states with those in the Midwest. In this way the future nation would encompass a single geographically contiguous area. Secession leaders agreed to this compromise in order to settle the matter while they still held a strong position.<br /><br />This development did not go over well in some quarters. Although the secession movement originated in the southwestern portion of the state, it had ardent supporters in the northwestern counties. The most militant resided in the town of North East, located in the northeastern portion of the state’s small panhandle that extended to Lake Erie. Secessionists there complained that the movement’s leaders had betrayed them. Both state officials and movement leaders pointed out that the majority of Western Pennsylvania’s Muslims resided in or near Erie; therefore the compromise made sense. In any event the disgruntled numbered too few to mount an effective counter-movement. They ultimately had little choice but to relocate. A number of them opted for the hardy frontier life of the New Settlements.<br /><br />Thus the Amish of Crawford County faced the same dilemma as their brethren far to the east in Lancaster County. Ebenezer took on the leadership role in their subsequent migration. During the following years Ebenezer and Abner worked together to establish new Amish enclaves along the eastern fringe of the Border Region. As patriarchs they became the stuff of legend. It was as though Pharaoh’s daughter had plucked twins from the bulrushes.<br /><br />The significance of their presence here and now at this meeting was not lost on Pops. It meant that the Amish Elders were taking the recent turn of events very seriously indeed. They knew as well as he did the potential of a protracted feud to rob the Settlements of some of their best blood, leaving women and orphans to wail for their dead.<br /><br />When all were seated Abner said, “Let the proceedings begin.”<br /><br />Already there was an objection. “But they cain’t begin,” someone shouted from the Clanton section, “Mad Dog …I mean, Mr. Clanton… ain’t here yet.”<br /><br />As if on cue a ruckus suddenly arose in the rear of the meeting hall. Heads turned towards the source of the commotion. A small group of newcomers was making its loud way through the rear entrance. At the group’s center was a massive bear-like man clad in buckskins. A wild tangle of thick black hair hung to his shoulders and his heavy beard was split by teeth bared in a perpetual snarl. His small bloodshot eyes darted about, habitually scanning for enemies. The man bellowed curses as he strode down the center aisle. Mad Dog Clanton, for this could be none other, had arrived.<br /><br />“Where be the bitch that murdered my boy?” he demanded.<br /><br />Shadow shot to her feet; she hid from no man. “Right here, asshole!” she spat back, “Your ‘boy’ kidnapped me and raped me.”<br /><br />“Is this true?” Ebenezer the Elder asked sternly.<br /><br />Clanton growled but held his temper. He was outnumbered and outgunned by his foes, and the authority of the Elders was almost tangible. “We have only her word for that!” he snarled.<br /><br />“Not so!” A new voice rang out. It was Christian. He rose and took his place alongside Shadow. “I saw Sailor Clanton take her away. I found her tied to his bed after he violated her. I swear to it by God and my Lord Jesus Christ, and I do not make such an oath in vain!”<br /><br />Christian’s voice carried the ring of truth. His tone of righteous sincerity evoked nods among the listeners, including some in the Clanton camp. Even Mad Dog himself was taken aback slightly. He was far from mollified, however. He switched to a different tact. Grasping the first thing that came to mind, he stabbed an accusing finger at Shadow.<br /><br />“You took the law into your own hands!”<br /><br />Some of Mad Dog’s supporters had to stifle cynical laughter. Shadow grew visibly angry. She seemed ready to launch herself at Mad Dog Clanton despite being physically outmatched.<br /><br />“There is no law in Heaven!” she roared, “And what passes for it in the rest of the Settlements is a joke. And you know it.”<br /><br />“What I know is that you’re a mass murderer. You murdered that fine woman Karla as well as my boy!”<br /><br />“That’s a lie!” This was shouted from one the neutral factions standing in the rear of the hall. “It was a fair fight!” exclaimed one of the men, “I was there and saw the whole thing. Shadow didn’t go for her bowie until Karla did.”<br /><br />“Enough of this.” Now it was Abner who spoke. At the sound of his voice the others fell silent. He turned to Pops. “Mr. O’Rourke, it was you who arranged this meeting. What is it you hope to accomplish?”<br /><br />Shadow and Christian took their seats. Pops rose and addressed the Elders. “I hope to forestall further bloodshed,” he told them, “It seems insane to me that this began as a dispute over whiskey. As all know, there are no laws pertaining to the home manufacture and sale of spirits in these parts. Sailor Clanton wrecked a still on the property of my good friend Leon Jackson and fired shots into his home. His goal was to eliminate competition in the moonshine trade. He admitted all this to Miss Lane while she was his captive. Miss Lane was Mr. Jackson’s partner. She went in search of Sailor Clanton in the hopes of talking things out. For her pains she had to defend herself in a fight to the death, then was kidnapped and raped.”<br /><br />The Elders mulled this over. Ebenezer addressed Mad Dog, “Mr. Clanton, death is harsh but so is the outrage of a woman. Would ye be willing to forego vengeance?”<br /><br />“I’ll be damned if I will!” Clanton thundered, “Beware, Connor O’Rourke! I mean to have your hide and that of your girl.”<br /><br />Pops face betrayed no emotion, but inwardly he felt relief. Had Clanton readily agreed to a truce, the situation would have been decidedly more dangerous. There was no chance whatsoever that Mad Dog Clanton would keep such a promise. O’Rourke and his friends would be in constant peril. Their lives would be spent looking over their shoulders. None would know when shots would be fired from the dark. Blood would call for blood, and on it would drag. The feud would cast its gloomy pall over all. No, it was better that Clanton declared his intentions openly. This gave O’Rourke the chance he had been hoping for all along. As he saw it, his best option lie in settling his differences with Clanton with one quick, decisive bloodletting.<br />In response to Mad Dog Clanton’s wild oath, Pops said simply, “I’ll not have my people dragged into endless feuding. I propose we settle this once and for all, the way our ancestors in the old country did.”<br /><br />Clanton eyed Pops warily. “Are ye callin’ for a faction fight?”<br /><br />“I am.”<br /><br />Faction fights were common in 19th Century Ireland. These were pitched battles between rival clans, gangs or communities. A faction fight could erupt over property disputes, debts or various sorts of grudges. Weapons usually consisted of sticks, stones and similar primitive implements, although the use of swords and even guns was not unheard of. There was a certain structure to the battle, the main rule being that the sides be evenly numbered. Hundreds or even thousands of combatants could be involved. The largest faction fight on record took place in County Kerry in June 1834. Three thousand fought that day. When it was all over two hundred of them lie dead. Irish immigrants to America were known to engage in faction fighting. In old New York the Dead Rabbits and rival gangs fought for turf in the Five Points section.<br /><br />Mad Dog Clanton readily agreed to a faction fight. Ever the schemer, he saw a rare opportunity to utterly crush his rival O’Rourke. Then, unopposed, he could pretty much call the shots in the New Settlements. He would be a king ruling from a palace of logs.<br /><br />Pops addressed the Elders once more. “There can be no peace between me and Clanton. I see long years of feuding ahead. That’s something to be avoided. I propose to settle it once and for all in a day. Clanton’s people will fight mine. All will abide by the outcome.”<br /><br />Abner conferred briefly with Ebenezer. It was Ebenezer who spoke. “It would be a vain hope for you to forsake your blood-mad ways. If violence there must be, let it be as a summer storm that passes swiftly. Better that than unending feud.”<br /><br />Pops turned back to Clanton. “We will have our battle. How many can you field?”<br /><br />“There be only thirty I can count on for sure.”<br /><br />“Then I’ll meet you with thirty of my best. Weapons?”<br /><br />“Blades and bludgeons!”<br /><br />“Very well. I call time and place. Bender’s Field. Noon, the day after tomorrow.” Bender’s Field was a central location not far from Jericho. Both parties would travel an equal distance to reach it. A full day would give them plenty of time to prepare.<br /><br />“I will meet you on Bender’s Field,” Mad Dog Clanton growled, “And then I will see you in Hell!”<br /><br />#<br /><br />Two days later the factions gathered on Bender’s Field. A fog hung over the field as the hosts assembled throughout the morning. As the noon hour approached the fog cleared and the clouds parted. The day was warm and fine.<br /><br />The factions had formed staging areas at opposite ends of the field. In O’Rourke’s camp, Christian found Shadow practicing with a curious looking weapon. It consisted of two hardwood sticks just over a foot long joined by a short length of cord. Apparently it was designed to be used as a flail. Shadow held one of the sticks and used it to whirl the other about. She whipped the sticks around faster and faster, switching from hand to hand. Christian asked her what the weapon was called.<br /><br />“This? It’s a nunchaku,” she said, “It’s an Asian weapon like the manriki-gusari I gave you. Haven’t you ever seen old Bruce Lee movies?”<br /><br />Christian explained that in the Christian South the Asian martial arts were associated with pagan religions like Buddhism and therefore not widely taught. As for movies, his parents had frowned upon violent entertainment.<br /><br />“What in God’s name are you doing here, Church-boy?” Shadow exclaimed in exasperation, “I told you before to stay the hell out of this.”<br /><br />“I don’t recall you asking Arthur to leave,” Christian replied.<br /><br />“Arthur’s Border Region. He lives in the Settlements. He has a stake in what goes on here.”<br /><br />“Well, so do I,” Christian said. He looked at her meaningfully.<br /><br />Shadow rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right. Go see Pops and get outfitted with a weapon. And if you get your head bashed in, don’t come crying to me.”<br /><br />Christian wandered over to a wagon where Pops was standing with some of the Gormans and the Woods. O’Rourke was clad as Christian had first seen him --grey tank top, jeans, knee-high leather moccasins. With his massive physique and long white hair, he once again reminded Christian of some pagan god of mythology.<br /><br />“Good morning, Mr. O’Rourke,” Christian said casually, as though they were meeting for breakfast, “I guess I’ll be needing a weapon.”<br /><br />“Glad to have you with us, son.” Unlike Shadow, Pops made no attempt to dissuade Christian. That meant a lot to the younger man. “We’ll try to make short work of this.”<br /><br />Pops rummaged through an assortment of weapons he had in his wagon. He presented Christian with an axe handle.<br /><br />“The axe handle is a more versatile weapon than the axe itself,” Pops explained, “Better balance. Much easier to wield. You can strike with either end. Also, you can thrust with it as well as swing it.”<br /><br />Christian practiced with the axe handle for a few minutes and seemed to get the hang of it. Curious, he asked, “What sort of weapon will you be carrying, Mr. O’Rourke?”<br /><br />Pops showed him a stout black walking stick with a knobby head.<br /><br />“This is a shillelagh, cut from an Irish blackthorn stem. It’s light, but hard as iron. I actually have several. Originally a shillelagh was a short cudgel about the length of a police baton. It was the traditional weapon of rural Ireland. In time it evolved into the blackthorn walking stick, which was socially more acceptable. Be that as it may, taking a hit from one of these is like getting hit with a piece of pipe.”<br /><br />Christian watched as Pops hefted the stick and whipped it about as though striking at imaginary foes. Satisfied, Pops turned to the younger man and said, “Come. I’ll introduce you to some of the others who will be joining us today.”<br /><br />#<br /><br />Across the field, Mad Dog Clanton observed his enemies making their preparations. Near him stood a sallow youth of medium height and nondescript appearance. This was Mad Dog’s second son Joel, upon whom no one had bothered to bestow a nickname. Dull, timid, and sad, Joel had withered in the shadow of his adored older brother.<br /><br />“Do you think we can whip ‘em, Pa?” Joel asked.<br /><br />“Shet up!” Mad Dog growled, “To think that Sailor’s gone and you’re still here. Just do your part when it comes to avenging your brother.”<br /><br />“I will, Pa,” Joel said meekly.<br /><br />Mad Dog wasn’t listening. He was focused on the battle looming ahead. He had stripped to the waist, exposing chest and arms as hairy as those of a gorilla. In his eager hand he gripped his weapon of choice. This was a tomahawk cut in one piece from a sheet of steel, the handle wrapped in strips of leather. Mad Dog customarily carried it on his belt in place of the bowie knife usually worn in those parts. Now he practiced smiting blows with it.<br /><br />“Today will be a day of reckoning!” he vowed, “I kill O’Rourke and that girl of his loses a man who was like a father to her. Or I kill her and O’Rourke loses a daughter. Either way one suffers a loss like the one I’ve suffered. But not for long. No, not for long. Before the day is done I’ll see both of ‘em dead!”<br /><br />#<br /><br />As the sun neared its zenith the battle lines began to form. Each faction fielded thirty combatants chosen from volunteers. Other allies of either faction retained their firearms and formed a loose perimeter about the field. Beyond the perimeter some of the frontier physicians had set up a triage unit using military field hospital equipment. Here the wounded would be received and treated.<br /><br />Christian noticed Arthur standing in the O’Rourke lines, but Arthur did not seem to notice him. Arthur had a far-away look in his eyes, as though fixated on something no one else could see. He was prepared for the battle ahead. His clothing looked padded, the better to absorb the shock of blunt instruments. He wore a heavy leather jacket with metal strips attached to the left sleeve to afford him some protection against edged weapons. In his right hand he gripped a broad-bladed knife as big as a bowie, but double-edged like a dagger. The blade tapered to a diamond-sharp point. Christian had heard such a weapon referred to as an “Arkansas toothpick.”<br /><br />The dog Pain remained behind with those who formed O’Rourke’s part of the perimeter. Cathy Gorman held the dog’s leash. The slim girl had no trouble keeping the beast in check even though the great hound outweighed her; she had doted on the animal since it was a puppy. Just before the battle commenced, Pops told her, “If anyone pulls a gun or does anything dirty…unleash Pain.” <br /><br />#<br /><br />At high noon the thing got underway. There was no pre-arranged signal; everyone just knew it was time. The lines advanced towards one another slowly at first, stalking grimly forward, then began to pick up speed as they closed distance. There was no yelling yet. The factions closed on one another in stony silence.<br /><br />It was Arthur who drew first blood. He abruptly broke from the pack and ran to the nearest foeman as though rushing to a long-separated sweetheart. Arthur collided with the man, who rebounded roughly from him. As the man staggered off-balance, Arthur drove the deadly Arkansas toothpick home. The man groaned and pitched headlong. Before he had even struck the ground, Arthur was already lusting for a fresh kill. Demons drove him. He now sought to drown a lifetime of repressions in blood.<br /><br />When the first man fell, the field erupted in a dreadful cacophony of screams and shrill battle cries that chilled the blood of those on the perimeter. The lines crashed together like waves and broke into small clumps of combatants.<br /><br />Christian found himself in the midst of a swirling chaos, but did not lose his bearings. When a foe leapt to confront him, knife in hand, Christian struck first with the axe handle. A glancing blow to the head stunned the attacker. Christian followed through with a hard smash to the thigh that sent the man down, his nerves screaming in pain. He was relieved to have put the man down without doing him grievous harm. But any such relief was short-lived.<br /><br />Another foe instantly sprang to the attack. Christian recognized him as Danny Martense from the Jericho meeting. Martense came right at him swinging what looked like a small aluminum bat. Christian raised the axe handle to block. Stung to fury, Martense struck at the axe handle again and again. Christian felt his arm growing numb under the repeated impact. An especially hard blow broke his grip. The axe handle flew spinning from his hand.<br /><br />Fortunately Christian had spent too much time with Shadow to dumbly watch his weapon fly away. His eyes never left his opponent. Thus he was able to avoid the follow-up swing of the bat with a desperate backward leap. Hard-pressed, he was at a loss as to how to counter. Then he remembered the ninja chain.<br /><br />With a practiced motion his hand flashed down and yanked free the manriki-gusari. As Martense chambered the bat for another swipe, Christian surprised him by suddenly rushing in and closing distance. Swinging the manriki-gusari up and about, Christian struck Martense a vicious blow across the face with both weighted ends of the chain. Martense was momentarily stunned, enabling Christian to grab the arm that held the bat with his free hand and hold it immobile.<br /><br />With a flick of his wrist Christian wrapped the ninja chain about his hand and used it like brass knuckles as he punched Martense repeatedly in the face. A blow to the jaw previously fractured by Pops caused Martense to howl and drop the bat. With an audible sigh of relief, Christian kicked it away. A few more stout blows caused Martense to sag and drop to the ground. Christian kicked and stomped him to make sure he stayed there.<br /><br />Christian stepped free of his fallen foe. Gripping one weighted end tightly in his palm, he let the ninja chain play out at full length as he spun it to generate centrifugal force. Then, with the manriki-gusari whirling in a deadly gyre, he waded back into the fray. Enemies on the receiving end of a head blow from the chain went down as though struck by a bullet, or were rendered easy pickings for Christian’s comrades. Christian was now part of the madness that swirled about him. When one of the Nixons went down yowling, Christian instantly stepped into take his place.<br /><br />Christian and Arthur were both fighting on fringe areas of the battle. Pops O’Rourke was in the thick of it. He held a blackthorn stick in either hand, wielding them simultaneously in the Filipino style. Pops moved through the enemy host like a juggernaut, striking down foes like a reaper cutting grain. He was working his way inexorably towards Mad Dog Clanton.<br /><br />Clanton awaited him. He stood to the rear with his son Joel. Mad Dog was hanging back deliberately. He knew O’Rourke was coming for him and was positioning himself as bait. He wanted to draw O’Rourke into his own lines where he’d be surrounded. However, surrounding O’Rourke proved to be no simple task. Shadow guarded his back with a flailing nunchaku.<br /><br />Mad Dog Clanton saw that there would be no trapping O’Rourke. That was fine; he was loath to leave the work of dispatching his rival to minions in any event. Hefting his tomahawk, Clanton strode forth to meet his foe half-way. An O’Rourke ally who tried to bar his way went down with a split skull.<br /><br />Pops battered his way through a final group of foemen to stand face-to-face with Mad Dog Clanton, who awaited him with dripping tomahawk. He threw back his head and roared, “Let the fighting cease! This is now between me and Clanton!”<br /><br />The booming voice of Connor O’Rourke swept across the field like a thunderclap. Even the most frenzied combatants were arrested by its power. Struggle ended within moments. All eyes turned to the two giants in the center of the field.<br /><br />“Single combat, Clanton,” came Pops’ challenge, “No more need shed their blood this day. All this can be settled between you and me.”<br /><br />It was a challenge Clanton could not ignore even if he had wanted to. And he didn’t want to. He felt certain he could best O’Rourke in any form of single combat.<br /><br />“I accept,” Clanton snarled.<br /><br />“Let these be the weapons!” Pops declared. He brandished both blackthorn sticks aloft in one mighty fist. With his free hand he unbuckled the belt that held the big Alaskan bowie and let it drop to the ground.<br /><br />Mad Dog Clanton cast his tomahawk aside. “Shillelaghs it is!”<br /><br />Bataireacht, or Irish stick fighting, was the first martial art Pops had ever trained in. He had learned it from his father when only a lad. He knew that Clanton was versed in the art as well. He also knew that Clanton would be caught up in the drama of moment.<br /><br />Pops tossed one of the blackthorn sticks to Clanton, who gripped it in eager hands. Oh, this will be epic, Mad Dog thought. They will tell of my vanquishing of O’Rourke for a hundred years!<br /><br />Pops and Clanton squared off. The others stepped back to give them room to maneuver. Each man held his stick horizontally in front of him, gripping it with both hands spaced shoulder-width apart. Held in this manner the ends of the stick could be used as extensions of the fists to deliver sharp blows while infighting. Or one end of the stick could be released and snapped out to strike at greater range. <br /><br />To the stunned spectators it seemed that less than the space of a heartbeat had elapsed from the time the fighters squared off before they erupted into violent action. There was no circling about to take each other’s measure. The fight was on in an instant.<br /><br />Mad Dog Clanton launched himself at Pops, swinging and snapping his stick in a blinding blur. He came in fast and furious, hoping to smother his opponent and force him into a defensive posture from the outset. His aim was to overwhelm Pops’ superior technique. Mad Dog laughed maniacally as he came on, but there was method to his madness. That laughter was meant to rattle Pops and psych him out. Nor was Clanton by any means lacking in technical skill and discipline. Despite the fury of his attack, he was always in control.<br /><br />Though not exactly caught off guard, Pops was forced to give ground before the suddenness of Clanton’s assault. He backed up a few steps. Emboldened, Clanton sought to press his advantage and redoubled his exertions.<br /><br />Pops wielded his own stick to fend off Clanton’s swings and thrusts with icy precision. Clanton was unable to penetrate his defenses. And when Clanton left an opening, Pops instantly went on the offensive to exploit it. Clanton dared not let himself grow reckless.<br /><br />Clanton realized that he had lost the initiative. Now he and Pops were fighting on more or less equal footing. The sticks flashed out and back, cracking against one another. They were driven by sinewy arms that never seemed to tire or falter. Thrust, parry, riposte; so it went for many long minutes. Those closest to the battle noticed a slight scent of burnt wood hanging in the air. It was from the friction caused by the rapid, repeated contact of the two blackthorn sticks.<br /><br />There was no laughter now as Clanton strove against O’Rourke in deadly earnest. Each sought some way to break the stalemate. Pops tried lulling his opponent into a pattern, but Clanton proved too wary. Clanton offered what appeared to be a convenient opening in order to tempt O’Rourke into a trap. However Pops refused to take the bait.<br /><br />Clanton felt his energy begin to flag, but could detect no loss of precision in O’Rourke’s technique. He sensed victory slipping from him. Desperate, he threw caution to the wind and staked everything on a bold gambit. God help him if it backfired.<br /><br />Clanton feinted a low blow, as though striking at his opponent’s thigh, then abruptly went high with it. O’Rourke caught the move and raised his weapon in time to check Clanton’s stick as it came humming at his head. He got his guard up a split-second too late to deflect the stick cleanly away, however. Instead Clanton’s stick merely slid past O’Rourke’s. Owing as much to luck as skill, Clanton managed to angle his stick towards his rival’s face. The point of the stick struck O’Rourke’s chin with enough concentrated force to dislocate the jaw of a lesser man.<br /><br />O’Rourke reeled back, momentarily stunned. It was all the break his enemy needed. An instant later a white flash exploded inside Pop’s skull as the knobby end of Mad Dog Clanton’s shillelagh crashed sickeningly into his temple.<br /><br />Dazed and semi-conscious, Pops struggled to remain on his feet. He saw the ground rushing up at him and dropped to his knees to avoid crashing headlong to the earth. He raised his stick to ward off further blows, but a brutal hand-smash caused the weapon to slip from his fingers.<br /><br />Mad Dog Clanton now began to rain heavy blows about O’Rourke’s unprotected head, back and shoulders. He struck gleefully as though attempting to pound his enemy into the ground like a tent peg.<br /><br />Pops saw the world spinning and growing black. He knew he was about to go under.<br /><br />“Too old,” he muttered, “Too old…”<br /><br />With those words Pops slumped to the ground in defeat. Darkness overcame him.<br /><br />Mad Dog Clanton howled in savage glee. With both hands he raised his shillelagh on high like some angry god’s war club. He stood poised to bring it down on his fallen enemy’s skull with bone-crunching impact.<br /><br />He was but a second from delivering his coup de grace when Shadow flung herself across Pops’ prostrate form. Clanton stayed his hand due to stunned amazement rather than any impulse to mercy. He stood bewildered as Shadow dropped her nunchaku and looked up at him. She raised her open hands in a wordless plea for a time-out. Curious, Clanton lowered his stick. He glared down at the pale upturned oval of her face, but said nothing. It was her move.<br /><br />Around them, the ring of spectators awaited the next development in the same tense silence they had borne witness to the battle between Clanton and O’Rourke. The crowd seemed to hold its breath. <br /><br />With slow deliberate movements, Shadow picked up the blackthorn stick Pops had dropped. Just as slowly she rose and backed away from Pops’ fallen form. As she did so she looked Clanton in the eye, holding his gaze, and issued a challenge.<br /><br />“Finish the single combat with me!” she said boldly, “I’m the one you want. I killed Sailor. I killed him, then I cut his balls off!” Her bearing was deliberately haughty. She was going all out to provoke him.<br /><br />Mad Dog Clanton snarled as though livid with venomous rage. But in his black heart there surged a savage joy. His most blasphemous prayers were being answered. <br /><br />Already he had decisively beaten Connor O’Rourke in single combat, for all to see. Now he would kill his girl and avenge Sailor. She would lie dead at his feet and O’Rourke would be a broken man.<br /><br />Clanton brandished his stick in a menacing fashion, swiping at empty air to put the scare into his new opponent. Then he began advancing on the girl.<br /><br />Shadow backed away, but not in fear. She was ready for the fight and just needed more room to maneuver. Shadow had only a little training in Irish stick fighting, but was thoroughly versed in the Filipino stick fighting art of kali. She knew she was physically outmatched by the hairy giant who now stalked bellowing towards her. Her plan involved delivering a hand-smash to Clanton’s weapon hand, using a snake disarm to pluck the weapon from his loosened grip, then wielding both sticks to batter him down as she had done to that guy in Wheeling.<br /><br />Mad Dog Clanton did not know what skill the girl possessed, and did not much care. He was confident that his greater size and strength would easily vanquish her. He aimed to smite her down with one blow, just like swatting a fly.<br /><br />Clanton swung his stick up and over in a great swooping arc with the intention of bringing the knobby end right down on the girl’s head. Shadow instinctively raised her own stick in a roof block to defect it. The impact of his stick on hers nearly broke her grip and tore her weapon from her grasp. Clanton’s stick barely glanced off hers and went whistling past her head, missing it by inches.<br /><br />Shadow had nearly lost the fight right then and there. Even so, Clanton’s reckless move provided her with an opening that she was quick to exploit. Swinging her stick out and back, she delivered a swift solid blow to Clanton’s unprotected side. Clanton winced as the hard stick impacted against his ribs.<br /><br />Now it was his turn to back up. Not even Mad Dog Clanton could take too many clouts like that. Adjusting his strategy, he now strove to match his opponent’s technique while bringing his superior strength to bear.<br /><br />Clanton went right back on the offensive with a speed belying his massive bulk. Shadow found herself hard-pressed to counter his moves. He came in and out so fast that there was no opportunity to strike his hand and secure his weapon. Clanton knew he held the advantage. He taunted his smaller foe.<br /><br />“Ha ha, girly! O’Rourke himself could not stand before me. What chance have you?”<br /><br />Shadow was all too aware of her imminent peril. She could not withstand Mad Dog Clanton’s power and ferocity for long. She had to find some way to take him down, and fast.<br /><br />In the back of her mind there flashed the old maxim, “The bigger they are the harder they fall.” That was the plain truth of the matter. One could not afford to play games with a bigger, stronger enemy. Physically outmatched in a life-or-death struggle, one had few options. The most viable was to attack the enemy’s most vulnerable spots --eyes, throat, groin, knees. As Pops had once told her, “It doesn’t matter what kind of badass some joker is if he can’t walk, see or breathe.”<br /><br />Shadow got her chance when Clanton took a swing at her head. Instead of blocking with her stick she ducked under it. As she did so she lashed out with a side thrust kick aimed at Clanton’s knee. The unexpected move worked. The kick connected right on target. There was a sickening crack of splintering bone as Clanton’s knee bent opposite the way it was designed. Clanton toppled like a dead tree blasted by lightning.<br /><br />Clanton hit the ground with a heavy thud. There he writhed helplessly on his back and howled in pain. Shadow strode over to him and raised her blackthorn stick. She stood poised to bring it down in the center of Clanton’s face.<br /><br />Before she could do so, Clanton raised his hand. “Quarter!” he cried.<br /><br />Shadow looked down at her fallen foe. She had dealt him a terrible injury. A break like that could never fully heal. Clanton was going to be permanently disabled. He would never fight again.<br /><br />“All this ends now,” Shadow said sternly.<br /><br />But before Clanton could respond, the harsh voice of another grated in her ears.<br /><br />“You witch!”<br /><br />Shadow whirled to confront what could only be a new source of danger. She found herself looking down the barrel of a revolver held by Joel Clanton, Mad Dog’s forgotten son. The spindly youth’s body trembled with rage and tension, but his gun hand held steady. There were tears in his eyes as he said, “You killed my brother. You crippled my father. Now you’re going to hell.”<br /><br />Shadow saw his finger tighten on the trigger, saw the chamber of the revolver begin to turn, saw her death upon her. But then, as the hammer fell and the gun boomed, there was a blur of motion as another hurled himself into the space between Joel and Shadow. It was Arthur. Shadow could only watch in sick horror as Arthur fell, stuck by the bullet meant for her.<br /><br />Joel had no chance to try a second shot. Before the echo of the first one died, a huge dark canine shape came hurtling through the air and struck him like a cannonball. Joel was bowled over and borne to the ground by a great black hound. He dropped the gun, freeing his hands to fend off the slavering jaws that came a mere instant from tearing out his throat. Following Pops’ instructions, Cathy Gorman had unleashed Pain.<br /><br />Shadow ran to Arthur and knelt beside him. Joel strove with all his desperate strength to keep the dog from his throat. And at the sound of the gunshot, Pops had begun to stir. He shook his head, lion-like, and began to rise. Onlookers could only marvel at his toughness and resilience. Pops straightened and stood erect. He was a little wobbly, but his fierce blue eyes were clear. He took in the situation at a glance.<br /><br />Pops had barely gained his feet when he heard someone calling out to him. It was Mad Dog Clanton, writhing on the ground and clutching his ruined leg. “O’Rourke… O’Rourke,” he croaked, “Call off your dog. Please, O’Rourke! Spare my boy!”<br /><br />Pops glowered down at him, his face grim. “It looks like your boy shot down a good man.”<br /><br />“To both our everlasting shame!” Mad Dog wailed passionately, tears flowing from his eyes, “But he’s all I have left! Spare him.”<br /><br />Joel was now shrieking as though he were being chased by devils. The dog’s fangs had already mangled one of his arms.<br /><br />Mad Dog continued his impassioned entreaty, “I beg of you, O’Rourke. I’m going to be a cripple. I can trouble ye no more. For the loss of your man I forgo vengeance for Sailor. It’s over. I swear it on my dead wife’s grave.”<br /><br />Pops took a somber moment to reflect, then said, “Pain. Heel.”<br /><br />Instantly, as though a switch had been thrown, the great hound broke off its attack and glided over to its master.<br /><br />Shadow looked up from where she knelt cradling Arthur’s head in her lap. Her face was an expressionless white mask. “Pops…” she hissed.<br /><br />O’Rourke shook his head sadly. “This must end somewhere.”<br /><br />Joel rose unsteadily and staggered over to his father. One arm hung uselessly at his side dripping blood. He raised his father into a sitting position. With no little difficulty, Joel gradually managed to help his father to stand. Mad Dog placed one arm about his son’s shoulder for support. With his other hand he gripped the blackthorn stick he had so recently fought with. Now he used it as a cane.<br /><br />Together Mad Dog and Joel made their slow painful way off the field. They headed towards the triage center where other participants in the day’s big fight had already gone for treatment.<br /><br />“Lean on me, Pa,” Joel said, “I’ll take care of you. We’ll be okay.”<br /><br />Watching them go, Pops mused, “This could be the best thing for both of them.”<br /><br />Shadow paid them no heed. All of her attention was on Arthur. She cradled his head in her lap and stroked his hair. Shadow had seen enough gunshot wounds to know he was done for and sinking fast.<br /><br />Arthur looked up at Shadow and spoke softly. “I don’t regret a thing,” he told her, “Couldn’t stand to lose you. Shadow, you are… I found a world where someone like you can be…” With an effort, he focused his thoughts. “This is where I truly lived, finally. Glad to die here. Become a part of it.”<br /><br />His eyes closed but his lips continued to move, whispering now. Shadow realized he wasn’t talking to her anymore. He had gone somewhere else.<br /><br />“Sabrina. Oh Sabrina. You’re a good woman. Don’t listen to those assholes. You help people. They don’t…”<br /><br />And then he died.<br /><br />[Next: "Homecoming" --the conclusion!]Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-34976789705178189682010-07-11T10:06:00.000-07:002010-07-11T11:07:40.642-07:00Elements of Sadomasochism in the Fiction and Poetry of Robert E. Howard[The following was originally published in <em>The Dark Man: The Journal of Robert E. Howard Studies</em>, Volume 4, No. 2 (June 2009), The Department of English, University of La Verne.]<br /><br />From time to time, mention is made of a “homoerotic” aspect to Robert E. Howard’s work. A critic may cite the many descriptions of powerful, muscular warriors and boxers that abound in Howard’s writings. Of course, it would hardly have been plausible for Howard to describe weak, puny warriors and boxers. To my mind, Howard was not intending to describe what he desired, but rather what he and most of his male readers desired to be. I have no wish to censure the critiquing of Howard’s work from a homoerotic perspective, and feel that such criticism does have its place in Howard studies. Still, it seems to me that this homoerotic perspective lies mainly in the eye of the beholder. The same cannot be said, however, of sadomasochism in Howard’s work. The purpose of this essay is to cite explicit instances of sadomasochism to be found throughout the Howard canon, and then review the evidence that this did indeed represent a personal interest of REH.<br /><br />Sadomasochism, of course, is an erotic passion that involves the melding of pleasure and pain in order to achieve a heightening of sensation. It finds expression both in actual practice and in art. Real life practitioners indulge in bondage, flagellation, and similar activities as an erotic pastime, utilizing costumes and other theatrical trappings to enhance drama. Sadomasochism is commonly abbreviated as “S&M,” but actual practitioners prefer “S/m.” Most lifestyle sadomasochists adhere to the “safe, sane, and consensual” rule.<br /><br /> In art, however, we find a different story. Since the reader of a literary work is engaging vicariously in a wholly imaginary experience, the fictional adventure is apt to be more extreme than anything the reader is likely to encounter in the course of everyday living, so as to make a more memorable impression. Thus sadomasochistic episodes in fiction tend not to be consensual, so that the erotic aspect is mingled with other extreme sensations such as fear and suspense. Moreover, since sadomasochism has long been disdained as deviant behavior, these episodes are likely to be conservatively cloaked in standard villain / victim scenarios.<br /><br />Robert E. Howard was a visionary artist who endeavored to transcend his drab, small town life by creating larger-than-life spectacles in his fiction. His work is characterized by violent action, bizarre situations, brooding menace, and unrelenting emotional intensity. The erotic aspects of his work also tend towards the extreme or edgy. Elements of sadomasochism, or dominance and submission, are noticeable in Howard’s fiction from the very dawn of his career. They are particularly prominent in one of his earliest stories, “The Hyena.”<br /><br /> “The Hyena” was written in 1924 when Howard was just eighteen, and was the second story he sold to <em>Weird Tales</em>. However, editor Farnsworth Wright held onto the story for four years before publishing it. It did not appear until the March 1928 issue. Given the number of notable tales Howard would compose over the next dozen years, it is no surprise that “The Hyena” is regarded as a minor, fledgling effort. It has been underappreciated because Howard had yet to fully develop his distinctive artistic voice, but more so because of its deceptively simple plot. Set on a ranch on the East Coast of Africa, the story concerns a native witch doctor who can assume the form of a hyena. The witch doctor attempts to incite a native uprising and wipe out the local whites. This plot element, plus the story’s undercurrent of racial and sexual tension, would be utilized more memorably in a classic tale from much later in Howard’s career, the controversial “Black Canaan.”<br /><br /> “The Hyena” is narrated by a young man from the American South named Steve. Many “Steves” appear in Howard’s writings, among them his fictional alter ego in the semi-autobiographical <em>Post Oaks and Sand Roughs</em>. The narrator of “The Hyena” describes himself as “a stocky youth of medium height” (“The Hyena” 70) much like REH himself.<br /><br /> Steve’s nemesis is “Senecoza, the fetish-man.” (67) Howard uses the term “fetish-man” to describe Senecoza throughout the story, rather than referring to him as a witch doctor or, more typically for Howard, “conjure-man.” Used in a different context, of course, the term “fetish” refers to an erotic fixation, a subtle irony given the story’s subtext.<br /><br /> As a narrator, Steve displays remarkable candor. He is quick to admit his inherited racist bias: “Because I came from Virginia, race instinct and prejudice was strong in me.” (67) But even more remarkable is his unabashed disclosure of personality traits that S/m practitioners would recognize as characteristic of a male submissive, making Steve an unlikely protagonist from the future creator of Conan.<br /><br /> Steve frankly confesses that “doubtless the feeling of inferiority which Senecoza constantly inspired in me had a great deal to do with my antipathy for him.” (67) At “Six inches above six feet,” Senecoza towers over Steve, who wistfully notes, “he was all muscle — a lean, black giant.” (67) Similarly, Steve describes how, on a visit to the ranch, Senecoza “would stand before us, a naked bronze giant” whom he felt was “mocking us.” (67) Of course, the supposed virility of the black man has long been a source of anxiety for insecure white males.<br /><br /> Even as he extols the attributes of Senecoza, Steve berates himself throughout the story. On safari, he admits that “I was an execrable marksman; I could hardly hit an elephant at close range.” (68) Moreover, he expresses a reluctance to kill animals for sport. In this respect Steve resembles Howard himself, who could abruptly launch into searing misanthropic diatribes but remained more kindly disposed towards the animal kingdom. Steve tells how the “native boy who served as my gun-bearer began to suspect that I was deliberately refraining from shooting, and he began in a covert way to throw sneering hints about my womanishness.” (68) Steve beats up the bearer to reestablish dominance, but immediately after admits that “still I felt inferior when in the presence of the fetish-man.” (68)<br /><br /> Steve has several encounters with a strange hyena lurking about the area that reminds him of Senecoza. However, the story really gets interesting with the arrival of Ellen Farel, a New York socialite who vacations at the ranch for some undisclosed reason. Steve describes her in glowing terms while dismissing himself as “an ordinary, unhandsome youth.” (70) In the course of their conversations, Ellen laughs at Steve and mocks him with quips like, “`I guess you’re my boss, mister man?’” (72) Steve is moved to confess, “I was her slave from the first. Somehow the idea of becoming a lover never entered my mind…Simply, I worshipped her; her presence intoxicated me, and I could think of no more enjoyable existence than serving her as a devoted slave.” (71)<br /><br /> Ellen, on the other hand, is less interested in Steve than in Senecoza, whom she prattles about as “`the most romantic looking savage’” (71) and “`a fine specimen of a savage.’” (72) When Ellen places a friendly arm around Steve, he describes how he was “maddened by the touch of her soft body –such mad devotion as a slave feels. I wanted to grovel in the dust at her feet and kiss her dainty shoes.” (72) To show his devotion, Steve timidly kisses her hand (rather than her feet), but within minutes Ellen is asking him to “`Tell me more about this Senecoza.’” (73)<br /><br /> Steve finds himself in a submissive position not only to Ellen, but to Senecoza as well. Making eye contact with the fetish-man, Steve steps back involuntarily. Later, Steve is outraged to find Senecoza scrutinizing Ellen with a lustful gaze. He draws his gun to shoot Senecoza into a “shredded heap.” (71) (Unfortunately, many white Southerners in 1924 would not have considered this an overreaction.) However, Steve finds himself paralyzed by Senecoza’s penetrating stare. It is hinted that this is due to some hypnotic power, rather than simply personal charisma. Still, Steve seems humiliated by his admission that Senecoza then “turned and strode away, a magnificent figure, while I glared after him and snarled in helpless fury.” (72)<br /><br /> Events reach their climax when Steve and Ellen are out riding—“she challenged me to a race. Her horse easily distanced mine, and she stopped and waited, laughing.” (73) Suddenly, Senecoza and twenty native warriors attack and begin their uprising. Senecoza captures Ellen, ripping her clothes into strips and using them to tie her up. Steve battles Senecoza in both human and hyena form. A good marksman when it counts, Steve sends a bullet through the hyena. Ellen is rescued and the uprising is put down. Steve and the other whites track the hyena to Senecoza’s hut where they learn the secret Howard telegraphed to the reader pages earlier—that the black man Steve found so threatening was a beast in a literal as well as a figurative sense.<br /><br /> On the surface, “The Hyena” is an unremarkable supernatural vignette, just another story in the March 1928 <em>Weird Tales</em>. Yet to a reader even a little knowledgeable about such things, the sadomasochistic subtext is very obvious. Steve’s referring to himself as Ellen’s “slave” three times is a dead giveaway, and his brief but feverish fantasizing about himself in that role leaves no doubt. This undercurrent of sexual yearning and anxiety makes “The Hyena” worth a second look.<br /><br /><br /> The period between 1924, which saw Howard’s first professional fiction sales, and 1929, when his career kicked into high gear, was his most prolific era as a poet. Naturally enough for a youthful poet, some of Howard’s verse contained erotic themes. A portion his erotic poetry dealt with so-called deviant sexuality, or to use a less judgmental term, kinky sex. Howard’s treatment of such topics ranged from light and playful to dark and passionate.<br /><br /> The spanking of adult women seems to have been of special interest to him. He wrote several naughty limericks collected under the heading “Limericks to Spank By.” Longer poems such as “Good Mistress Brown” and “The Harlot” also describe corporal punishment applied to women by both men and other women. The spankings are administered as a comeuppance to some uppity wife or rebellious young “flapper.”<br /><br /> In tone, the spanking verses are lightweight and amusing. The spanking of a headstrong woman often figures in “taming of the shrew” scenarios found in various works of fiction. In the movie “McLintock!” John Wayne spanks Maureen O’Hara, who is clad in soaking wet undergarments, in front of the entire town, and the film is regarded as wholesome family entertainment. I also seem to recall an episode of “I Love Lucy” in which Desi spanks Lucy. So these spanking verses of Howard’s would seem to be fairly innocuous; pretty tame stuff. <br /><br /> However, they are just part of a larger picture. Other poems by Howard that make use of related themes are darker and more compelling. “Lesbia” is a lengthy poem of fourteen stanzas in which a hot-blooded woman narrates her sexual yearnings for other women. The encounters she describes are both consensual and forced. In “Altars and Jesters,” alternately titled “An Opium Dream,” we find an instance of mild female domination.<br /><br /> A dark girl came from the mists and silence,<br /> Her eyes were oceans, dusky and slow,<br /> And her hands were ice as with still cold violence<br /> She stripped me naked and let me go. (“Altars and Jesters” 28)<br /><br /> Elsewhere, Howard is more explicit. The revealingly titled “Strange Passion” recounts episodes of sadomasochism, bisexuality, and exhibitionism. These encounters take place among the “black queens” of darkest Africa. Howard’s erotic attraction to black women has generally been acknowledged, and in his day distant places like the Congo were all the more remote and mysterious. The narrator of “Strange Passion” describes himself spanking women, and also being spanked by them: <br /> <br /><br /> I lay across her slim, brown knees,<br /> My firm young buttocks bare upturned.<br /><br /> Each time she shook in passion’s hap<br /> With greater strength she gripped and held,<br /> Stretched me stark naked o’er her lap<br /> And beat me till I fairly yelled. (“Strange Passion” 20) <br /><br /><br /> In addition to working in the more traditional poetic formats, Howard also dabbled in a more obscure form, the prose poem. Prose poetry, as the term suggests, fuses elements of prose, such as narrative structure and discourse, with elements of poetry, such as metaphorical and florid language. It was originated in 19th Century France by poets such as Baudelaire and Rimbaud, and adopted by British Decadents such as Oscar Wilde. In America, prose poetry was composed by George Sterling and his protégé, Clark Ashton Smith. Smith, of course, is better remembered today as a colleague of Howard who contributed many fantasy stories to <em>Weird Tales</em>. <br /><br /> Howard composed a cycle of five prose poems, plus a preamble, that he grouped under the heading, <em>Etchings in Ivory</em>. One of the poems, “Skulls and Orchids,” deals directly with male homosexuality. Howard is able to broach the subject tactfully by setting his vignette in ancient Greece. “Skulls and Orchids” is narrated by a young Athenian woman whose Spartan lover has jilted her in favor of a comely boy. Trouble ensues.<br /><br /> Another “etching” is titled “Flaming Marble” and depicts a sadomasochistic encounter. The opening informs us that, “This is a dream that comes to me often. Not in the lazy, illusive haze of day-dreaming, but clear and vivid to my sleeping soul.” (“Flaming Marble” 5) If we take Howard’s words at face value, he is describing an actual recurring sex dream. Another possibility is that he is revealing a sexual fantasy he has indulged in at more than once and is embellishing here.<br /><br /> The dream takes place in some ancient metropolis that the dreamer’s waking self is unable to specifically identify. The dreamer’s ancient alter ego is, not surprisingly for REH, a powerfully muscled barbarian. The scene unfolds:<br /><br />…Save for the sandals on my feet and a loincloth of silk, I was naked.<br /><br /><br />A woman reclined on a luxurious couch before me…lounging like a slim and supple leopardess on the furs and silks…<br /><br /><br />And in my waking hours I wonder –in what lost empire, in what ancient city was that room in which I stood? Who was I? And who was this woman? Was it Athens or Rome? Was it Aspasia, Thais, Messalina or Lais who lay before me? (5) <br /><br /><br />The dreamer describes how the woman “lashed me with words like silver daggers” (5) and that she looked “like a goddess in her wrath.” (6) He then reveals that “I was her slave…” (6) When he displays a defiant attitude, things take an interesting turn:<br />The cold eyes flashed with a fiercer light, and suddenly, with the lithe volcanic suddenness of a leaping tigress, my mistress was on her feet and her round white arm swept on high a slender whip with a jade hilt. But before its stinging lash ever touched my great shoulders, I tore it from her hand with a laugh that roared like the singing salt sea, and crushed her to my breast.<br /><br />She fought like a wild woman as I swept her off the floor and held her, cursing and helpless…A moment she fought against her fate, and then the marble limbs caught fire from my passion, and the round arms went around my massive neck…(6)<br /><br /><br />There are a number of highly charged elements at play here. A man is being subjected to verbal abuse by a beautiful woman. Verbal humiliation of this sort is frequently a component of sadomasochistic activities. The mistress wields a whip to administer a flogging to the slave (even though the flogging is prevented). The rape of an aristocratic woman is attempted by a man of a much lower caste. The aristocratic woman yields herself sexually to a social inferior. The dreamer several times refers to his past self as “slave” and the woman as “mistress.” The most striking aspect of “Flaming Marble” is that it portrays one of Howard’s brawny barbarians and one of his sultry sex goddesses in a mistress/slave relationship.<br /><br /><br /> Howard’s poetry and prose poetry were written primarily for private self-expression; a mere fraction of it saw publication during his lifetime. However, Howard also incorporated sadomasochistic motifs into his commercial fiction throughout his professional career.<br /><br />Such motifs are evident in the longest of his Solomon Kane stories, “The Moon of Skulls.” In this adventure, the Puritan swordsman journeys to the heart of 16th Century Africa in search of a kidnapped English girl named Marylin. His quest leads him to the lost city of Negari. The city is ruled by its resident femme fatale, Nakari, who could be one of the “black queens” alluded to in “Strange Passion.”<br /><br /> From a hidden vantage point, Kane first glimpses the queen in her throne room:<br /><br />…There, dwarfed by the ponderous splendor about her, a woman reclined. A black woman she was, young and of a tigerish comeliness. She was naked except for a beplumed helmet, armbands, anklets and a girdle of ostrich feathers and she sprawled upon the silken cushions with her limbs thrown about in voluptuous abandon.<br /><br />Even at that distance, Kane could make out that her features were regal yet barbaric, haughty and imperious, yet sensual, and with a touch of ruthless cruelty about the curl of her full red lips. Kane felt his pulse quicken…(“The Moon of Skulls” 114-115)<br /><br /><br />Kane soon gets a closer look while spying on Nakari as she visits her white slave, Marylin:<br /><br />…The black woman was clad as she had been when he had seen her on the throne, and the colored armlets and anklets clanked as she closed the door… She moved with the easy sinuousness of a she-leopard and in spite of himself the watcher was struck with admiration for her lithe beauty. Yet at the same time a shudder of revulsion shook him, for her eyes gleamed with vibrant and magnetic evil, older than the world…<br /><br />…Nakari halted by the couch, stood looking down upon her captive for a moment, then with an enigmatic smile, bent and shook her. Marylin opened her eyes, sat up, then slipped from her couch and knelt before her black mistress—an act which caused Kane to curse beneath his breath. The queen laughed and seating herself upon the couch, motioned the girl to rise, and then put an arm about her waist and drew her upon her lap. Kane watched, puzzled, while Nakari caressed the white girl in a lazy, amused manner. This might be affection, but to Kane it seemed more like a sated leopard teasing its victim…(128-129)<br /><br /><br /> Kane is repelled by Nakari, but also aroused by her. In addition to this hint of interracial lust, an element of female homoeroticism is introduced as Nakari toys with Marylin. This was all very provocative for a story published in 1930. In fact, “The Moon of Skulls” was bowdlerized when first reprinted for book publication in the racially conscious 1960s. <br /><br />The story’s undercurrent of sadomasochism reaches its peak when Kane himself becomes the queen’s prisoner. Captured, Kane is chained hand-and-foot in Nakari’s dungeon. Kane is kept in helpless bondage as he is interrogated by the queen. Nakari attempts to entice Kane into joining her by offering him her kingdom and her own voluptuous body.<br /><br />In this scene, Howard treats his reader to a most lurid tableau. Solomon Kane is a religious fanatic whose life is dedicated to stamping out evil. He is not merely a puritan in some figurative sense; he is an actual 16th Century English Puritan. In his world, women are customarily clothed from neck to foot. Totally committed to working God’s will, Kane is presumably celibate. Now he is bound in a dungeon while a luscious, semi-nude black vixen attempts to ensnare and seduce him. It is hard to imagine a situation more fraught with sexual tension. And when the iron-willed Kane rebukes her, Nakari tells him that Marylin “shall be punished as I have punished her before – hung up by her wrists, naked, and whipped until she swoons!” (137)<br /><br />Such a scene of girl-on-girl whipping is not actually depicted in “The Moon of Skulls.” Howard corrected this oversight a few years later when writing the adventures of his most famous character, Conan. Women are flogged by other women in two of the Conan stories. Interestingly, both of these stories are, like “The Moon of Skulls,” set in lost cities. Howard believed that civilizations carry the seeds of their own destructions, and was moved to portray decaying societies in his fiction. The occurrence of lurid sadomasochistic episodes in such stories serves to heighten an atmosphere of sinful decadence. Metaphorically, the lost cities are shadow realms removed from the everyday experience of the protagonist, and twice removed from that of the reader. The reader follows the hero into a dream world where anything can happen. <br /><br /> In “Xuthal of the Dusk” (originally published in <em>Weird Tales </em>as “The Slithering Shadow”), Conan and his female companion Natala discover a lost city where they meet another beautiful but deadly woman, Thalis. One of the most striking aspects of the story is the contrast between the two women. Natala is a slave girl who has been liberated by Conan, while Thalis is the most powerful woman in the city of Xuthal. The blonde Natala is meek and demure, but good-hearted. The black-haired Thalis is bold, haughty and sensuous, a she-cat who has been steeped in vice. Reminiscent of De Sade’s virtuous Justine and her depraved sister Juliette, they represent two sides of the same coin; top and bottom, dominant and submissive. In due course, they are joined in a highly charged sadomasochistic encounter:<br /><br />…As in a nightmare Natala felt her tunic being stripped from her, and the next instant Thalis had jerked up her wrists and bound them to the ring, where she hung, naked as the day she was born, her feet barely touching the floor. Twisting her head, Natala saw Thalis unhook a jewel-handled whip from where it hung on the wall, near the ring. The lashes consisted of seven round silk cords, harder yet more pliant than leather thongs.<br /><br />With a hiss of vindictive gratification, Thalis drew back her arm, and Natala shrieked as the cords curled across her loins. The tortured girl writhed, twisted and tore agonizedly at the thongs which imprisoned her wrists…Every stroke evoked screams of anguish. The whippings Natala had received in the Shemite slave-markets paled to insignificance before this. (“Xuthal of the Dusk” 237)<br /><br /><br />Howard later reworked elements of “Xuthal of the Dusk” to create his masterpiece, “Red Nails.’ In contrast to the demure Natala of “Xuthal,” the heroine of “Red Nails” is the dynamic Valeria of the Red Brotherhood. Natala and Valeria are both fair-skinned blondes, but there the comparison ends. The pirate Valeria is a formidable and renowned warrior. And in the whipping scene in “Red Nails,” Valeria is the dominant female who administers the flogging. When a serving woman of the lost city of Xuchotl attempts to drug her, Valeria demands to know whom the woman is working for:<br /><br />Yasala made no reply. She crouched, watching her captor with eyes baleful as those of a basilisk. Stubborn silence always fans anger. Valeria turned and tore a handful of cords from a nearby hanging.<br /><br />“You sulky slut!” she said between her teeth. “I’m going to strip you stark naked and tie you across that couch and whip you until you tell me what you were doing here, and who sent you!”<br /><br />Yasala made no verbal protest, nor did she offer any resistance, as Valeria carried out the first part of her threat with a fury that her captive’s obstinacy only sharpened. Then for a space there was no sound in the chamber except the whistle and crackle of hard-woven silken cords on naked flesh. Yasala could not move her fast-bound hands or feet. Her body writhed and quivered under the chastisement, her head swayed from side to side in rhythm with the blows. Her teeth were sunk into her lower lip and a trickle of blood began as the punishment continued. But she did not cry out.<br /><br />The pliant cords made no great sound as they encountered the quivering body of the captive; only a sharp crackling snap, but each cord left a red streak across Yasala’s dark flesh. Valeria inflicted the punishment with all the strength of her war-hardened arm, with all the mercilessness acquired during a life where pain and torment were daily happenings, and with all the cynical ingenuity which only a woman displays toward a woman. Yasala suffered more, physically and mentally, than she would have suffered under a lash wielded by a man, however strong. (“Red Nails” 254)<br /><br /><br />In addition to the flagellation and bondage, this scene contains a hint of the humiliation that is also frequently a component of sadomasochistic erotica and activities. The element of humiliation becomes more pronounced when the proud Valeria herself is dominated by both a man and a woman. Valeria, accustomed to holding her own in a world of men, is physically overpowered by the abnormal strength of one of the city’s rulers, the bull-like Olmec. However, she is quickly appropriated by Tascela, a black-haired sorceress possessed of preternatural strength and hypnotic powers:<br /><br />[Valeria] turned and sprang toward the door, but with a movement that would have shamed a leaping panther, Tascela was before her. Valeria struck at her with her clenched fist, and all the power of her supple body behind the blow. It would have stretched a man senseless on the floor. But with a lithe twist of her torso, Tascela avoided the blow and caught the pirate’s wrist. The next instant Valeria’s left hand was imprisoned, and holding her wrists together with one hand, Tascela calmly bound them with a cord she drew from her girdle. Valeria thought she had tasted the ultimate in humiliation already that night, but her shame at being manhandled by Olmec was nothing to the sensations that now shook her supple frame. Valeria had always been inclined to despise the other members of her sex; and it was overwhelming to encounter another woman who could handle her like a child. She scarcely resisted at all when Tascela forced her into a chair and drawing her bound wrists down between her knees, fastened them to the chair. (270-271)<br /><br /><br />Valeria is subsequently stripped naked and pinned to a sacrificial alter. In “Red Nails,” Howard treats his reader to the spectacle of a dominant woman being dominated herself.<br /><br /> A briefer passage hinting at sadistic sexual abuse occurs during this exchange between Olivia and Shah Amurath in “Iron Shadows in the Moon:”<br /><br /> “Let me go!” begged the girl, tears of despair staining her face. “Have I not suffered enough? Is there any humiliation, pain or degradation you have not heaped on me? How long must my torment last?”<br /><br /> “As long as I find pleasure in your whimperings, your pleas, tears and writhings,” he answered with a smile that would have seemed gentle to a stranger. “You are strangely virile, Olivia. I wonder if I shall ever weary of you, as I have always wearied of women before. You are ever fresh and unsullied, in spite of me…” (“Iron Shadows in the Moon” 187-178)<br /><br /><br />Olivia is a slave girl strong enough to take what her master dishes out, but gleans no pleasure from it. She is tough enough to survive where Natala, in “Xuthal of the Dusk,” would have perished, but does not allow herself to become jaded like Thalis. <br /><br />It is also in the Conan series that we find a depiction of sheer sadism so extreme that were it to be adapted faithfully to film, the filmmakers might well find themselves facing jail time. This scene occurs in the brooding Gothic tale, “The Black Stranger.” In the story, the fear-haunted Count Valenso has retreated with retainers and entourage to an isolated fortress on a desolate coastline. The Count lives in mortal terror of a mysterious demonic black man who pursues him, and has fled to the most remote area he could reach. Among Count Valenso’s entourage is a girl child named Tina, first seen running naked along a beach. When Tina mentions having seen the black stranger, Valenso erupts in an insane fury of enraged horror:<br />Valenso reeled as if he had received a mortal blow. He clutched at his throat, snapping the gold chain in his violence. With the face of a madman he lurched about the table and tore the child screaming from Belesa’s arms.<br /><br /><br />“You little slut!” he panted. “You lie! You have heard me mumbling in my sleep and told this lie to torment me! Say that you lie before I tear the skin from your back!”<br /><br />“Uncle!” cried Belesa, in outraged bewilderment, trying to free Tina from his grasp. “Are you mad? What are you about?”<br /><br />With a snarl he tore her hand from his arm and spun her staggering into the arms of Galbro who received her with a leer he made little effort to disguise.<br /><br />“Mercy, my lord!” sobbed Tina. “I did not lie!”<br /><br />“I said you lied!” roared Valenso. “Gebbrelo!”<br /><br />The stolid serving man seized the trembling youngster and stripped her with one brutal wrench that tore her scanty garments from her body. Wheeling, he drew her slender arms over his shoulders, lifting her writhing feet clear of the floor.<br /><br />“Uncle!” shrieked Belesa, writhing vainly in Galbro’s lustful grasp. “You are mad! You can not –oh, you can not--!” The voice choked in her throat as Valenso caught up a jewel-hilted riding whip and brought it down across the child’s frail body with a savage force that left a red weal across her naked shoulders.<br /><br />Belesa moaned, sick with the anguish of Tina’s shriek. The world had suddenly gone mad. As in a nightmare she saw the stolid faces of the soldiers and servants, beast-faces, the faces of oxen, reflecting neither pity nor sympathy. Zarono’s faintly sneering face was part of the nightmare. Nothing in that crimson haze was real except Tina’s naked white body, criss-crossed with red welts from shoulders to knees; no sound real except the child’s sharp cries of agony, and the panting gasps of Valenso as he lashed away with the staring eyes of a madman, shrieking, “You lie! You lie! Curse you, you lie! Admit your guilt, or I will flay your stubborn body! He could not have followed me here—”<br /><br />“Oh, have mercy, my lord!” screamed the child, writhing vainly on the brawny servant’s back, too frantic with fear and pain to have the wit to save herself by a lie. Blood trickled in crimson beads down her quivering thighs…(“The Black Stranger” 127-128)<br /><br />“The Black Stranger” was the only Conan story to be rejected by <em>Weird Tales</em> after the series had become popular with the readers. However, this was most likely due to the fact that Conan himself is offstage for much of the lengthy tale. The story was not published in its original form until 1987. Interestingly enough, even in the version of the story heavily edited by L. Sprague de Camp (“The Treasure of Tranicos”), the whipping of Tina by Count Valenso is presented as Howard wrote it, except for name changes for some of the characters. The sequence is horrific in the extreme, rather than evocative of erotic sadomasochism. I do not believe that Howard intended it to be in any way titillating or expected his readers to view it as such. Its placement in the story was more likely meant to emphasize the depravity of his unsavory characters. Even so, it must be admitted that a passage in which a crazed aristocrat whips a naked prepubescent girl with a riding crop hard enough to draw blood, in front of other leering men, is an episode that would be right at home in the works of the Marquis de Sade himself. While I would not care to meet the sort of person who would be aroused by Tina’s whipping, such people do exist.<br /><br /><br />Between the Solomon Kane and the Conan stories, Howard tried his hand at writing Lovecraftian horror. “The Black Stone” has long been considered his best story in this vein. The narrator of “The Black Stone” travels to a remote area of Eastern Europe to examine a mysterious monolith of unknown ancient origin. There he has a vision of the dark rites that had been performed at the site centuries earlier by the strange people who once inhabited the region:<br /><br />The rhythm of the swaying bodies grew faster and into the space between the people and the monolith sprang a naked young woman, her eyes blazing, her long black hair flying loose. Spinning dizzily on her toes, she whirled across the open space and fell prostrate before the Stone, where she lay motionless. The next instant a fantastic figure followed her –a man from whose waist hung a goatskin, and whose features were entirely hidden by a sort of mask made from a huge wolf’s head…In his hand he held a bunch of long fir switches bound together at the larger ends…<br /><br />…Coming to the woman who lay before the monolith, he began to lash her with the switches he bore, and she leaped up and spun into the wild mazes of the most incredible dance I have ever seen. And her tormentor danced with her…while incessantly raining cruel blows on her naked body…<br /><br />Blood trickled down the dancer’s limbs but she seemed not to feel the lashing save as a stimulus for further enormities of outrageous motion…she dropped suddenly to the sward, quivering and panting as if completely overcome by her frenzied exertions. The lashing continued with unabated violence and intensity and she began to wriggle toward the monolith on her belly. The priest –or such I will call him—followed, lashing her unprotected body with all the power of his arm as she writhed along, leaving a heavy track of blood on the trampled earth. She reached the monolith, and gasping and panting, flung both arms about it and covered the cold stone with fierce hot kisses, as in frenzied and unholy adoration. (“The Black Stone” 130-131)<br /><br />The purpose of the ritual is to summon a monster the people worship. The monster is possessed of evil intelligence, and is presented with “a young girl, stark naked and bound hand and foot” (130) to ravish. This “unhallowed ritual of cruelty and sadism” (132), with its frenzied flagellation, causes the naked dancer to collapse in orgasmic ecstasy and then embrace and kiss a phallic monolith jutting from the earth. In “The Black Stone,” Howard takes Lovecraftian horror to a realm where H. P. Lovecraft himself never tread.<br /><br />Another notable instance of sadomasochism can be found in one of Howard’s regional “piney woods” horror stories, “Pigeons from Hell.” Set at an old abandoned Southern plantation, the story tells of the curse that destroyed the once-illustrious Blassenville family. At the root of the curse was the cruelty displayed be Miss Celia Blassenville toward her mulatto maid, Joan. (“Joan,” like “Steve,” was a name Howard employed with some frequency. Joan is the name of several of his beguiling heroines, and also occurs in his erotic poetry.) Decades later, a character recalls how Miss Celia “used to whip her mulatto maid just like she was a slave” and would “tie this girl up to a tree, stark naked, and whip her with a horsewhip.” (“Pigeons from Hell” 278) Though it is somewhat muted by being a secondhand account, this is yet another episode of woman-on-woman flagellation such as we found in “Red Nails” and “Xuthal of the Dusk.” This account of a haughty Southern belle whipping her servant also brings to mind the numerous scenarios involving aristocratic women and their maids that abound in S/m erotica.<br /><br />Both the supernatural and sadomasochistic elements in “Pigeons from Hell” can be traced back to a childhood acquaintance of Howard. As a boy living in the “piney woods” area of East Texas, Howard heard many African-American ghost stories from an elderly former slave named Aunt Mary Bohannon. Nor were those the only tales she told. Howard informed H. P. Lovecraft that, “old Aunt Mary had had the misfortune, in her youth, to belong to a man whose wife was a fiend from Hell. The young slave women were fine young animals and barbarically handsome; her mistress was frenziedly jealous. You understand. Aunt Mary told tales of torture and unmistakable sadism that sicken me to this day when I think of them.” (Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 9/30, 58)<br /><br /><br />In the final phase of his career, Howard entered the lucrative “spicy stories” market. Magazines like <em>Spicy-Adventure Stories</em> and <em>Spicy Detective Stories</em> published fairly standard genre fiction with an added erotic element that was considered quite racy for the time. In a letter to Novalyne Price, Howard explained some of the editorial requirements:<br /><br />…A nice balance must be maintained—the stuff must be hot enough to make the readers bat their eyes, but not too hot to get the censors on them. They have some definite taboos. No degeneracy, for instance. No sadism or masochism…(Ellis, One Who Walked Alone 262)<br /><br />Nevertheless, Howard did occasionally succumb to the temptation to include sadomasochistic elements in stories written for the spicy pulps.<br /><br /> “Ship in Mutiny” is one of a series of tales about the roguish adventurer, Wild Bill Clanton. In it, the villain describes his plans for Clanton and the story’s heroine: “We’ll find the girl and make her watch while I skin him alive! I’ll make a garment of his hide and force her to wear it always about her loins to remind her how her lover died!” (“Ship in Mutiny” 34) This brief passage is the extent of the sadomasochism in the story, but once again it embodies a sadistic fantasy worthy of the Marquis de Sade.<br /><br /> Howard indulges in lurid S/m fantasy at greater length in another spicy story, “Daughters of Feud.” As the title indicates, the story concerns feuding hillbilly families. The hero is Braxton Brent, the new schoolteacher. Brunette bad girl Ann and blonde good girl Joan engage in a catfight in the middle of class. To maintain discipline, Brent must administer corporal punishment to his nubile nineteen-year-old students. Howard returns to a familiar theme of his erotic poetry, spanking, in a scene too good not to quote in full:<br /><br />…She was strong and supple as only a mountain girl can be, and she fought like a wildcat, but Brent was an athletic young man, and he was mad clear through. There was a brief whirl of struggle, and then his superior strength made itself evident. Crushing her resistance, he sat down on the bench and imprisoned her, cursing and kicking, across his knee, and pulled up her skirt. He had already learned that the girls of Whiskey Run wore no underwear. Ann was no exception.<br /><br /><br /> “Now, you little devil,” he swore grimly, “I’m going to show you who’s the boss here!”<br /><br /><br /> And firmly grasping his raging captive, he employed the strap on her bare, squirming, upturned hips with a vigor inspired by his determination to assert his authority once and for all. He didn’t want to have to repeat this scene. At each resounding smack, a broad crimson weal appeared on her olive-tinted hips, and before he had completed his discipline, the entire surface was reddened, and Ann’s curses and threats had changed to shrieks of pain and frantic pleas for mercy. When he released her, she slipped to the floor and groveled at his feet, weeping stormily and contorting her supple body ludicrously with the smarting of her crimson hips. (“Daughters of Feud” 151-152)<br /><br /><br /> Things get complicated when Brent suddenly falls for Joan. (The name of the hero’s love interest is another indication that “Joan” was a feminine name REH was especially fond of.) Joan is spared a spanking when she and Brent make love instead. Later, to protect Brent from charges of favoritism, she displays self-inflicted whip marks on her bared buttocks. The story ends on a cheery note of love and romance. Brent spanks Ann only reluctantly; he is no more a dominant “top” than Solomon Kane, languishing in Nakari’s dungeon, was a submissive. The sadomasochism in this story, as in the others, is an undercurrent flowing beneath the surface.<br /><br /> Another interesting motif is the recurrence of a blonde heroine and a brunette bad girl in “Daughters of Feud,” as in “Xuthal of the Dusk” and “Red Nails.” It serves as a clear simple physical representation of the light and the dark, and is by no means limited to Howard. In Chapter 7 of <em>Love and Death in the American Novel</em>, Leslie A. Fiedler explores the symbolism of the light and dark sisters, Alice and Cora Munro, in James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans.<br /><br /> Neither “Ship in Mutiny” nor “Daughters of Feud” were published in Howard’s lifetime. “Ship in Mutiny” was the only story in the Wild Bill Clanton series to be rejected by Spicy-Adventure. This probably owed little to the story’s sole sadistic passage, but rather to editorial preference for stories with an upbeat tone as opposed to the somewhat grim atmosphere that prevails in “Ship in Mutiny.” In “Daughters of Feud,” however, the kinky aspect is very pronounced and went well beyond what the editors would have found acceptable.<br /><br /><br /> So what, then, are we to make of all this? Howard’s use of sadomasochistic elements ranges from mildly titillating spanking limericks to instances of horrific cruelty. A mad count whipping a naked, crying ten year old girl, or a villain planning to make a woman wear Wild Bill Clanton’s skin, exceed the limits of erotic S/m and take us into a realm of sheer nightmare and madness. I personally do not believe that Howard viewed the whipping of Tina as arousing. The imagination is unruly, however, and sometimes takes us to darker places than we meant to go. Therefore, in pondering to what extent Howard’s use of sadomasochism is indicative of creative self-expression, or contrived, or representative of his sexual interests, we have to accept a certain amount of ambiguity. <br /><br /> In the past, commentators have dismissed instances of flagellation and bondage in the Conan stories as a purely commercial contrivance, examples of Howard “pandering” to his readers. Possibly, some commentators arrived at this conclusion because of the many lurid depictions of torture to be found in the “weird menace” magazines, or “shudder pulps,” that became popular late in Howard’s career. Publications like <em>Terror Tales</em> and <em>Horror Stories </em>offered “chamber of horrors” torture scenarios inspired by the Grand Guignol Theatre of Paris. In 1935,<em> Weird Tales</em> inaugurated the “Doctor Satan” series in a bid to remain competitive. <br /><br /> Howard did indeed dabble in the weird menace genre, contributing “Graveyard Rats” and “Black Wind Blowing” to <em>Thrilling Mystery</em>. Additionally, the horror stories “Black Hound of Death” and “Moon of Zambebwei,” published in <em>Weird Tales</em>, were originally intended for the shudder pulps. “Black Wind Blowing,” “Black Hound of Death,” and the posthumously published “The Devils of Dark Lake” all feature scenes depicting nude women in bondage, two of whom are named Joan.<br /><br /> However, “Xuthal of the Dusk,” with its girl-on-girl sadomasochism, was published (as “The Slithering Shadow”) in the September 1933 issue of <em>Weird Tales</em> –one month <em>before</em> the first shudder pulp, <em>Dime Mystery Magazine</em>, adopted the weird menace format with its October 1933 issue. In weird menace stories, villains typically indulge in outré forms of murder such as covering women in gold to create incredibly lifelike statues or freezing them into “corpse-sicles.” This is a far cry from an erotic S/m fantasy such as the dominatrix-like Thalis whipping the naked, writhing Natala in “Xuthal.” Moreover, to the best of my knowledge none of the star contributors to the shudder pulps like Hugh B. Cave or Wyatt Blassingame ever wrote any poetry concerning sadistic practices. Howard’s S/m themed poetry, as well as “The Moon of Skulls” and the horror stories “The Hyena” and “The Black Stone,” predate the weird menace pulps by several years.<br /><br /> A stronger case can be made that Howard was following the lead of Seabury Quinn, a fan favorite of <em>Weird Tales </em>readers since the mid-1920s. Howard complained bitterly to Lovecraft, “I don’t know how much slaughter and butchery the readers will endure. Their capacity for grisly details seems unlimited, when the cruelty is the torturing of some naked girl, such as Seabury Quinn’s stories abound in --no reflection on Quinn; he knows what they want and gives it to them” (Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 8/9/32, 52).<br /><br /> At the time of Howard’s remarks, Quinn had been chronicling the adventures of the occult investigator Jules de Grandin for seven years, to the exclusion of other work. I have recently read all of the De Grandin stories available to me that Howard would have also read, over thirty tales, and have found them to be, for the most part, not nearly as lurid as Howard’s comments would lead one to believe. No naked girls are tortured onstage, much less in “grisly detail.”<br /><br /> The roughest of the De Grandin stories I read was “The House of Horror” (<em>Weird Tales</em>, July 1926), which concerns a mad doctor’s hideous experiments on kidnapped women. The experiments are done offstage, but the results are depicted. In “The House of Golden Masks” (June 1929), girls are forced into white slavery, adorned with golden masks attached to their faces by piercings, and compelled to participate in degrading performances for the benefit of wealthy degenerates. The other stories with prurient elements are: “Children of Ubasti” (12/29) -- ghouls kidnap girls and eat their flesh, and feed them human flesh; “The Dust of Egypt” (4/30) -- threat of flagellation; “The Brain Thief” (5/30) -- forced nudity; “Bride of Dewer” (7/30) -- attempted rape by demon; “Daughter of the Moonlight” (8/30) -- man’s face mutilated by witch. That’s seven stories out of thirty-two. The sadistic elements, which far from “abound,” are more than balanced by the cheerfulness and good deeds of the kindly Dr. De Grandin. Both De Grandin and his sidekick Dr. Trowbridge are middle-aged bachelors with lost loves in their pasts; their adventures frequently center on their efforts to aid a young couple. This lends the stories a sort of bittersweet quality.<br /><br /> On the other hand, Seabury Quinn’s only novel-length tale of Jules de Grandin, <em>The Devil’s Bride</em>, is much stronger than the typical De Grandin short story. In it, infants are sacrificed by Satanists, a nude woman is found crucified, and an innocent girl is blinded and mortally wounded. Again, most of the atrocities occur offstage. <em>The Devil’s Bride</em> was serialized in six issues of <em>Weird Tales</em>, concluding in the July 1932 issue. Therefore it would have been fresh in Howard’s mind when he made his remarks to Lovecraft in early August. Even so, I think, in bashing Quinn, Howard protests too much.<br /><br /><br /> Howard made passing mention of sadism and masochism in other correspondence, to Novalyne Price as well as to Lovecraft. The former was a proper young woman of the era and the latter was virtually asexual, but both were important figures in Howard’s life. Concerning sadism, he told Lovecraft, “I’ve read what Havelock Ellis and other leading psychologists have had to say about it, and have in my possession a very good work on sadism and masochism by a noted German scholar” (Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 5/12/35, 68). This appears to be in reference to <em>Algolagnia: The Psychology, Neurology and Physiology of Sadistic Love and Masochism</em> by Albert Eulenburg.<br /><br /> Howard also owned several books of flagellation erotica, specifically <em>A History of the Rod, Curiosa of Flagellants and History of Flagellation</em>, and <em>Experiences of Flagellation</em> (Eng, Robert E. Howard’s Library 189, 198). Glenn Lord expressed the notion that the presence of these books in Howard’s library may reflect his interest in writing for the weird menace magazines. The amount of research essential for writing for the shudder pulps notwithstanding, the sort of Grand Guignol torture depicted in magazines like <em>Terror Tales</em> bears little resemblance to actual S/m erotica. I suspect that Glenn Lord may have wished to avoid confronting the possibility that REH harbored any “pervert” tendencies. However, Howard’s possession of such books does suggest that he knew what he was doing when he included the whipping scene in “Xuthal of the Dusk,” for example.<br /><br /> A list of erotic titles available for purchase was found among Howard’s papers. The titles listed were: <em>A History of the Rod, The Merry Order of St. Bridget, Curiosa of Flagellants & History of Flagellation, Painful Pleasures, Nell in Bridewell, The Misfortunes of Colette, The Strap Returns, Tracts of Flagellation, The Rodiad, Tender Bottoms, Sadism and Masochism </em>(Eulenburg), <em>Presented in Leather</em>, and <em>Girdles of Chastity</em>. The prices of the titles are included, and notes indicate that most were illustrated and privately printed for subscribers.<br /><br /> Need I add that it was extremely rare for someone to simply stumble upon material of this type back in the 1930s? It may have been more widely available during the Roaring Twenties, but one would have still needed to go out of one‘s way to obtain it. The extent to which Howard pursued this interest way back then –long before John Norman, before <em>Penthouse Forum</em>, before Eric Stanton, before John Willie’s Bizarre, before Irving Klaw, before Bettie Page—is revealing. Most people in Howard’s day were only dimly aware of erotic sadomasochism. Prior to the composition of “Red Nails,” Howard remarked to Novalyne Price that he planned to make it one of his “sexiest, goriest” tales. In reaction to this, Novalyne noted in her diary, “…I couldn’t see that the Conan yarns Bob had brought me to read had any sex in them. Gore, yes. Sex, no.” (Ellis, 201) Frankly, this statement had me puzzled. Then it dawned on me that, in 1935, Novalyne would probably have not even recognized the flagellation, bondage, and assorted sadomasochistic trappings in stories like “Xuthal of the Dusk” and “Red Nails” as “sex.”<br /><br /> The presence of sadomasochistic elements in Howard’s poetry and fiction, viewed in light of the S/m erotica in his collection, does seem to indicate that Howard’s sexual interests extended beyond a simple taste for vanilla. REH was a physically vigorous young male with no regular sexual outlet, and possessed of one of the most vivid imaginations on the planet. It would actually be surprising if he had no kinks whatsoever.<br /><br /> A common thread running through all of Robert E. Howard’s work is a craving for more intense experience than there is to be found in ordinary, everyday life. The sadomasochistic elements in Howard’s writings are a reflection of this, as far as his libido is concerned. Hearts and flowers and Cupid and the moon in June weren’t enough for him. Or as Howard himself put it:<br /><br /> “Mine are the lusts of hoofs and horns,<br /> “Of the he-goat and the loon<br /> “And the naked witches that demons deflower<br /> “On the dark side of the moon.<br /><br /> “No common sin may fire my eyes,<br /> “Glutted with excesses fell—<br /> “My lust is stained with the dung that stirs<br /> “On the stinking streets of Hell. (Howard to Tevis Clyde Smith 61-62)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />References:<br /><br />Robert E. Howard works cited:<br /><br />“Altars and Jesters,” in <em>Night Images</em> (The Morning Star Press, 1976), pp. 28-31.<br /><br />“The Black Stone,” in <em>The Best of Robert E Howard Volume I: Crimson Shadows</em> (Del Rey Books, 2007), pp. 121-136.<br /><br />“The Black Stranger,” in <em>The Conquering Sword of Conan</em> (Del Rey Books, 2005), pp. 103-173.<br /><br /> “Daughters of Feud,” in <em>The She Devil</em> (Ace Fantasy Books, 1983), pp. 147-167.<br /><br />“Flaming Marble,” in Etchings in Ivory (Hall Publications, 1975), pp. 5-6.<br /><br />“The Hyena,” in <em>Shadow Kingdoms: The Weird Works of Robert E. Howard, Volume 1</em> (Wildside Press, 2004), pp. 67-78.<br /><br />Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, ca. September 1930, in Selected Letters 1923-1930 (Necronomicon Press, 1989), p. 58.<br /><br />Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 9 August 1932, in The Last Celt (ed. Glenn Lord, Donald M. Grant, 1976), p. 51.<br /><br />Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 5 December 1935, in Selected Letters 1931-1936 (Necronomicon Press, 1991), pp. 65-73.<br /><br />Howard to Tevis Clyde Smith, ca. September 1930, in Selected Letters 1923-1930 (Necronomicon Press, 1989), pp. 60-62.<br /><br />“Iron Shadows in the Moon,” in <em>The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian</em> (Del Rey Books, 2003), pp. 187-216.<br /><br />“The Moon of Skulls,” in <em>The Savage Tales of Solomon Kane</em> (Del Rey Books, 2004), pp. 99-170.<br /><br />“Pigeons from Hell,” in <em>The Black Stranger and Other American Tales</em> (University of Nebraska Press, 2005), pp. 264-292.<br /><br />“Red Nails,” in <em>The Conquering Sword of Conan</em> (Del Rey Books, 2005), pp. 211-281.<br /><br />“Strange Passion,” in <em>Risqué Stories</em> 1, March 1984, p. 20.<br /><br /> “Ship in Mutiny,” in <em>The She Devil</em> (Ace Fantasy Books, 1983), pp. 22-42.<br /><br />“Xuthal of the Dusk,” in <em>The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian</em> (Del Rey Books, 2003), pp. 219-247.<br /><br />Other works cited:<br /><br />Novalyne Price Ellis, <em>One Who Walked Alone: Robert E. Howard, The Final Years </em>(Donald M. Grant, 1986).<br /><br />Leslie A. Fieldler, <em>Love and Death in the American Novel </em>(Scarborough Books, 1982).<br /><br />Steve Eng, Robert E. Howard’s Library in Don Herron, ed., <em>The Dark Barbarian: The Writings of Robert E. Howard, A Critical Anthology</em> (Greenwood Press, 1984), pp. 183-200.<br /><br /><br /><em></em><em></em>Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-26574359179825543692010-05-09T16:23:00.000-07:002010-05-09T17:27:33.055-07:00Guns of the Border Region - Chapter Six[It's been awhile since I posted last. Here's the latest installment of GOTBR. There's heaps of hard sex and violence here, so I felt moved to try to give it all a sweet center. Copyright 2009 by Charles Hoffman.]<br /><br /><br />CHAPTER SIX -- SHADOW’S REVENGE<br /><br />Having gotten the drop on Sailor Clanton, Shadow quickly disarmed him and tossed his gun into a corner. Then she ordered him to strip. She turned the oil lamp back up while Clanton removed his clothes. When he was naked she noticed that his privates had shriveled to a small knot of goose-pimpled flesh. A loaded gun held inches from a man’s head will have that effect.<br /><br />Shadow couldn’t resist some sort of cutting remark, “Not such a big man now, are we?”<br /><br />“Screw you, bitch,” muttered Clanton. There was fear in his voice, tinged by helpless rage. Clanton enjoyed dishing out humiliation a lot more than he did taking it. He didn’t much like what happened next, either.<br /><br />Shadow smashed him across the face with the barrel of the Glock, then struck him across the other cheek with the backstroke. It was payback for the pistol-whipping he had given her earlier. Clanton was rocked but managed to stay on his feet. He winced at the pain.<br /><br />“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Shadow asked. Then, to Clanton’s utter astonishment, she put her gun aside. “Clanton, I’m going to give you more of a chance than you gave me,” she told him, “Let’s see if you can take me when I’m not tied up, without your gun and your boyfriends.”<br /><br />It took a few seconds for it to dawn on Clanton that he had been granted a reprieve from a situation that had promised certain death. But once the realization took hold, he wasted no time to comment or mentally thank fate. Instead, he bored right in, lunging at Shadow and hoping to wrestle her to the floor.<br /><br />Shadow had been expecting some such move and side-stepped it easily. She booted Clanton in the ass as he went stumbling by. Clanton went sprawling face-first onto the cabin’s dirt floor.<br /><br />At this point it would have been easy for Shadow to pile on top of him and grind his face into the dirt. She was sorely tempted to force him face-down into the dirt until he asphyxiated. It was her plan not just to beat him up, but bust him up. She fully intended to leave him dead or permanently disabled. But she didn’t want to end it too quickly.<br /><br />“Get up!” she snarled. <br /><br />There were many who would have considered Shadow’s giving Sailor Clanton a second crack at her to be a reckless, foolhardy move. Clanton was bigger than she was, and stronger. Yet Shadow had put aside her anger long enough to weigh her course of action before committing to it. Clanton was no pushover in a fight, but he wasn’t as good as he thought he was. His penchant for taking on lesser opponents had given him an inflated reputation, in his own mind as well as others’. In terms of overall skill, he was Shadow’s inferior. Moreover, his physique, though impressive, was mainly for show. He looked pumped-up, even a little muscle-bound. He lacked the trim lines of a true fighter. And he would not be fighting in top form. He had been forced to strip naked at gunpoint, which rendered him more vulnerable in addition to being psychologically debilitating. Ending up face-down on the floor mere seconds into a fight also tended to undermine one’s confidence. Two cracks on the head from a gun barrel weren’t likely to help Clanton’s form either.<br /><br />Clanton rose unsteadily and turned to face his former prisoner. Shadow shifted into her fighting stance. Clanton came at her, enraged, still seeking to overpower her by sheer force. He cocked back a clenched fist as he closed distance. Then he hooked his heavily-muscled arm at her as though determined to tear her head from her shoulders with a single blow.<br /><br />Clanton’s hook to the head was poorly timed and executed, however. Shadow ducked under it with a supple weave of her body. She sprang up inside his guard, stung his face with a couple of quick jabs, then danced back out of range.<br /><br />Clanton realized that he had a real fight on his hands and he wasn’t going to end this with one punch. He got down to serious business, assuming a boxing stance opposite his opponent.<br /><br />Shadow was instantly aware that Clanton had sobered up and was now fighting with a clear head. She wasn’t about to let him get up to speed. Clanton moved in, flicking his jab. Shadow shifted to karate mode and deflected the blows with swats of her open hands. When her foe was close enough, she brought her booted heel down hard on his naked instep. She felt some of the bones crack as she counterpunched, then moved back out of range. Clanton wobbled unsteadily on his broken foot. Lame, he was a sitting duck.<br /><br />Even so, Shadow remained wary about moving in on him. Unable to maneuver, his best bet would be to try to grapple. The smart move would be to soak up a few more of her licks in exchange for an opportunity to place her in some sort of hold or, failing that, simply seize her and hurl her to the ground --anything that enabled him to bring his greater strength to bear.<br /><br />Given these considerations, Shadow refrained from rushing in. Instead she took this opportunity to taunt Clanton in the hopes of rattling him. She assumed a haughty demeanor, flaunting her naked breasts. “This is twice tonight you’ve come up short,” she said coldly, “Karla gave me a better fight.”<br /><br />“You lousy bitch,” he grated, “Just let me get my hands on you.” His open hands trembled, betraying his urge to grab.<br /><br />Stupid of him to telegraph that he’s going for the grapple, Shadow thought, What if I hadn’t figured it out already?<br /><br />Stung to fury, Clanton hobbled forward despite the pain of his injured foot. Shadow let out a loud “Ki-yi!” and raised her hands to deliver karate strikes. Clanton raised his own guard in response. However, Shadow’s move was merely a feint. When Sailor Clanton was in range she kicked him in the balls.<br /><br />Clanton folded instantly, crashing to his knees. Shadow’s kick had been dead on. Since he was nude, Clanton’s testes were totally exposed. His injured foot made his stance awkward, leaving him wide open for a ball-shot. Shadow saw the opening and took the shot. “Accept what is offered,” Pops had told her long ago during training.<br /><br />Shadow laughed at the sight of Clanton on his knees, clutching his groin and clenching his teeth against the urge to retch. Clanton flopped onto his side and curled into a fetal position.<br /><br />After a few moments passed and he made no effort to rise, Shadow ordered him to get up. She suspected he was “taking the count,” faking the extent of his incapacity and stalling for time. In this way he could recover more fully while planning his next move. Shadow wasn’t having any of that shit. “Get up,” she repeated harshly, “Get up or I will kick and stomp you to death where you lay!”<br /><br />After waiting as long as he dared, Clanton began to stir. He rose slowly and unsteadily. Before he was fully erect, Shadow knocked him back down with a side thrust kick. This almost proved to be her undoing. Instead of dropping, Clanton rolled with the kick and allowed it to propel him backwards --right into the corner where Shadow had tossed his gun. He managed to land face-down on top of it.<br /><br />Within the space of a heartbeat Clanton was rolling onto his back, aiming the weapon. But Shadow had caught the move. With a speed borne of desperate urgency, she reached her own weapon, snatched it up, swung it towards Clanton, fired.<br /><br />Both guns roared in the same instant. Clanton was still rolling his body as he fired. His shot went wild. Shadow’s struck Clanton squarely. She continued to squeeze the trigger. Three more of the heavy .40 slugs slammed into Clanton. His body jerked spasmodically, the automatic dropping from his twitching fingers. When Shadow stopped firing he slumped back and sprawled lifeless before her.<br /><br />She pumped three more bullets into him for good measure. For several minutes she glared down at the bullet-riddled corpse. He bare breasts rose and fell as her breath hissed through her nostrils and clenched teeth. Her anger remained unabated. It was as though Clanton had escaped her in some way. She kicked the corpse savagely, again and again. She stomped down hard on it until she felt ribs crack. Then she unsheathed her knife…<br /><br />#<br /><br />The moon was setting by the time Mike and Lyle made it back to the cabin. Both were so drunk they could barely remain in their saddles. Lyle’s foot got caught in the stirrup as he attempted to dismount, and Mike had to free him. Eventually they managed to get the horses tied up. They headed around to front of the cabin.<br /><br />Even through their booze haze, both instantly sensed that something was amiss. The door to the cabin was ajar. The wan yellowish lantern light spilled out through the opening. No sound could be heard from within save for a faint rustling and squeaking.<br /><br />Mike and Lyle were gripped by a sense of foreboding as they approached the threshold. Lyle touched the door with a trembling hand. He pulled it slowly open on creaking hinges. Abruptly two large grey rats shot from within the doorway and vanished into the night.<br /><br />Lyle flung the door open all the way. He and Mike stepped warily into the cabin. They stood aghast at what they saw within. The woman was gone, but they took scant notice of this. Before them in front of the fireplace a man’s nude body lay sprawled in a pool of blood. It had been mutilated and decapitated. Several more of the big grey rats feasted on the cooling flesh. On the mantel above them rested a human head -- the head of Sailor Clanton.<br /><br />Mike screamed some incoherent blasphemy. Lyle pissed himself. They beheld a scene of nightmare and madness. It would have been horrific enough had they been stone cold sober. Seen through the distorted lens of their drunkenness, the gruesome tableau took on a genuinely hellish aspect.<br /><br />Lyle felt his knees buckling. Then the floor came rushing up at him. He crashed to earth inches from the headless cadaver. The rats gnawing at the corpse hissed and backed up but did not scurry away. For a terror-filled moment Lyle was assailed by the sick certainty that he was about to pass out, knowing that the beasts would then be upon him.<br /><br />To Lyle’s relief, Mike grabbed a poker and swung at the rats. He managed to drive them away and chase them out the door. He returned and helped Lyle to his feet.<br /><br />“Oh dear God,” Lyle rasped, “Could she have done this? Bitch. Goddamn she-devil…”<br /><br />Lyle rambled on but Mike wasn’t listening. He was gazing in horror at Sailor Clanton’s severed head with its oddly distorted face. It was then that he noticed something on the mantelpiece near the head. It was a folded piece of paper that looked to be a note of some sort. Mike picked it up and read the following:<br /><br />DEAR ASSHOLES,<br /><br />IF THE LATE SAILOR CLANTON LOOKS LIKE A CHIPMUNK, IT’S BECAUSE HE’S GOT HIS NUTS STUFFED IN HIS CHEEKS. YOU’LL BE JOINING HIM IN HELL VERY SOON. YOU SHOULD BE FEELING WARMER ALREADY.<br /><br />LOVE, TAMAR<br /><br />“What’s it say?” Lyle demanded.<br /><br />Mike read it aloud, crumpled it, and cast it away. He was puzzling over what that last part meant when he smelled the smoke. Turning, he noticed a flickering hellish red glare outside the cabin’s sole window.<br /><br />“Shit!” he cried, “She’s set the fuckin’ cabin on fire. Let’s get out of here.”<br /><br />Mike made straight for the door, Lyle a step behind him. As he opened the door to step out, he was deafened by loud rifle fire. He was struck in the face by splinters and chunks of wood torn from the doorframe as bullets slammed into it.<br /><br />Mike took a quick step back, colliding with Lyle and sending them both sprawling to the floor. They quickly shuffled over to the protection provided by the thick walls on either side of the doorway.<br /><br />By now flames had sprung up around other parts of the cabin. The interior was starting to fill with smoke.<br /><br />“We can’t stay in here,” Lyle said, his voice edged with panic, “And if we go out she’ll shoot us. Can you see anything out the window?”<br /><br />“I can’t see nuthin’, but I think I heard the horses run off.”<br /><br />The flames were growing higher by the minute and starting to eat through the walls. The heat was becoming unbearable. Both men realized the peril of their situation. The front door was the only exit. Attempting to escape through it they would be silhouetted against the light within. Even if they doused the lantern they would still be visible against the flames --sitting ducks for the shooter. But the alternative was being roasted alive.<br /><br />Once again they tried the door. Once again they were driven back by a hail of lead that zinged inches past their heads.<br /><br />“That was close,” muttered Mike, “Close enough to hit us if she wanted to. She wants us to burn in here.”<br /><br />Mike doused the lantern, leaving only the unsteady flickering glare of the flames. “Stay low,” he told Lyle as they made another dash for the door. He hoped that the smoke now pouring from the cabin would furnish concealment.<br /><br />Mike rushed to the door in a crouch, then pitched backwards as hot lead tore through his chest. Another crack of the rifle and Lyle fell as though struck by a thunderbolt.<br /><br />#<br /><br />Shadow arose from her chosen position on the fringe of the woods. From there she had gunned down her prey. The cabin was now fully engulfed in flame. She looked upon the inferno in grim satisfaction. Setting the fire had been easy. Heaps of rags and kindling soaked in kerosene had been set in strategic locations. Twists of paper served as simple fuses to be lit when the time came --once her marks were in place.<br /><br />After Lyle and Mike entered the cabin, she had appropriated the rifles and Clanton’s horse, and set the other horses loose. Then she lit the fuses and waited for the fun to begin. Those in the cabin had no chance. Clanton’s rifle was designed for hunting, but its scope was state-of-the-art military issue. She had no problem placing each round exactly where she wished. Lyle had gone down with a bullet in the heart. The round she sent through Mike’s chest tore through both his lungs. He would probably drown in his own blood before he burned to death.<br /><br />Shadow had no compunctions about her actions. Clanton and his crew were a nasty bunch. By reputation and by Clanton’s own boasts, they were known to have wronged many a man and woman. Such persons had now been avenged. But more importantly, Clanton and crew had fucked with her royally. There was no way she could let that shit slide.<br /><br />Christian stood nearby, holding the horses. He passed no judgment on Shadow’s vengeance. He had followed Shadow into her world of his own free will, and was obliged to accept that world’s grim unwritten laws. Here, it seemed, people settled their own problems. Any qualms he might have felt had been eased by the sight of the black bruise the barrel of Clanton’s automatic had left on Shadow’s face.<br /><br />Together they watched the cabin burn. Christian said, “I hope the fire doesn’t set these whole woods ablaze.”<br /><br />“<em>I don’t care if it does</em>!” Shadow spat bitterly. Then the last of her anger abated like a storm blowing itself out. The cabin collapsed upon itself, sending up a huge cloud of sparks and embers. But the clearing was fairly large and the fire did not spread.<br /><br />The fire had burned down by daybreak. A thick column of black smoke drifted skyward from the blackened smoldering ruins. Fog had come in with the dawn. The clearing looked like some misty realm of the dead. Shadow turned away from the smoking heap of cinders that formed a cairn over the remains of her enemies. “Let’s go,” she said.<br /><br />They saddled up. Christian placed a rifle in the long saddle holster and slung another over his shoulder. Shadow likewise slung the rifle she had used over her shoulder. She also had Clanton’s automatic. It was chambered for .45 ammo. She briefly considered re-arming Christian with it; he was big enough to handle the more powerful round. But she quickly thought better of it. Automatics had slides and safeties to work. These could prove difficult for a novice shooter, especially under stress. Better he stick with his revolver.<br /><br />#<br /><br />They headed south along a narrow trail, avoiding the more traveled roads. The pair rode in silence for awhile. Christian finally spoke up.<br /><br />“Uh, listen, I’m sorry about last night. I mean, I didn’t mean to stare at you like that when I came in and found you. It’s just that…” he paused before taking the plunge, “…well, I’ve never actually seen a totally naked lady before.”<br /><br />Shadow was stunned by the revelation. She almost laughed but managed to stifle it so as not to embarrass him. Then she thought of something.<br /><br />“What are you talking about? You saw me at the Go-Go Lounge back in Wheeling.”<br /><br />“I averted my eyes, actually.”<br /><br />This time she did laugh. “You are something else, Churchy.”<br /><br />Christian made no reply. He didn’t want her to know the whole truth. He had been sorely tempted to gaze upon her nakedness. However, due to his repressive Victorian upbringing, he was very easily aroused. If he had actually watched the strippers, he ran the risk of becoming tumescent. He would have been mortified had any of the rough Border Region crowd call attention to a visible erection in his pants.<br /><br />Shadow wondered if she had hurt Christian’s feelings by laughing at him, even good-naturedly. She said, “And besides, you did just fine. You saved me from that Chester guy. If not for you, I’d still be tied up in Sailor Clanton’s unburnt cabin.” <em>And</em>, she thought to herself,<em> You are going to be seeing a whole lot more of me real soon, you lucky bastard.</em><br /><br />#<br /><br />Further down the road, Shadow informed Christian, “I’m looking for a place to hole up. I’ve had a rough night. I need some place to fall back, rest up and lick my wounds. And I could really use a bath.”<br /><br />Shadow knew where to find what she needed. They left the road they were traveling and headed west along one of the east-west routes that led to and from the New Settlements. It was almost noon when they arrived at a rustic inn located along the trail. The inn consisted of several primitive log structures in keeping with the frontier environs. A large main building housed a bar and grill. Surrounding it were some small cabins.<br /><br />The travelers tied up their horses in the rear of the main building. They entered the tavern and ordered lunch. The meal was simple fare: chicken-flavored foodpaste fried in a skillet and served with some garden greens.<br /><br />Shadow paid for the meal and a cabin for the night. She requested one with a tub as well as a bed. The innkeeper gave her the key. She and Christian went over to stow their gear.<br /><br />The cabin was small and dark, but the bed was big. It was common for travelers to share a bed in those parts, as in former times. Shadow removed her duster and hung it up. She now wore Sailor Clanton’s red mesh tank top in place of the one that had gotten torn off in the fight with Karla. Her nipples were plainly visible through the nylon garment, which did more to emphasize than conceal the ivory globes of her breasts. It was a sight that caused Christian to catch his breath. Shadow noticed and thought, <em>Just wait, boy. You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet</em>.<br /><br />In the meantime they had their work cut out for them. The tub was just a simple metal affair that had been placed in the middle of the floor. They had to get a fire going in the fireplace, draw water from a pump outside, bring it in and boil it in a cauldron over the fire.<br /><br />When the tub was full of hot steaming water, Shadow told Christian, “I’ll go first. After last night I need a bath more than you. Don’t worry; the water will still be plenty hot when you get back.”<br /><br />She gave Christian the key. He went out to feed and water the horses. When he was gone, Shadow undressed. She did not bolt the door from the inside, but kept her Glock close at hand.<br /><br />When she was naked, she slowly lowered herself into the bath. The water was piping hot. She had to lower herself into it gradually, letting it creep up over her body inch by inch.<br /><br />When she was fully immersed, Shadow relaxed and allowed the heat to ease away the aches and hurts of the past two nights. She luxuriated in the warm water smiling contentedly, in no hurry to leave the tub. At length there was a knock at the door and Christian’s voice from without; “Are you decent?”<br /><br />With a wicked little grin, Shadow said, “Yeah, sure. Come on in.”<br /><br />Christian entered the cabin and stopped short when he saw that Shadow was still lolling naked in the tub.<br /><br />“Close the damn door!” she said sharply, “You’re letting cold air in.”<br /><br />Christian, by now accustomed to instantly obeying her commands, shut the door behind her without further thought. The flames from the fire in the hearth lit the room redly. Shadow rose from the tub, wisps of steam curling about her. She stood before him, her lovely nude body dripping wet. “Besides,” she said coyly, “Do I look indecent to you?”<br /><br />Christian did not answer. His mouth had gone dry and his tongue seemed to have swollen. He stood rooted to the spot, transfixed by the incredible sight of her.<br /><br />As on the previous evening, Shadow had to snap him out of it. “Well, make yourself useful,” she commanded, “Fetch that towel on the bed. Get over here. Dry me. Chop chop, Churchy!”<br /><br />He came to her as though drawn by the pull of gravity. Unfolding the large bath towel, he stepped behind her and draped it about her shoulders. Then Christian got to work. He started by patting dry her shoulders, then her upper arms. Lifting her damp hair, he dried the back of her neck. After drying her upper and lower back, he stopped.<br /><br />“Lower,” Shadow instructed in a husky voice.<br /><br />Christian patted dry her backside, thrilling to the touch of her firm rounded buttocks through the towel. He bent to work on her thighs and upper calves. Straightening up, he reached around her to towel off the front of her body. He avoided touching her breasts until she took hold of his hands and pressed them there.<br /><br />“That’s good,” she whispered as she stepped out of the tub. She wrapped the towel about her, tucking in a corner of the damp cloth to hold it in place. Seating herself on the bed, she reached for a smaller towel to dry her calves and feet.<br /><br />“Permit me,” Christian said somewhat meekly as he picked up the towel. Without being told, he kneeled before her and dried off her feet.<br /><br />When he finished, she bid him to rise and led him over to the fireplace. The flames and the steam from tub and cauldron had made the small cabin interior quite warm.<br /><br />“Time for you to get a bath,” she informed him. So saying she removed his vest.<br /><br />Christian objected feebly; “Aren’t you…”<br /><br />“Hush,” she whispered as she began to unbutton his shirt. Her fingertips lightly caressed the bare skin underneath, sending thrills along his nerves. She peeled off his shirt and cast it aside with his vest. He remained passive as she unbuckled his belt. She unzipped his pants and let them drop to the floor.<br /><br />“Tidy whities,” she muttered disapprovingly, more to herself than to him, “Have to get you sexier underwear, Church-boy.”<br /><br />As in a dream, Christian felt himself being swept along as she helped him step out of his pants and shoes. Finally Shadow yanked down his underpants to reveal the erection the bulge in his shorts had so blatantly indicated.<br /><br />“My, you are a big boy,” she cooed teasingly as his stiffened member sprang free.<br /><br />Christian was breathing heavily. His erection was red and throbbing. It seemed like he was ready to explode. That would never do. Once things started rolling, she didn’t want him to come too quickly.<br /><br />Shadow reached down and took hold of his penis. Christian started to squirm.<br /><br />“Now just relax,” she said soothingly, entrancingly, “Just trust me. Believe me, I know what I’m doing. Nothing is your fault. It’s that bad girl Shadow…”<br /><br />After quieting him down, she began to gently masturbate him. It didn’t take long to bring him off. He groaned loudly as though in actual pain as he ejaculated into the fire.<br /><br />Christian staggered, weak in the knees. Shadow placed his arm around her shoulders to support him as he leaned against her.<br /><br />“That one was medicinal,” she informed him, “The next one will be more fun, and you’ll last longer.”<br /><br />She guided him to the tub and helped him as he got in. The water was still nice and warm. Shadow picked up a washcloth and began to bathe Christian.<br /><br />When he was all clean, she helped him out of the tub. She removed the towel she had been wearing like a sarong, and used it to dry him off. Now they were both naked. When he was dry, she took him by the hand and led him to the bed.<br /><br />Christian allowed himself to be led. He was still a bit wobbly as he walked. He seemed dazed, almost like he was on drugs. Shadow knew that she was rocking his world. She was very understanding and patient with him.<br /><br />When they reached the bed, she pressed lightly on his shoulders with her fingertips to ease him into a sitting position. “Just relax, Christian sweetie,” she said soothingly, “Just trust me, okay?”<br /><br />She lifted his legs onto the bed. Another light touch of her fingers got him to recline. When he was resting against the pillows, Shadow climbed into bed alongside him. She smiled warmly at him.<br /><br />Shadow leaned in to kiss Christian. He responded clumsily. “Don’t pucker your lips,” she told him, “I’m not your mother.” <em>Or that little tight-ass you dragged me around looking for.</em><br /><br />Shadow now proceeded to teach Christian how to kiss. He was a fast learner and quickly got the hang of it. When she sensed he was ready, she threw in a little playful tongue action. Before long they were locked in a passionate embrace.. <br /><br />Shadow felt well pleased with herself. Church-boy was coming to life. She had broken the shackles of his “moral” inhibitions and gotten his young red blood boiling. Now he rained hot kisses on her lips, face and neck. His hands roamed freely over her. He cupped her breasts, marveling at their warmth, their smooth roundness.<br /><br />She was groping him as well. Her fingers lightly caressed his ball sac and felt it grow tight. Moving on, she was delighted to discover that his member was as rigid as an iron spike.<br /><br />He was ready. She was ready. It was time. She rolled him gently onto his back once more. “Just relax,” she whispered, “And let me do all the work.”<br /><br />She mounted him then. Straddling his body, she lowered herself onto him and guided him in. She began to ride him, slowly at first, gradually building to a more vigorous tempo.<br /><br />Christian surrendered to her and let the experience wash over him. He felt himself responding, thrusting upwards to meet her downward plunges. He looked up in awe at her superb young body as she rode atop him. It was like a thousand forbidden fantasies come to life. His blood roared madly in his ears as he gave in completely and reveled in the sheer physical delight. Was he not a man, after all? And here was a woman who could tempt a saint.<br /><br />Shadow could sense his climax nearing and timed her moves to his. That way she would be able to get off just as he did. She felt his body beneath her begin to shudder and convulse.<br /><br />“Jesus Chri--” Christian blurted, biting his lower lip to keep from taking the Lord’s name in vain.<br /><br />Shadow came then as well. Her body tensed as her orgasm rocked her. Then she collapsed on top of Christian. They lay together gulping air for a few moments. When their breathing returned to normal, she kissed him softly. Christian had bitten into his lip hard enough to draw blood. He now saw that blood smeared across Shadow’s lips like lipstick.<br /><br />They disengaged and lay curled in each other’s arms for a long time. Later, Shadow left his side momentarily to add wood to the fire. Watching Shadow’s nude form cross the cabin, Christian felt a warm glow of manly pride. To think that he had possessed such a woman!<br /><br />After awhile they coupled again, feverishly. Finally spent, Shadow smiled contentedly. She snuggled against Christian. The door was locked and bolted. The crackling logs in the fireplace shed a cheery warmth. Shadow drifted into a blissful slumber.<br /><br />#<br /><br />It was well past daybreak when Shadow awoke. There were only ashes in the fireplace now. Daylight filtered through the one small window, filling the cabin with a sickly grey half-light.<br /><br />Shadow was startled to discover that Christian was already up. He had gotten dressed and was now seated in the room’s sole rickety chair. And he was crying. He wasn’t racked by anguished sobs or anything. He just sniffled and wiped away tears as though remorseful about something.<br /><br />“What’s with the waterworks?” Shadow demanded, perplexed, “It wasn’t that bad, was it?” Like he would know.<br /><br />“No, no, of course not,” Christian answered wistfully, “It’s not that. It’s just that my first time was supposed to be on my wedding night.”<br /><br />Shadow was utterly bewildered and not a little angry. She had really thought she had made a man out of him. But now it looked as though the grey shades of his stultifying upbringing had reclaimed him.<br /><br />“What is your friggin’ problem?” she said scornfully, “I can’t believe after a night with me you would still be mooning over some little candy-ass.”<br /><br />“Oh, you don’t understand,” he replied in a hurt voice, “I was saving myself for marriage. When I was in school I took a purity pledge. No sex before marriage. I gave my word before God. I swore in Jesus’ name.”<br /><br />Shadow glowered at him as she began to hurriedly dress. “And here I thought you were a man,” she said bitterly, hoping to hurt him, “And you go and start with this sissy shit. You are a real piece of work, Church-boy.”<br /><br />When she finished dressing she pulled on her duster. She went out, slamming the door behind her.<br /><br />#<br /><br />Outside, Shadow mounted Incitatus. She rode off, galloping into the hills. She pressed the horse hard and did not stop until she reached the crest of a high summit. From this vantage point she could see mountains, hills and valleys spreading out below and rolling off into the distance. There was a large outcropping of flat rock. The day was clear for once. The sun was well up and warmed the rock with its rays. The outcropping furnished an excellent seat for taking in the view.<br /><br />Shadow tied the pinto to a tree branch at the fringe of the woods. She began to rummage through one of the saddle bags. Presently she drew forth a small bag of marijuana and some rolling papers. Shadow was not an habitual pot smoker, even though she grew and sold the stuff. But from time to time she would use it if she wanted to relax and think something through. <br /><br />After taking a seat on the outcropping, Shadow rolled herself a joint. She lit it and inhaled deeply. After a few hits on the joint her tension had mostly vanished. A few more and she was feeling really mellow. The sun shining on her and the sun-washed rock beneath her felt warm and pleasant. She relaxed and let her mind drift. Before long she was thinking of her last lover.<br /><br />#<br /><br />It was almost a year ago now, during the last deer season. By tradition, Westsylvanians observed the hunting seasons of the old Commonwealth so as not to deplete the wild game. That season she had been staying by herself in a tiny cabin near Tionesta. On the fateful day she had been hunting alone in the forest. There was about two inches of new snow on the ground. It was bitter cold, and she had seen little game afoot. Presumably most of the deer were bedded down. Finally, she discovered some fresh tracks. She trailed the deer for miles. At last she found it standing in a clearing. She had a nice clean shot at it.<br /><br />She raised her rifle, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. The shot crashed loudly and the deer dropped to the snow. Right away, Shadow sensed something amiss. The gunshot had reverberated too loudly to be an echo. The deer had jerked as though struck twice before falling.<br /><br />Shadow stepped cautiously into the clearing. She was not surprised to see another hunter emerge from the woods. She raised a hand in greeting. The two approached each other and met over the fallen deer.<br /><br />“I think I hit it first,” Shadow said, “But we--”<br /><br />“You’re a woman!” the other exclaimed, almost incredulous.<br /><br />Shadow’s heavy winter garb had concealed her gender until she and the man were very close. “Thanks for noticing,” she said, “Is there a problem with that?”<br /><br />“I never thought to see a woman carrying a gun for deer. You must be Westsylvanian.”<br /><br />“Naturally enough, since we’re in Westsylvania.”<br /><br />“I think not,” he said as he consulted an electronic device strapped to his wrist, “This is Pennsylvania. You crossed the border awhile back.”<br /><br />Show-off, Shadow thought, You and your fancy satellite tracking. All the satellites of the Old Union had been blown out of the sky during the opening days of the War. To this day none had been replaced.<br /><br />“I am afraid you have entered the Islamic States illegally,” the man said bluntly.<br /><br />Screw you, pal. “Well, I hope you’re not going to be a dick about it. Look, I’ll just head back.”<br /><br />Abruptly the man’s tone changed and became more friendly. “Please forgive my appalling lack of manners. It is easy to lose one’s way in this wilderness. And the afternoon grows late. Were you to start back now, you may well find yourself still some distance from shelter when night falls. Allow me to offer you the hospitality of my hunting lodge. It is not far from here. And we can share the deer.”<br /><br />“Fair enough. Let’s lighten our load a bit.”<br /><br />Shadow unsheathed her bowie knife and impressed her fellow hunter with her skill in field-dressing a deer. Together they placed the gutted carcass on a sling the man provided.<br /><br />Between the two of them, dragging the deer through the snow proved easy work. Along the way they introduced themselves. “You are very handy with a gun and a knife,” said the man, “Muslim women do not possess such skills. Of course, I should have expected different from a woman of the Border Region. I’ve visited Tionesta and some of the other border communities. My name is Yusef Davis.”<br /><br />“Tamar Lane.”<br /><br />“I’m so very charmed to make your acquaintance, Miss Tamar Lane.”<br /><br />Pretty smooth, Yusef, Shadow thought, “Likewise.”<br /><br />They did not have far to travel. Less than thirty minutes of hiking brought them to Yusef’s hunting lodge. It was located along a winding dirt road, and similar structures belonging to others could be glimpsed further up the road. Yusef’s cabin was fairly large, with several outbuildings adjacent. Before entering his cabin, Yusef knelt in the snow for his evening prayers. Shadow thought he looked very serene.<br /><br />After he arose, they hung the deer in a shed. This task completed, Yusef escorted Shadow into the lodge. The interior was spacious with ample room for four beds and other comfortable furnishings. “Sometimes companions join me,” Yusef explained, “But this year I was hunting alone. Or so I thought.”<br /><br />Inside the warm cabin, the pair removed their heavy outerwear. Beneath his cold weather garb, Yusef was dressed simply in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. Shadow was pleased to note that he was trimly built and ruggedly handsome. He sported a thick head of tousled brown hair and a short beard that masked a strong chin. He looked more Nordic than Middle-Eastern.<br /><br />Shadow pulled off her headgear and shook loose her hair. She removed her orange hunting coat, brown outer pants, heavy boots and thick woolen socks. Her remaining garments were her customary black. She wore very tight pants and a turtleneck sweater. Barefoot and clad thus, she resembled nothing so much as a mid-20th Century beatnik.<br /><br />The cabin was furnished with electricity from a wind and solar powered generator. There was ample power for lighting and small appliances. After getting a blaze going in the fireplace, Yusef prepared coffee. He and Shadow relaxed in comfortable chairs.<br /><br />“You brew an excellent cup of coffee,” Shadow told her host, “That’s high praise from me.”<br /><br />“And you are most enchanting,” Yusef replied graciously, “And Tamar Lane is a lovely name, very poetic. It brings to mind Tamerlane, the great Muslim conqueror of Asia.”<br /><br />“That’s what my dad thought. What about you? You don’t look Mid-Eastern. I mean, I know you have to be Muslim to be a citizen of the ISA, but how far back do you go?”<br /><br />“My maternal grandfather was Syrian,” Yusef said with a smile, “But the rest of my forebears have lived in central Pennsylvania since before the Flood, or so it would seem. I’m a mix of German, Scots-Irish, English, supposedly some Delaware Indian if you go back far enough.”<br /><br />“Our family backgrounds are sort of similar,” Shadow replied, “Except for the Syrian, of course. I’m descended from the original settlers of Westsylvania. But tell me more about you. Do you have a wife? Girlfriend?”<br /><br />“No and no. My mother would like me to settle down, but I’m not really much of a ladies’ man.”<br /><br />“I find that hard to believe.”<br /><br />As they spoke, Shadow noticed his eyes straying to the soft mounds of her breasts, so inviting beneath the sweater. She got up to pour more coffee. Her ass was admirably displayed by her tight black pants as she walked. She could feel Yusef’s burning gaze.<br /><br />“How about a refill?” she asked as she poured herself a fresh cup.<br /><br />“None for me, thanks. It’ll keep me up, and I like to turn in early.” As though that were a cue, Yusef rose from his chair. He busied himself stringing a rope across the cabin like a clothesline and hung blankets over it to create a screen.<br /><br />“That should afford us both some privacy,” he told Shadow, “Take one of the beds over there. Just turn the light off when you’re ready.”<br /><br />“Oh, you’re no fun,” Shadow chided, “Is there anywhere a girl can freshen up?”<br /><br />“Why, yes, as a matter of fact. The small building next to the shed where we hung the deer is a sauna. I built it myself and am rather proud of it. It’s just the thing to relax you and ease away tension. I usually unwind there before retiring. By all means feel free to make use of it.”<br /><br />“You first,” Shadow said, “You’re the one who wanted to turn in early. I’ll just sit and enjoy some more of the coffee until you’re finished.”<br /><br />“Very well.”<br /><br />Yusef disappeared behind the makeshift screen and undressed. He emerged wearing a heavy robe and slippers, carrying some towels. He exited the cabin quietly.<br /><br />Shadow sat alone for awhile and sipped her coffee. She smiled. She had taken quite a liking to the handsome stranger. He seemed very manly, yet gentle and good-natured. He was certainly worth getting to know better, especially now. The cold winter months had come. The days grew short. It was going to be a long cold night. And she had been too long without a man.<br /><br />Shadow was not normally quite so impetuous, but this time it seemed right. With a sudden firm sense of resolve, she rose from her chair. She undressed and wrapped a large towel about her. Then she slipped out the cabin door.<br /><br />Outside, night had fallen. Shadow stepped out into the frosty air. She was traveling no great distance, and so ignored the bitter cold and the snow beneath her bare feet. She approached the nearby outbuilding that housed the sauna.<br /><br />Shadow entered the sauna and shut the door behind her, cutting off an icy blast of wind that tried to follow her in. She took a seat on a bench opposite a startled Yusef. “Thought you could use some company,” she said.<br /><br />Yusef was taken aback. He was nude, with only a small towel draped over his loins. He glanced about to see where he had dropped his robe. It was out of reach. To retrieve it he would have to rise and in doing so expose himself. He could only fidget nervously.<br /><br />“Why don’t you just relax?” Shadow asked, her voice soothing. “It’s so nice in here.” She spoke the simple truth. Outside was a chill winter night. Within the sauna it was as warm and moist as a tropical rain forest.<br /><br />“Miss Lane, this is most inappropriate,” Yusef objected, “You should leave. Have you no modesty?”<br /><br />In answer, Shadow stood up and let her towel drop. “Apparently not,” she said. Her nipples were still erect from her walk in the cold air. Her supple nude body was as white as the snows and rapidly becoming slick with dew droplets of sweat. “Still think I should leave?”<br /><br />She saw the passion flame in Yusef’s eyes and had her answer. The next thing she knew she was in his arms. They locked together in passionate embrace. They kissed, his lips crushing hers, breaking off only long enough to gasp for breath. She could feel him grow hard against her. He became erect almost instantly, even though the steam-bath’s air was muggy enough to make a man drowsy.<br /><br />She yielded as he pinned her against the wall with his body and, standing upright, entered her and began thrusting. Her long legs locked about his waist and drew him in deeper. Her arms snaked through his as her hands clutched his broad shoulders for support. Her nails raked his back. She climaxed with a wildcat screech. He gave a few more vigorous thrusts before exploding inside her.<br /><br />The lovers sank to the floor where they lay spent, drenched in perspiration. Their strength returned gradually. They rose unsteadily and toweled each other off. Shadow remained weak as a kitten. Yusef wrapped her in a fresh towel, donned his robe, and carried her back to the cabin.<br /><br />That night they slept soundly and serenely in each other’s arms, snug beneath warm blankets while the cold wind howled outside. They awoke before dawn and renewed their passion, then drifted back to sleep. They remained in bed throughout the long grey morning, leaving it only long enough to consume a simple breakfast.<br /><br />Later in the day they butchered the deer. They enjoyed a hearty venison supper. Shadow stayed another night in the cabin. She and Yusef parted the following morning. She returned to her camp with her share of the venison.<br /><br />#<br /><br />Looking back on it now, Shadow felt a warm glow. The time she had with Yusef had been good. But they both knew that they could have no future together. Could she have a future with anyone? That question bothered her.<br /><br />Shadow finished smoking the joint and resisted the temptation to roll another. Pot-smoking made her more introspective than was her wont. She didn’t usually sit around brooding, but right now she felt moved to examine herself and her motives, particularly in regard to the men in her life.<br /><br />Christian and Yusef. Church-boy and Mosque-boy. What was it about them that had drawn her to them? They had both just been trying to clean up --in a bath and a sauna-- and she had to make them both get down and dirty. What was up with that? Did she take some secret delight in knocking these religious types off their high horses?<br /><br />With Christian there was something more. She recalled the moment he had shown her the picture of his runaway fiancée. Shadow had loathed her on sight, she now realized, and had belittled her time and again; <em>tight-ass, saccharine little candy-ass </em>and so on. Had she been insanely jealous of a picture? Had the whole thing really been about stealing Christian’s cherry from Angel, his betrothed? And if so, why not? Some buck had undoubtedly stolen her cherry from him. When he finally realized that, he would thank her. It was for his own good.<br />Or was it? Maybe she was just a bad person. Like that time…don’t go there, don’t go there…like that time when she had actually toyed with the idea of “consoling” Pops after Steffy died. And what had that been all about? <br /><br />No wonder she didn’t enjoy getting high so much anymore. Still, she realized the importance of dragging subconscious shit to the surface. Ignore it and let it fester, and it could trip you up later.<br /><br />Having confronted her issues, Shadow felt mentally more relaxed. The sun was nearing its zenith now. The day was very warm. The rock outcropping on which she sat was big enough to stretch out on. She removed her duster and spread it beneath her. She lay back for awhile, just basking in the sun’s rays like a lizard. She was almost straight again when some clouds started to roll in. It never stayed sunny in these parts for very long. Time to leave this place.<br /><br />Shadow rode back to the inn. A sheepish-looking Christian awaited her there.<br /><br />“Thanks for coming back,” he said.<br /><br />“Why wouldn’t I come back? I just needed a little time to myself.”<br /><br />“Well, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. I behaved like an ass.”<br /><br />She waited for him to elaborate.<br /><br />“I didn’t mean to carry on so about my chastity vow,” he said, “The truth is that if I had really wanted to stop what happened between us, I would have. But I didn’t want it to stop. I wanted it to happen. I wanted it more than I’d ever wanted anything. And now I’m glad we made love.”<br /><br />“Oh Romeo, Romeo, wilt thou can the ‘make love’ bullshit? We fucked, okay?”<br /><br />This was like a dash of cold water in Christian’s face. “Well, it was more than that to me. And you’re not fooling me by acting hard. I think you’re a good girl, Tammy.”<br /><br />Now it was Shadow’s turn to be taken aback. “Look Church-boy, you can call me Tamar or you can call me Shadow, but if you ever call me Tammy again I will knock your teeth out.”<br /><br />“Well, in that case I won’t,” Christian replied coldly.<br /><br />“Aw, forget it,” Shadow said, her voice softening, “Sorry to be such a bitch. It’s just been a hell of a few days. Let’s get the hell out of here.”<br /><br />#<br /><br />Shades of evening were gathering when they rode into view of Pops’ cabin. It had only been a few days, but to Shadow it seemed like years since she had last laid eyes on it. Now she was greatly cheered to see Pain come bounding into the yard. A few moments later, Pops emerged from the cabin.<br /><br />Shadow swung down from Incitatus and ran to him. She threw herself against the older man, her arms encircling his waist, hugging him fiercely. Pops returned her embrace. He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead gently. Shadow was certain of more trouble ahead. For the moment, however, she felt safe in Pops’ massive arms.<br /><br />Next: <em>Thunder of the Feud</em>Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-75646923993372605112010-01-14T16:32:00.000-08:002010-05-09T17:09:09.551-07:00Guns of the Border Region - Chapter Five[Here is another chapter of <em>Guns of the Border Region</em>. I've been told that I write great fight scenes, and think this chapter contains one of my best. Also, there's part that's very rough and grim. In writing about a woman adventurer character, I was forced to acknowledge a big potential hazard of such a lifestyle for the sake of honesty. It did hurt. I love my characters, and Shadow is a favorite. In creating her, I wanted to see if I could create a female character as tough as Conan. Not quite, but she's easily as tough as the Man with No Name. A couple of historical notes: Incitatus was the name of the race horse the mad emperor Caligula appointed to the Roman senate. James Bowie's reputation as a knife fighter stems from one battle, the Natchez Sandbar fight. Copyright 2009 by Charles Hoffman]<br /><br />CHAPTER FIVE -- SHADOW IN JEOPARDY<br /><br />The frontier village called Eden consisted of a dozen or so rude log structures. Most lined the road that passed through the settlement, with some others off on the few narrow side streets. The road and streets were unpaved and muddy from recent rains. From within the cabins, the muffled roar of shouts, music and laughter could be heard. On the streets, furtive figures staggered drunkenly from one den to the next. Dogs and pigs rooted through heaps of offal. Beyond the settlement was night and the impenetrable black forest. The sole illumination was from the torches that cast a hellish red glare over the scene. <br /><br />Eden’s largest establishment and central gathering place was Maggie’s Creekhouse, so called because of the dark nameless stream that flowed sluggishly past its rear. It was twice the size of the next largest structure and typically crammed full of rowdy patrons. Beer, ale and moonshine whiskey were greedily guzzled. The revelers competed in bouts of cards, darts, arm-wrestling and various drinking games. Music blared from battery-powered boom boxes. The lurid light from two fireplaces and candles on the tables sent distorted shadows dancing madly along the walls.<br /><br />A gust of wind from an opening door made the candles flicker. Heads turned to check out the new arrival.<br /><br />Shadow crossed the threshold clad in her black duster. She scanned the crowd like some hungry bird of prey, but the one she sought was not there. She raised her voice to address the entire throng.<br /><br />“Has anyone in this dump seen Sailor Clanton? I would have words with him.”<br /><br />The Creekhouse patrons grumbled and muttered among themselves. Then one rose in the back to face her.<br /><br />“I’ve seen Sailor Clanton.”<br /><br />It was Karla, the self-proclaimed “baddest bitch in the Border Region.” She was about the same size as Shadow, but a pink mohawk made her look taller. Her body was more sculpted, owing to an obsessive workout regimen. However, Shadow knew that Karla wasn’t just show; she had trained with some top fighters. And like Shadow, Karla dressed to impress. She wore torn fishnet pantyhose topped only by her gunbelt and a scanty vinyl thong. Her tight knee-high boots were also of glossy black vinyl. Above the waist Karla wore a red latex tube top and a spiked dog collar. Her bowie resembled a larger version of a military ka-bar, and her sidearm was a 9 mm Parabellum --the Luger commonly worn by Nazis in old war movies. Shadow thought the latter was a stupid affectation.<br /><br />Not to be outdone, Shadow doffed her duster and cast it aside. She stood revealed in her black leather crotch-huggers, boots, gauntlets and Go-Go Lounge tank top. The two women warriors glowered at each other across a sea of leering male faces.<br /><br />“Where’s Clanton?” Shadow grated between clenched teeth.<br /><br />“Whatever you have to say to Sailor you can say to me,” Karla retorted with a haughty sneer.<br /><br />Shadow rolled her eyes at that one. “Oh, so that’s how it is. So how long have you two been playing hide the salami anyway?” she snapped, to the hoots and guffaws of the crowd.<br /><br />Karla was unfazed. “Long enough for him to appreciate what a real woman can do for him, as opposed to some lame-ass black-haired brat.”<br /><br />Shadow seethed inwardly at what Karla had implied. Of course that lying sack of shit Sailor Clanton had gone and told everyone he had scored with Shadow anyway. Something else he had to answer for, she told herself. Then, as simply as one might adjust a control knob on an appliance, she turned off her anger and put it aside. Shadow was too much of a pro to allow passion to cloud her judgment when entering a volatile situation. But she kept an edge in her voice as she said, “Just tell me where Clanton is.”<br /><br />“No!” Karla smirked. “You gonna make me, Lane?”<br /><br />“Fine,” Shadow said coldly. She had never liked Karla anyway, and now took grim satisfaction in knowing that the matter of their relative fighting prowess would finally be settled. Karla was as dangerous as a spitting cobra when backing up some guy, but Shadow was certain that she could take her one-on-one.<br /><br />What happened next that night in the Creekhouse became the stuff of legend throughout the New Settlements, the story told and retold for generations. Patrons shoved tables and benches aside to clear a space for the combatants. Shadow and Karla divested themselves of their weapons. Karla’s were held by a couple of cronies. Shadow left hers in the custody of Maggie and Joe, the proprietors. Then, in the midst of dozens of yelling, roaring spectators, the opponents squared off.<br /><br />At first the women circled each other warily, taking each other’s measure and getting a feel for their makeshift arena. They had ample room to maneuver and the packed earth floor provided sure footing. Both women were in fine form. Their fighting stances assured balance and stability while still allowing for fluid footwork. Both had their guard up. Karla’s fists were tightly clenched. Shadow’s hands were held more open, ready to shift from striking and blocking to trapping and grappling.<br /><br />Shadow was waiting for Karla to make the first move. She knew that she would not have to wait long. Karla was impatient and liked to show off. Leave it to her to get the ball rolling with some flashy opening move.<br /><br />Nor was Shadow wrong. Screeching a loud battle yell, Karla abruptly launched a wide swooping circular kick that shot off the floor and arced towards Shadow’s head. With a deft weave of her torso, Shadow ducked under it and came up in punching range of her opponent. Had she been fighting a man she could have punched him in the balls while weaving. Instead she stung Karla with two quick jabs to the face just as Karla’s kick completed its arc. Karla’s foot was firmly planted back on the ground when Shadow struck, so she was not knocked off balance. An instinctive counterpuncher, Karla lashed back with a right cross. Shadow deflected it by swatting it aside. Karla danced back out of range.<br /><br />Shadow did not pursue Karla to follow up her attack. For the time being she wanted Karla to come to her. Her plan was to allow Karla to take the offensive for now, and thwart whatever she tried to do. She hoped to frustrate and anger her opponent in this manner, perhaps causing her to commit a fatal blunder. Otherwise, Shadow would pace herself until Karla started to run out of steam, then beat the crap out of her.<br /><br />Shadow’s defensive strategy was a sound one. Karla possessed a greater repertoire of martial arts techniques, honed to finer precision, but Shadow had a better grasp of their practical application. For example, Shadow would never have used some high-flying kick as an opening gambit. Such kicks placed inordinate demands on one’s attention, timing and energy. They were easy to defend against --stepping out of the way would suffice-- and left one exposed and vulnerable to counterattack if they failed. Better to save the kick for the coup de grace, after the opponent had been softened up and was ready to go down.<br /><br />Fancy kicks did look impressive, though, and Karla was a glory-hound who loved showboating before an audience. She couldn’t just outfight an opponent; she had to look cool doing it. Shadow considered this a weakness to be exploited. The Creekhouse spectators, on the other hand, shouted their approval. To the uninitiated, Karla appeared the more skillful fighter. Those more knowledgeable about such things kept their eye on Shadow. The din of the crowd grew louder. Some threw bets, others took them. <br /><br />Egged on by the crowd, Karla was quick to wade back into battle. She didn’t want to lose the initiative to her foe. Shadow knew that Karla would try to smother her by keeping her penned against the rim of the circle formed by the spectators. Rather than allow that to happen, Shadow strode forth to meet her.<br /><br />The two women met in the center of the ring. There they circled each other, boxer style, once again. Shadow surprised her opponent by lashing out with a roundhouse kick that swung out horizontally to strike at Karla’s thigh. Shadow did not overextend herself by committing any real power to the kick; it was merely a feint aimed at probing Karla’s defenses. This did cause Karla to drop her guard, but only for a brief flashing instant as she blocked the kick. Still, it created enough of an opening for Shadow to bore in.<br /><br />The combatants were mixing it up now, exchanging body shots and glancing blows to the head. Karla broke away, backpedaling. Shadow went in pursuit. Karla drove her back with more kicks. The blows Shadow had landed thus far were not telling; it would take a lot more of them to begin to sap Karla’s strength. She needed to deliver some really good shots. Karla’s kicks weren’t landing, but they were keeping Shadow at bay. If Shadow could get in close and really duke it out with Karla, she could follow it up with some grappling and a little thing called judo. But Karla had her opponent pegged as an infighter. She altered her own strategy accordingly. Her plan now was to rush in, do some damage, then back out just as quickly before Shadow could react. Repeat as necessary.<br /><br />Karla edged in closer. When she was near enough to her opponent, she leaped up and lashed out with a front snap kick. Shadow avoided it, but it created an opening. Now toe-to-toe, Karla struck with two quick jabs and a hook. Shadow blocked with her forearms, but before she could counter Karla had glided back out of range. Another rush by Karla yielded similar results.<br /><br />Shadow remained cool and unfazed by her foe’s tricky maneuvers. She quickly divined Karla’s strategy. She decided to lay a trap by offering an opening, hopefully enticing Karla into making some reckless move.<br /><br />When Karla came in again, Shadow shed the straight punch she aimed at her face instead of blocking it. To Karla, it looked like the blow had connected with full force rather than glancing off. Shadow staggered back as though stunned. Thinking her to be off-balance, Karla launched a spinning back kick aimed at blowing her foe off her feet. Rotating her body to generate force, Karla thrust out her leg with all the power of her muscular thigh. It was a kick that could have blasted open a locked door. But it never landed. As Karla pivoted, exposing her backside ever so briefly, Shadow struck with a kick of her own. It was a simple straight forward thrust that flicked out like a serpent’s tongue and tagged Karla squarely in her hard buttocks before she could fully extend her leg. Had they been standing in center ring, it would have sent her sprawling face-first onto the floor. Then Shadow would have piled on top of her and ended the fight very quickly. As it was, Karla toppled into some spectators who caught her and checked her fall.<br /><br />Karla felt herself being seized by rough hands that spun her about and shoved her back into the ring. There she collided with Shadow, who had stalked after her in pursuit. Karla had yet to regain her footing and fell awkwardly against Shadow, clutching at her for support. Her fingers locked in the fabric of Shadow’s Go-Go Lounge tank top. As Shadow backed away, the garment ripped down the middle. The ivory globes of her breasts bobbed free. The crowd went wild.<br /><br />“Goddamn it!” she snarled angrily, “I liked that top.”<br /><br />Stung to fury, Shadow seized Karla’s tube top with both hands and rent it asunder. The latex top snapped like a rubber band, flying off and away. Karla was left nude from the waist up. The crowd was on its feet and howling.<br /><br />Her martial art technique momentarily forgotten, Karla struck Shadow across the face with her open palm. Shadow reeled from the blow. Karla skated back to the edge of the circle formed by the yelling mob. She stood poised, flaunting her magnificent semi-nude body.<br /><br />“Yeah!” she screamed at Shadow, “My fuckin’ tits are bigger than yours too!”<br /><br />Shadow said nothing. She stripped away the remnants of her tank top lest they hinder her movements. The women glowered at each other like two bare-breasted Amazon warriors.<br /><br /> For a tense moment the tableau held. Then, as if responding to some signal detectable to none but them, the women dived back into the fray. Karla strode forward. Shadow came only part-way to meet her, preferring to let her opponent come to her while she stood her ground.<br /><br />Karla was visibly angry, and looked determined to put an end to the fight and her enemy right away. As soon as she was in striking distance, she unleashed a powerful karate straight punch. Chambered at the hip, it was driven by a twist of Karla’s supple body and a blind urge to smash. It was a finishing move, not an opening shot. Shadow blocked it easily, as well as the follow-up punch Karla delivered with her other arm.<br /><br />The forearm block Shadow used to ward off the second blow flowed smoothly into an elbow strike that crashed into Karla’s face. Twisting to one side to deliver the blow, Shadow struck Karla’s other cheek on the backstroke. Karla was seeing stars and sought to clinch in an effort to pin Shadow’s arms. In a micro-second, Shadow weighed and discarded the notion of using a judo throw. Both women wore no clothing above the waist to grip, and their bodies were slick with sweat. Therefore grappling would be a futile waste of energy. Instead, Shadow drove her knee into Karla’s solar plexus. That would have knocked the wind out of most people, but Karla’s steely abs protected her. She merely grunted and struggled to hold onto her foe until her head cleared.<br /><br />Shadow wedged her arms between Karla’s and pushed outwards in both directions. Karla’s arms were forced apart, breaking her hold. Karla was still dazed, however. Shadow resolved to make sure she stayed that way.<br /><br />Shadow smashed a left hook into Karla’s head, striking with her open palm instead of a clenched fist. It was potentially a knockout blow, but Shadow pulled the punch. She wanted Karla conscious enough to tell her where Sailor Clanton was.<br /><br />“Where’s Clanton?”<br /><br />No answer. Shadow bitch-slapped Karla hard with the back of her hand.<br /><br />“I can keep this up all night,” Shadow informed her. By way of emphasis she struck her again.<br /><br />“Enough,” Karla gasped. She relented when Shadow raised her hand yet again. Shadow checked the motion and repeated her question.<br /><br />“Need drink,” Karla croaked, indicating that her mouth had gone dry. She staggered over to where her posse awaited her and slumped down on a bench. Karla was handed a half-full pitcher of beer. She began to gulp it directly from the pitcher, some of the beer splashing onto her naked breasts. Putting the pitcher aside for a moment, she downed a shot of something followed by a chaser of more beer.<br /><br />Shadow’s patience, never in great supply, was quickly exhausted. “Enough of this,” she snapped, “Now talk.”<br /><br />In answer Karla’s lips curled in a wicked grin as one of her crew slipped her knife to her. The dazed look in her eyes had vanished, replaced by one of sheer malevolence. She rose and started towards Shadow.<br /><br />Oh shit! She’s got a weapon. Thoughts flashed like flickers of lightening through Shadow’s mind. Get something in your hand, girl! Bottle. Better yet, heavy glass beer mug. Just grab something. Hurry! Her eyes darted about, searching for something suitable. Then she felt the comforting familiar shape of the hilt of her own blade as it was pressed into her hand by Maggie.<br /><br />Shadow glared at her nemesis. “Are you sure you want to settle this with our bowies?” she said coldly.<br /><br />Her eyes mad, Karla screamed, “To the death!”<br /><br />“So be it.”<br /><br />The women circled each other once more. The crowd was on its feet again, yelling, cheering, chanting the names of the combatants. Spectators jostled one another for a better view. A new round of wagering commenced. Gamblers shouted and waved handfuls of money.<br /><br />Karla looked none the worse for the pounding she had taken moments earlier. The tough resilience of a Border Region adventurer was hers. She appeared as fresh and dangerous as ever. “I’ll carve you like a fuckin’ turkey,” she snarled.<br /><br />Shadow said nothing. The time for talk had passed. She stood ready to do battle. To many onlookers it appeared as though she held her knife upside down with the sharp cutting edge facing upwards. But it was part of Shadow’s method. Held in this manner the blunt edge of the knife could be used to block and parry, preventing the keen edged blade from becoming nicked and notched. After fending off an attack, the knife could be inserted cleanly into the attacker’s vitals. A simple upward slash would then disembowel the enemy. This had been how men in olden times had fought with bowie knives, how the men of the Mississippi delta had fought, how James Bowie himself had fought on the Natchez sandbar.<br /><br />Karla came rushing in like she was on fire, determined to press the attack. Shadow sidestepped and deftly parried her initial thrust. Karla’s knife-fighting technique did not match her empty hand skills. Her movements were predictable. Even so, she kept her blade in constant motion, a whirling arc of deadly razor-edged steel.<br /><br />Where Karla was all fire and fury, Shadow epitomized icy control. Her movements were no less scintillating, but executed with a machine-like precision -- block, parry, riposte. Soon she had Karla on the defensive. She looked for some sign that Karla was beginning to falter. Then she could use the blunt edge of her blade to beat the knife out of Karla’s hand, disarming her and sparing her life.<br /><br />No such luck. Karla’s iron arm never seemed to grow weary. Then Karla took Shadow by surprise with a wild slashing motion followed by a thrust on the backstroke. Shadow was only able to check the move by seizing the wrist of Karla’s knife hand. She sought now to drive her own blade home, but Karla also managed to grab hold of her foe’s weapon hand.<br /><br />The women now stood toe-to-toe as each exerted her considerable strength in an effort to break the stalemate. Drenched in sweat, their naked bosoms heaved as they gulped down the cabin’s stale smoky air. The sleek cords of their muscles stood out in bold relief from the intensity of their exertions. The crowd that ringed them in howled and cavorted like devils.<br /><br />Tense moments passed as the combatants shuffled about, their footwork slow and deliberate, as they jockeyed for some advantage of position. They inched closer together. Their sinewy arms strained as they fought to hold each other’s knives at bay. The women grappled in a deadly loveless embrace, the bare breasts of each pressed flat against those of the other.<br /><br />Finally, Shadow caught a glimmer of an opportunity. Karla’s grip on Shadow’s wrist was less secure because of the gauntlet Shadow wore. Her hand began to slip. Shadow seized that instant to butt with her forehead and smash Karla’s nose. Karla was driven back and her grip was broken.<br /><br />Her knife hand free at last, Shadow drove the blade to the hilt into Karla’s vitals. She then slashed upwards instinctively, ripping the blade free. Karla’s face was a white mask of agony as her entrails began to spill. Shadow quickly decided to end Karla’s suffering and afford her the dignity of dying without crying out. She plunged the clip point of her bowie between Karla’s ample breasts, piercing her heart and killing her instantly.<br /><br />Shadow yanked her knife free and Karla fell dead at her feet. The din of the crowd faded and died. The spectators whose shouts had shaken the rafters mere moments before now loomed sullenly about like ghouls in conclave.<br /><br />“What the hell are you assholes looking at?” Shadow demanded, “Two minutes ago you were all howling for blood. Well, there it is. She called the tune and you all saw it.”<br /><br />Members of the crowd muttered incoherently. Shadow swore at them, her amber eyes ablaze like those of a basilisk; “Goddamn jackals and hyenas. Don’t let her lie there!”<br /><br />Shadow dragged a long rude wooden table into the area that had served as the arena. She cleared it off with a sweep of her arm. With the aid of a few patrons, she laid Karla’s body upon it. Shadow closed Karla’s eyes, then tore down a bear pelt decorating one of the walls and used it to cover the body. Finally she set candles about the corpse and lit them.<br /><br />The grim task completed, Shadow poured some liquor into a mug. She raised the mug in a solemn gesture, drained it, then hurled the empty vessel into the fireplace.<br /><br />Maggie brought Shadow her weapon belt. Shadow fastened it about her waist and sheathed her bowie after cleansing it. She pulled on her duster. Before taking her leave she gave Maggie some money.<br /><br />“See that she gets taken care of,” she told her. Then she was gone.<br /><br />#<br /><br />Upon taking her leave of the Creekhouse, Shadow returned to a small corral at the north end of Eden. There Christian awaited her with the horses.<br /><br />“So how did it go?” he asked.<br /><br />“Uh, not so hot.” She briefly recounted the duel to the death with Karla.<br /><br />“My God! What’s going to happen?”<br /><br />“Well, what passes for law around here doesn’t have a problem if someone gets killed in a fair fight. That sort of thing happens from time to time, and there were plenty of witnesses. But unless I miss my guess, one or more of those dicks back there are going to scamper and tell Sailor Clanton. He’s not going to like my killing his sweetie-pie. I know Clanton. If he’s not getting it regular, he gets cranky. He’s sure to blame me for what went down back there.”<br /><br />“This can’t be good,” Christian observed.<br /><br />“Yeah,” Shadow agreed, “But what choice did I have? I couldn’t back down from a fight. I’d be finished here. The same goes for my still. You can’t let shit like that slide.”<br /><br />That ended the conversation. They mounted up and rode north for a few miles. At a fork in the road Shadow lead them down a narrow trail. From there they went off the path into a clearing.<br /><br />“We’ll camp here,” she told him, “No fire. I don’t want to draw attention to our position. There’s no telling who will be riding the roads this night. Like I said, Karla’s buying it in a fair fight should have settled it, but it’s not like there’s some ‘code of the hills’ that’s going to protect us if someone decides to take up a vendetta.”<br /><br />“I’ll take the first watch,” Christian volunteered.<br /><br />“Never mind,” Shadow said wearily, “Incitatus’ll warn us if someone comes around. I want to zip the sleeping bags together so we can huddle together for warmth. And no argument from you, Church-boy.”<br /><br />The clouds had parted, providing them with enough moonlight to prepare the camp without night goggles. While Christian was saying his prayers, Shadow removed her duster. He saw for the first time that she had lost her top during the fight. How beautiful her ivory body was in the moonlight! Christian averted his eyes, lest he succumb to impure thoughts.<br /><br />Shadow spread her duster over the combined sleeping bags to provide additional insulation. Then she slipped in next to Christian. He found the nearness of her intoxicating, at once exciting and comforting. A lifetime’s worth of tension from the expectations of others seemed to seep out of him. He drifted off into a blissful slumber.<br /><br />#<br /><br />The sun was well up when they awoke. Shadow hadn’t meant to sleep so late, but the fight with Karla had been grueling. She arose and donned her duster. Christian had to wait in the sleeping bag for a few minutes until his erection subsided.<br /><br />He rose presently and they broke camp. They led the horses back to the trail and were about to saddle up. Just then they heard a rustling in the brush and a voice.<br /><br />“Hands in the air, bitch.”<br /><br />A man emerged from the woods with a gun leveled at Shadow. He was a short, unkempt scruffy-looking fellow. She recognized him as one of the crowd from the Creekhouse. He had the drop on her. She had no option but to raise her hands. Keep your hands away from the gunbelt; don’t make him nervous, she thought. Maybe she could defuse the situation with talk.<br /><br />“Okay, you got me,” she said, “Now suppose you tell me what this is all about.”<br /><br />“You killed Karla,” the man said bluntly, “And she deserved better than to be killed by a tramp like you. I went out after you at daybreak, hopin’ to pick up your trail. Just my luck I happened to be goin’ past here when I heard youns movin’ around back ‘err. I left my horse back in the woods and hid, waitin’ for youns to come out.”<br /><br />“Your name’s Chester, isn’t it?” Shadow kept her voice soft. She could see that the man’s face was red and puffy from crying. “Well Chester, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Karla barely knew you were alive. You saw what happened. It went down fair and square. It was her choice. You’ve got no call playing the noble avenger. None. So why don’t you stop all this?”<br /><br />Chester wasn’t buying it. “I don’t care about any of that shit!” he roared.<br /><br />After Shadow had left the Creekhouse, Chester had remained as the others began to file out. He just sat and stared at Karla’s body in repose, illuminated in the soft glow of the candles. He drank and cried and drank some more. But in spite of the whiskey he had downed through the night, he gun hand did not waver now.<br /><br />“I don’t care about that shit,” he repeated, “She was a goddess. She’s in heaven now. And I’m sendin’ you straight to hell!”<br /><br />Give Chester credit: he had gotten the drop on Shadow, a thing not easily done. But he made one mistake. He forgot about the tenderfoot.<br /><br />Christian drew his revolver, aimed, and fired one shot into the center of the shorter man’s chest. It was enough. Chester pitched backwards without a sound and lay motionless in the brush beside the trail.<br /><br />“Thanks,” said Shadow.<br /><br />They looked down at their fallen foe. Chester lie sprawled at their feet, still as an old log. His eyes stared unseeing at the sky above.<br /><br />Christian trembled, mouth agape, as the realization of what he had done began to creep over him. Shadow tried to snap him out of it.<br /><br />“Just a flesh wound. He’ll be fine. C’mon Churchy, we gotta get outta here!” She dragged Christian over to the mare and all but shoved him into the saddle.<br /><br />Shadow mounted Incitatus and they rode off together. Reaching the main road they headed north once more. After several miles, they stopped to water the horses at a stream.<br /><br />Christian was still shaken by the encounter with Chester. “Why, oh God, why?” he muttered.<br /><br />“Just another lovesick fool,” Shadow told him. After a moment’s reflection she added, “Love’s too precious to waste on ingrates. Remember that, Churchy.”<br /><br />Christian began to regain some of his composure. “So now what?” he asked.<br /><br />“I still have to find Sailor Clanton. This thing is getting out of hand. And to think that it would be over moonshine! I mean, I was expecting some trouble over my marijuana business in Transylvania. That’s why I have Martin and Ron as partners down there. We were ready; we had weapons and security equipment. Shit!”<br /><br />“So what’s the plan now?”<br /><br />“Try to locate Clanton’s whereabouts. We can make inquiries at some of the cabins up ahead, and at the roadhouses. If I can get word to him, maybe I can set up a meeting at some neutral location like one of the taverns.”<br /><br />They continued on their way, keeping to the back roads. It was almost noon before they reached the first isolated cabins north of Eden. The information they were able to obtain was sketchy but sufficient. They learned that Sailor Clanton had been seen frequently in those parts over the last ten days or so, and that there had been a more than usual amount of activity along the main roads that morning.<br /><br />“It all makes sense,” Shadow explained, “Clanton’s people are located still further north. He’s down here for a reason. He probably holed up in an old cabin near Eden. That would put him in striking distance of Leon’s place. And it looks like last night’s needlepoint with Karla has stirred up a hornets nest.”<br /><br />Their next step was at a roadside inn called Bear Tavern. They ate lunch in the bar. Afterwards Shadow slipped some money to the proprietor and told him, “If Sailor Clanton should happen to show up here, let him know that I’ll be back here around sunset. We have business I want to straighten out.”<br /><br />After they left the tavern, Christian asked, “Do we head north or south?”<br /><br />“South,” said Shadow, “I want to spread the word around here that I’ll be awaiting Clanton at the Bear this evening. We’ll be back there before sundown. I don’t want to risk just running into Clanton on the road after dark. We’ll wait for him in the bar until midnight, then take a room there. We’re sleeping indoors tonight.”<br /><br />Turning south, they revisited the cabins they had been to earlier. They left word there that Shadow could be found at the Bear Tavern come evening. Most of the cabins were located on back roads. From there they returned to the main road. Rounding a bend they found themselves face to face with a trio of men on horseback about a hundred yards away. All were armed with rifles slung over their shoulders. One of them was Sailor Clanton.<br /><br />Shadow recognized Clanton instantly. Unfortunately Clanton had spotted her as well. He began to unsling his rifle. <br /><br />“Shit!” Shadow spat venomously, then, “After me, Churchy, and try to keep up!” So saying she abruptly reigned her horse about, vanishing into the woods. Christian was quick to follow.<br /><br />As soon as they were off the road, Shadow gave the spurs to Incitatus and they were flying like banshees through the gloom-shrouded forest. Christian did his best to keep pace on the mare. From behind them in the distance, a voice: “After them! Kill him but take the girl alive!” Christian dug his spur-less heels into the mare’s flanks, exhorting it to greater speed.<br /><br />Had she been on her own, Shadow may well have eluded her pursuers. There was no way they could have brought her down with gunfire, given the difficulty of firing rifles on horseback at full gallop while navigating through the densely-grown woodlands. Shadow wove her way through the thick trees, avoiding entangling brush, jumping her horse over fallen trees and narrow gullies. Christian soon found himself falling behind. He lacked her skill in horsemanship, nor was the mare he rode the equal of the great stallion. He was forced to circumvent obstacles Incitatus cleared with a bound. Shadow was forced to drop back lest he lose sight of her.<br /><br />Shadow had just begun to slacken her pace when the mare pitched forward, throwing Christian from the saddle. He landed unhurt in some bushes, but his horse was down with a broken leg.<br /><br />Shadow rode back to him and dismounted. She looked down at the agonized mare, drew her pistol and put it down. Hate to waste a bullet, she thought, Gonna need all of them. Just gave our position, too. She could even now hear their pursuers crashing through the brush, not far distant. But in spite of all that, she could not allow the animal to suffer.<br /><br />She grabbed Christian by the shirt front and pulled him close; “Not much time, so listen. Clanton wants to take me back alive, but you stay and you’re a dead man. Get on my horse and ride; I’ll hold them off. Double back and hide somewhere. Follow them and see where they take me. Come get me when the coast is clear. Got it?”<br /><br />Christian nodded.<br /><br />Incitatus reared up with flailing hooves as Christian attempted to mount him. Shadow jerked hard on the reins and held him steady until Christian was in the saddle. The she smacked the horse sharply on the flank to send it galloping off. <br />Alone, Shadow looked about for cover. There wasn’t much. The stout trunk of a fallen tree afforded the best protection. Shadow dove behind it, lying prone with her Glock extended. Great. A handgun against three rifles, she thought. Not that Christian’s revolver would have added much firepower. And knowing that twit, he probably would have saved the last bullet for me in order to spare me a “fate worse than death.”<br /><br />Shadow fired off a shot at her pursuers as soon as they came into view. This forced them to dismount and take cover behind trees while still some distance away. A moment later they opened fire with their rifles. Bullets whined through the air above Shadow or thudded solidly into the log in front of her.<br /><br />Shadow returned fire as best she could. Her assailants pinned her down under a barrage of lead while darting from tree to tree, working their way closer. In the meantime Shadow expended her pistol’s ammo, including that of two extra magazines.<br /><br />The barrage by Clanton and his henchmen began to slacken when they realized Shadow was no longer shooting back. She called out to them.<br /><br />“Clanton, hold your fire! I’m coming out.”<br /><br />Shadow rose slowly from her place of concealment, both hands raised. Her left hand gripped the butt of the Glock between thumb and forefinger. She tossed it away into the brush. “See? I’m unarmed.”<br /><br />Sailor Clanton and his cohorts emerged from their own cover and approached her. Clanton strode forward with his familiar cocky grin and self-assured swagger. The others kept Shadow covered with their rifles.<br /><br />“So,” Clanton smirked, “What happened to the boyfriend?”<br /><br />Shadow glowered. “The ball-less little shit stole my horse and ran off. He probably won’t stop until he’s back in the Confederacy.”<br /><br />“Smart lad. I guess he knew that you weren’t worth losing his life over. Good for some laughs, though. Get over here.”<br /><br />Shadow stepped forward, hands still raised. Clanton instructed one of his cohorts to bring the horses over. A tough rawhide lariat was affixed to one of the saddles. Clanton used it to bind Shadow. He made Shadow extend her hands in front of her, then tied them together at the wrists. After fastening the other end of the rope to his saddle bow, he remounted his horse.<br /><br />With Clanton in the lead, the trio of horsemen trotted back through the woods and onto the road. Shadow walked alongside Clanton’s horse, tethered to his saddle bow.<br /><br />Clanton laughed. “This is how it’s done, boys. You bring home the spoils of war tied to your saddle bow. Just like Genghis Kahn.”<br /><br />Clanton’s cronies hooted uproariously, as they did at all of his nasty jests. Shadow walked along in silence, hell seething in her brain. You are so going to pay for this, Sailor Clanton. When I get done with you, you’ll wish you had never heard of me.<br /><br />They went south a mile or so on the main road before turning up into the hills. Presently they came to a dark cabin in a clearing surrounded by pines. The sun was already setting behind the hills, casting the scene in deep shadows.<br /><br />Clanton and his men tied the horses to a hitching post behind the cabin. They holstered their rifles in long leather sleeves affixed to their saddles. One of the men kept Shadow covered with a sidearm, even though her hands were bound, while Clanton led her around to the front of the cabin.<br /><br />They entered the darkened structure. One of the men lit an oil lamp. The cabin appeared to be an old hunting lodge, abandoned until lately. Several bunks, a table and some chairs comprised most of the furnishings. In the fireplace freshly burnt logs had been heaped atop cold ashes. The single room’s corners were thick with cobwebs. Dusty shelves had been freshly stocked with provisions, mostly canned goods and foodpaste. All of which indicated that Clanton and company had occupied the cabin only recently.<br /><br />“Tell me something, Clanton,” Shadow said, “It was you who shot up my still, right?”<br /><br />Clanton grinned, not thinking for a second to deny it. “Yeah,” he admitted freely, “Me and the boys here. Have you met Mike and Lyle?”<br /><br />“I don’t remember every maggot I’ve ever seen,” she answered scornfully. Mike and Lyle were a couple of slack-jawed dullards, unhandsome, unimpressive in any way. She recalled that Sailor Clanton, so strong, handsome and bold, had always had a tendency to surround himself with losers. It was a trait that fairly reeked of insecurity and desperation, as though he sought to magnify his own superiority by comparison. For their part, toadies like Mike and Lyle got to bask in Clanton’s reflected glory.<br /><br />Clanton drew an ugly black automatic and waved it menacingly at Shadow. “I’m going to untie your hands now. Don’t try anything stupid. Hate to lose you before the party gets started.” <br /><br />Clanton undid the knots and unraveled the loops of the lariat that bound Shadow’s wrists. She rubbed them to restore circulation.<br /><br />“Now let’s get you out of that coat,” Clanton said, “Lyle, help the lady off with her wrap.”<br /><br />Lyle made a move to grasp Shadow’s duster. Shadow swatted his hand away; “Get your fucking grimy paws away from me. I’ll do it.”<br /><br />Shadow unfastened the duster, shed it, and cast it aside. The eyes of the men, including Sailor Clanton, widened when they saw that she wore no top beneath her outer garment. Her white body was as lovely as ever, but as she stood glaring at them it looked as cold and hard as a marble statue.<br /><br />“Impressive,” Clanton remarked, but the sheathed knife on her belt did not escape his notice. “Lose the belt,” he ordered, “Slowly. Left hand. Toss it in that corner.”<br /><br />After she did so, Clanton visibly relaxed. “You got what it takes, girl,” he told her. “Of course, Karla had a bit more.”<br /><br />“Well, I hope you took lots of pictures,” Shadow snarled back, “Because last night I used her guts for party streamers. I take it you heard.”<br /><br />Clanton struck her across the face with the barrel of the automatic. “Yeah, I heard.”<br /><br />Stung to anger, he barked an order to the others; “Grab her and get the rest of her clothes off.”<br /><br />Mike prepared to seize Shadow by the upper arms to hold her steady. The next thing he knew he was sailing through the air. Shadow had swiftly executed a judo maneuver to grab him and flip him over her shoulder. She hoped to flip him into Clanton to create an opening for her to escape, but Clanton sidestepped. Mike crashed into one of the bunks, collapsing one of its front legs.<br /><br />Clanton thrust the muzzle of his gun into Shadow’s face. “Chill out or I will chill you out. Permanently.”<br /><br />Shadow submitted as Mike staggered back from where he had fallen and placed her in a full nelson. Lyle knelt before Shadow and began to yank off her boots. Shadow still had some fight in her and kicked out. Her spur gouged a deep gash across Lyle’s face. He rose howling and clutching the wound.<br /><br />“Don’t be such a baby,” Clanton told him, “It’s a scratch. Just pour some booze in it to disinfect it.”<br /><br />Lyle did as instructed. Clanton turned to Shadow. “As for you…”<br /><br />He hit her again with his gun barrel. Rather than risk a concussion, she acquiesced after that.<br /><br />After they stripped her, Clanton went to the bunk with the broken leg and kicked out the other front leg. The front of the bunk crashed to the floor so that the bed lie tilted at an angle.<br /><br />“Tie her to that,” Clanton told his henchmen.<br /><br />Shadow was forced onto the bed at gunpoint, the muzzle of Clanton’s automatic held inches from her head. They tied her by the wrists and ankles to the bedposts. Then Clanton personally secured all the knots to make sure they would hold.<br /><br />Clanton stepped back to admire his handiwork. Shadow’s nude body was bound spread-eagled on the bed. She lie totally exposed and helpless.<br /><br />Clanton looked down on her in smug satisfaction. “You know, girl,” he told her, “We could have had something. I could tell you were hot for me back then, just like I was hot for you. But you had to go and let your stubborn schoolgirl pride get in the way. This could be our second chance. Before long you’re going to thank me for this.”<br /><br />“In your dreams, asswipe.” For all the seriousness of her position, Shadow showed no sign of being intimidated.<br /><br />“We’ll see about that,” Clanton said simply as he took off his shirt. He yanked the front of it open like Superman. Doffing the shirt he stood revealed in a red nylon mesh tank top that emphasized the muscularity of his powerful sculpted torso. Shadow thought he looked gay.<br /><br />Clanton stood before her preening and flexing his muscles, actually striking poses like he was in some bodybuilder contest. He peeled the tank top off over his head, causing his rock-hard six-pack abs to ripple and undulate. It was the sort of move that drew gasps from the audience on ladies’ night at the strip club.<br /><br />Shadow was unimpressed. “Nice try, Clanton. But I’m still as dry as sandpaper.”<br /><br />Clanton’s rakish smile vanished as he kicked off his boots. “That’s too bad,” he told her. And so saying he unzipped his pants. He let them drop, then stepped out of them. He doffed his undergarments to stand before her naked.<br /><br />Once again, Clanton posed for dramatic effect. He stood with his hands on hips, looking like some laughing young god about to ravish a hapless mortal woman. Shadow noted with disgust that Clanton lacked even the decency to send the other men away before he clambered onto the bed. They stood near, egging on their hero.<br /><br />“Give it to the whore, Sailor,” Mike smirked.<br /><br />Clanton looked back over his shoulder at them. “She’s not a whore,” he growled. Then, as though this were a sign of weakness, he hastily added, “Whores get paid.”<br /><br />Clanton caressed Shadow, fondling her breasts and supple limbs. He kissed her face and neck, whispering endearments; “C’mon baby. You know you want it. Just give in.”<br /><br />Shadow said nothing. She was working to mentally distance herself from the situation. Clanton had a smooth touch; he was not unskilled. Shadow briefly considered pretending he was someone else, but decided against it. She wanted nothing to diminish the fires of her hatred.<br /><br />Clanton quickly became hard. Soon he was thrusting inside her. He started with a gentle rocking motion, but before long his jackhammer pummeling was shaking the bed. He was endeavoring to put on a porn star exhibition for the benefit of his worshiping fans. They ate it up. As in a nightmare, Shadow saw their ugly sin-pitted faces leering at her grotesquely in the unsteady lamplight.<br /><br />Lyle tittered and cackled like a madman, “Hee hee heee. Hee hee heeeee…” The high-pitched squeal was enough to shred lesser nerves, but Shadow remained stoic.<br /><br />Mike was playing cheerleader; “Fuck her, Sailor! Fuck her real good. You the man, Sailor, you the man!” <br /><br /> Sailor Clanton grunted loudly as he climaxed and gave one last vigorous thrust for emphasis. He rolled off the woman, totally spent. He smiled in smug satisfaction. Shadow said, “Okay lover, you can start now.”<br /><br />Clanton rose from the bed, his face red, speechless in his fury. He strode over to a pile of gear placed near the table and strode back brandishing a riding crop. Curses spewed from his lips as he lashed the helpless woman. Shadow writhed beneath the crop with clenched teeth and did not cry out. Mike and Lyle howled like jackals as they watched the lewd spectacle of the naked man whipping the bound naked woman.<br /><br />When he had glutted his anger, Clanton flung the riding crop away. He began to dress.<br /><br />“Hey Sailor,” said Lyle, “Don’t we get a turn?”<br /><br />“If I don’t break her soon you just might,” replied Clanton. “In the meantime, we’re going down to Eden to pay our respects to Karla. It’ll give this little hothead a chance to cool off and think things over, maybe figure out what’s best for her.”<br /><br />“What if she gets loose?”<br /><br />“She won’t. Trust me; I know how to tie a woman up.”<br /><br />A few minutes later, they departed.<br /><br />#<br /><br />Outside, night had fallen and a harvest moon had risen above the pines. Three horsemen galloped away from the lonely cabin. Hiding in the woods nearby, Christian watched them ride off.<br /><br />After his earlier escape, he had circled back in time to witness Clanton and his men take Shadow prisoner. He had followed them from a safe distance, using the woods for concealment. Once they had arrived at their destination, he had waited for them to emerge once more.<br /><br />Now Christian approached the cabin warily. He eased the door open and gasped at what he saw luridly revealed by the flickering lamplight within.<br /><br />Shadow remained as Clanton had left her, tied spread-eagled to the bed. She was the first thing one saw upon entering the cabin. The bunk lie tilted at such an angle that it offered a clear view of her nude body in bondage. Her ivory flesh was crisscrossed with welts from her whipping with the riding crop. She was slick with sweat and her breasts rose and fell with her heavy breathing. The supple muscles of her superbly toned body flexed and stood out in relief as she writhed on the bed straining against her bonds.<br /><br />“You can jack off later! Stop staring at me and untie me!”<br /><br />Shadow’s sharp words snapped Christian out of his stunned paralysis. He crossed the cabin in an instant and began to fumble with the knots that held her immobile. He struggled with them for a few seconds until she told him, “Get my knife over there.”<br /><br />Christian retrieved Shadow’s bowie knife from where she had tossed it. The keen blade made short work of he bonds. Another moment and she was free.<br /><br />Shadow sat up. She flexed her fingers and toes and felt circulation return.<br /><br />“Merciful God!” Christian exclaimed, “Those fiends! Will you be alright?”<br /><br />“I’m alright now,” Shadow replied tersely, “It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve had some oaf grunting on top of me.”<br /><br />Shadow dressed and they exited the cabin. They went back to Christian’s hiding place, where Shadow’s pinto was tied.<br /><br />“Did you have much trouble leading my horse back here?” she asked.<br /><br />“Actually, I got back on and rode most of the way.”<br /><br />“I’m impressed. Incitatus won’t usually let anyone ride him but me. Do you have your gun?”<br /><br />“Yes. And yours. I saw where you threw it and went back and got it.”<br /><br />“Good boy. I spent all the ammunition I had on my belt, but I have a couple more clips in the saddlebags."<br /><br />Shadow retrieved the ammo and reloaded. She told Christian, “You stay back here with the horse. I’ve got some work to do.”<br /><br />“What sort of work?”<br /><br />“When Clanton gets back here, he is in for a big fat fucking surprise.”<br /><br />#<br /><br />Maggie’s Creekhouse had been the scene of an impromptu wake that day. Karla now lay in a coffin that one of her admirers had donated. On the morrow the coffin would be nailed shut, loaded onto a wagon, and taken to its final resting place.<br /><br />Sailor Clanton sat with his cronies, moodily drinking. “She will be missed,” he said, although he didn’t seem too broken up.<br /><br />“What about the one back in the cabin?” asked Lyle.<br /><br />“That bitch deprived me of the best piece of ass I ever had,” Clanton informed him. “It’s only fitting that she take her place.”<br /><br />Looking as though he had made up his mind about something, Clanton slammed some money on the table. “Get drunk on me, boys,” he told Mike and Lyle, “I’m going back. Give me an hour or so. I’m going to try a more romantic approach. Don’t need an audience this time. Could be she might start to warm up to me.”<br /><br />“What if she don’t, Sailor?”<br /><br />“She’ll get it the easy way. She’ll get it the hard way. Eventually she’ll start to break.”<br /><br />Sailor Clanton left to put his theory into practice.<br /><br />When he arrived back at the cabin, the first thing he noticed was that it was dark. The lamp must have gone out. He tied his horse in back and went around to the front.<br /><br />Crossing the threshold, he called out, “Honey, I’m home!”<br /><br />No answer. Before his eyes could adjust to the gloom within, Clanton felt the cold muzzle of a gun being pressed against his temple.<br /><br />“You’ll never get to Sea World that way!” said a voice in the dark.<br /><br />Next: <em>Shadow's Revenge</em>Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-52982719160149056682009-10-12T16:47:00.000-07:002010-05-09T17:09:41.627-07:00Guns of the Border Region - Chapter Four[I'm back at last with a new chapter of "Guns of the Border Region." New readers can scroll down for previous installments. In this chapter, some new characters are introduced, and there is some more exposition giving details about my fictional world of the future. Actually, this is not a bad place for newcomers to start, since it gives the flavor of "Guns of the Border Region" and "Twilight's Last Gleaming."]<br /> <br />CHAPTER FOUR -- TROUBLE IN THE ALLEGHENIES<br /><br />As they passed ever deeper into the wooded hill country, it seemed to Christian as though they had entered a haunted world of fog and ghosts. It had been only a few days, but sunny skies seemed like a vague, distant memory that required an effort to grasp. Indian summer had fled like a thief in the night, leaving no trace of its passing. Fall had come at last. Leaves drifted down from half-bare trees to carpet the forest floor. Dark walls of lofty solemn pines surrounded them, eclipsing further view. Upon reaching a summit, Christian was finally able to discern the lay of the land. The Alleghenies were wholly unlike the Rocky Mountains of the far west. There were no jagged peaks or bare cliffs. He saw only tree-covered slope beyond tree-covered slope, stretching from horizon to horizon. Over all arched the ominous grey sky. <br /><br />Christian was walking his bike along a narrow woodland path. Shadow rode on ahead in silent gloomy majesty. He made no attempt at banter or small talk. The setting killed any such notion, and he knew that her keen ears were alert for any sound that hinted danger. He was seeing a different side of her. No longer did she seem the lively, vivacious girl who had swaggered through the boom towns. Here she was quiet and reserved, with a touch of sadness about her. Yet Christian knew that this, too, was the real Shadow. All along he had sensed the somber core within her. Christian was the child of a warm, breezy, tolerant land. Shadow was the child of a grim one.<br /><br />Although Christian was cheerful and optimistic by nature, the eternal twilight gloom of the forest was beginning to depress him. The eerie wind that sighed through the black boughs, the fog that hung in the ravines and gullies, the tiny streams that trickled silently over the rocks; all were taking their toll on his spirits and causing him to grow uncharacteristically moody. It would only get worse after dark.<br />Last night they had camped in these woods. Shadow had used some rat traps from her saddle bags to catch some squirrels. She had deftly skinned and cleaned them with her bowie, then roasted them over a campfire. “A little whiskey would make this an old-time Westsylvania supper,” she had told Christian.<br /><br />After they had eaten, they had rolled out their sleeping bags. Christian had volunteered to take first watch. He wanted to do his part even though he knew that Shadow was a light sleeper, and any unusual sound would instantly rouse her and Incitatus. Christian sat alone by the fire while she slept. The overcast sky shut out the light of the moon and stars. Beyond the glare of the campfire, all was utter blackness. The silence of the night woods was relieved only by the far-off hooting of owls.<br /><br />Sitting there by the fire, Christian had felt himself growing nervous and actually fearful of the dark. He began to understand the mindset of the ancient Celts and other such people who had imagined the black forests around them to be the haunt of werewolves, witches and wandering spirits. How easy to scoff at such things within the security of one’s cozy home, where one controlled light and warmth with the flick of a switch, and where food and all manner of comforts were within easy reach. But alone in the darkness of the night woods, the old atavistic fears were astonishingly quick to return.<br /><br />Shadow had relieved Christian around midnight. After turning in he had fallen asleep quickly, only to be troubled by disturbing dreams he could not recall upon awakening. Then he had felt Shadow’s booted foot nudging him awake shortly after the chill grey dawn began to lighten the forest. Soon they were on their way again, moving ever further into the woods.<br /><br />Christian was relieved when Shadow informed him that they were almost within reach of their destination, and would not be spending another night outdoors. “Pops’ cabin isn’t too far from here,” she said.<br /><br />“Pops? Who’s Pops? Your father?”<br /><br />Shadow actually grinned upon hearing the question. “Nah,” she replied with a hint of a laugh, “Just some lovable old coot I know.”<br /><br />The news that Shadow had one or more friends nearby did much to lift Christian’s spirits. He looked forward to being among people again. The shades of early evening were already closing about them. He was eager to get a move on.<br /><br />They had not proceeded much further when Shadow abruptly halted the pinto. She raised a hand as a signal for Christian to stop and remain still. A few seconds passed before he too heard the sounds that had roused her attention. Some large animal was moving through the brush, very near by.<br /><br />A tense moment passed. Then the beast emerged from the forest to stand before them in the middle of the trail mere yards away, barring their path. Christian’s eyes widened as though it were an actual monster that confronted them. It was an enormous dog. The huge black canine shape was short-haired and not unlike a Great Dane, but with the heavier, more massive build of a mastiff. It looked to weigh a good two hundred pounds. Its fangs were bared in a snarl, but it did not bark. The beast’s eyes seemed to glow redly. Surely such a hound as this guarded the gates of Hell!<br /><br />Christian began to fumble for the gun in his pocket when Shadow snapped, “Stand down, Church-boy. That’ll only get you killed.”<br /><br />Christian obeyed, freezing stock-still to avoid provoking the beast. Shadow swung down from Incitatus, tossing Christian the reins to hold. “Besides,” she told him, “This is a friend.”<br /><br />The appearance of the monster dog in the road had been startling enough. Now Christian was astonished to hear Shadow call out to the great hound; “Pain! Come to Mommy!”<br /><br />At the sound of her voice the dog’s tail began to wag excitedly, whipping back and forth. The brute trotted over to the woman. Abruptly rising to its hind legs, the huge dog placed its forepaws on Shadow’s shoulders and began to lick her face. She grimaced as the big wet tongue lapped her nose and cheeks. Shadow shoved the dog’s massive head aside. “Enough, you big goof. I don’t need a bath.”<br /><br />The dog shuffled forward on its hind legs, forcing Shadow back in a kind of dance-walk. Catching the playful spirit, Shadow wrestled the beast to the ground. The dog rolled over onto its back, tongue lolling between its jaws. Kneeling beside it, Shadow scratched and tickled its belly.<br /><br />“Who’s a good boy?” she cooed, “Pain’s a good boy! Such a good little puppy! Yes you is! Yes you is!”<br /><br />After finishing this sport, Shadow rose and walked back over to Christian with the dog at her side. Christian made a tentative gesture to pet the animal. The dog lifted its lip to bare its fangs, a low growl rumbling in its throat.<br /><br />“Pain, be good,” Shadow admonished, “Churchy is our friend.”<br /><br />Christian forced himself to remain motionless as the dog circled about him, sniffing here and there. When the dog sniffed his crotch, Christian clenched his teeth as he fought down the panic that arose at the thought of those massive steel-trap jaws closing about his privates. After agonizing minutes that seemed an eternity, the dog went away and seated itself beside Shadow.<br /><br />“I think he’s accepted you,” she told Christian.<br /><br />“Well, that’s a relief,” he replied, “I sure hope you’re right about that. How do you know this dog anyway?”<br /><br />“Pain is Pops’ dog. I told you he lived close by.”<br /><br />Christian nodded. He remained fretful of the beast, but thought it a good thing that an old man out here should have the dog for protection.<br /><br />Shadow remounted Incitatus and they were on their way once more. The dog, still wary of the newcomer, kept close to Christian. Presently Shadow led them down a fork in the trail. Through gaps in the trees, Christian could discern a clearing and a large cabin within it. As they approached it, the dog broke from his side to race on ahead. They entered the clearing.<br /><br />A tall man stood before them. He had been splitting wood and gripped a large axe with both powerful hands. At the sound of their approach, he had ceased his task. He awaited their coming motionless as a bronze statue, senses alert to identify friend or foe.<br /><br />The man standing in front of the cabin was perhaps seventy years old, but age had neither stooped nor withered him. He stood erect, well over six feet in height, and was seemingly carved from solid oak. His physique was that of a titan. He wore black jeans supported by a wide leather belt drawn tight about his trim waist. His calves were sheathed by knee-high brown leather moccasins topped with six inches of fringe. The man had stripped to a grey tank top for his labors, exposing his broad shoulders, deep chest, bull neck, and corded sinewy arms. His pate was bald, but the hair on the sides and back of his head had grown long, flowing onto his heavily muscled back and shoulders. A thick walrus mustache masked his upper lip. Both hair and mustache were white as hoar-frost.<br /><br />All this Christian took in at a glance as his party entered the clearing. As Pain gamboled in ahead of them without barking a warning, the man relaxed. When Shadow rode in on Incitatus, he dropped the axe and strode forward to greet her.<br /><br />“Shadow-girl!” he called out in a deep booming voice.<br /><br />“Hi, Pops,” Shadow said demurely as she dismounted.<br /><br />Pops? Christian was taken aback. This was the “lovable old coot” Shadow had spoken of? Christian had pictured a kindly, doting elfin figure. This man looked to him more like Odin, the chief Viking god of ancient pagan mythology.<br /><br />The old man and the girl grasped each other in warm embrace. Shadow rested her head on Pop’s deep chest as his massive arms enfolded her. Then, with a hearty laugh, he gripped her about the waist and lifted her high. Shadow was no light-weight, but Pops whirled her about as though she were a child.<br /><br />By the warmth of this greeting, and just by the way they looked at each other, Christian could tell that the old man and the girl were extremely close. When they were all done with their hugs and kisses, Pops asked Shadow, “So who’s the new boyfriend?”<br /><br />Shadow made the introductions. “Pops, this is Christian Foster. He’s from the Confederacy.”<br /><br />“Confederacy?” asked Pops, addressing Christian, “Whereabouts?”<br /><br />“North Carolina.”<br /><br />“Mighty pretty country.” The two men shook hands. “Name’s Connor O’Rourke. Shadow and some of the young folks get a kick out of calling me Pops.”<br /><br />“I won’t,” Christian promised, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. O’Rourke.”<br /><br />“Likewise, son. Let me show you around a bit before we lose the light. Then we’ll head inside for some supper.”<br /><br />While Shadow corralled Incitatus in a small barn and stowed her gear in the cabin, Pops gave Christian a tour of his property. Pops’ cabin was a fairly spacious log home. A smaller cabin it had presumably replaced was used as an outbuilding. There were fields for crops, now harvested, and areas for livestock. Christian was duly impressed when shown a bathhouse with its own water heater and a cold storage unit for perishables.<br /><br />“I use solar panels to power these,” Pops explained, “Of course we get so few sunny days that I also have `em connected to a windmill over on that hill.”<br /><br />The tour complete, they adjourned to the cabin where Shadow and Pain awaited them. The cabin was divided into a large front room that included areas for cooking and dining and a smaller bedroom in the rear. The main room was dominated by a large stone fireplace. The comfortable furnishings included a large number of bookcases crammed full of tomes.<br /><br />Christian commented on the oil lamps on some of the tables; “No electricity in here?”<br /><br />“Don’t really need it,” replied Pops, “But have a seat at the table and I’ll fix us all some supper.”<br /><br />Pops fried up some venison sausage and served it with some potatoes and greens. It made for a hearty repast. Afterwards Christian, who had never previously eaten venison, remarked on how much he enjoyed it.<br /><br />“That was delicious, Mr. O’Rourke. I don’t think I’ve ever had sausage quite so tasty.”<br /><br />“Well, better than that foodpaste shit, anyway,” Pops admitted.<br /><br />After supper they relaxed before the fire while Pops played his guitar for awhile. Shadow listened as though enchanted. She had always loved to listen to Pops sing and play; it never failed to bring her comfort. Stretched out on the floor alongside Pain, she gazed up at him like some adoring teenage fan. She was captivated by the music and the faraway mystic look in Pops’ strange blue eyes. They were that bright shade of blue that appears white in black-and-white photographs. Set in Pops’ dark, scarred face, they seemed to blaze forth with some inner fire. Shadow had long ago dubbed that particular hue “volcanic blue” in a poem she had written.<br /><br />After playing an old folk ballad called “For the Love of Barbara Allen,” Pops set his guitar aside. He turned his volcanic gaze towards Christian.<br /><br />“So,” he said abruptly, “What is your story? How came you to cast your lot with our Shadow-girl?”<br /><br />Having been welcomed with such hospitality, Christian thought it only fair to “sing for his supper,” so to speak. It occurred to him that people in isolated regions passed many an evening swapping stories. Moreover, he had quickly taken a liking to Pops. And so he felt no qualms as he narrated his odyssey in search of his runaway sweetheart.<br /><br />When the tale was told, Shadow added her commentary; “I told him it was nuts to begin with, and ten times more nuts to come with me all the way to the New Settlements.”<br /><br />“Well,” Pops mused, “Men in love do foolish things. Or perhaps the wanderlust has taken hold of him. Or maybe he just can’t get enough of you, Shadow-girl.”<br /><br />Christian visibly blushed. Pops and Shadow shared a little laugh at his expense.<br /><br />“It’s getting late,” Pops declared, “You kids take the bedroom. I’ll just doze here in the comfy chair, right by the fire.”<br /><br />“Oh, but we couldn’t…” Christian objected.<br /><br />“No, no, I insist. I’ll be more than fine right here with Pain.”<br /><br />“Well, thank you for all your hospitality, Mr. O’Rourke. I look forward to talking with you some more. You must have seen a lot of history.”<br /><br />“Indeed,” the white-haired man muttered, “Indeed I have. Now off to bed with you.”<br /><br />#<br /><br />The bedroom was cozy and had its own fireplace. The large bed looked to be the most comfortable in the world. Shadow was surprised, yet not surprised, to see Christian unfolding his sleeping bag next to it.<br /><br />“Why the hell don’t you just get in here with me?” Shadow demanded as she slipped beneath the covers. She was clad in a simple nightshirt she had obtained from one of the drawers. “I promise not to try to have my way with you. Of course, if you like we could cuddle a little bit maybe. Nothing wrong with that.”<br /><br />“No,” Christian said flatly, “It is better this way.”<br /><br />“Suit yourself, Church-boy. Most guys would…aw, forget it.” Pulling the covers close about her, Shadow rolled over to face the wall. She was asleep before he had finished his prayers.<br /><br />#<br /><br />In the main room, Pops tossed some more wood on the fire. Wrapping himself in warm woolen blankets, he sank back into the comfy chair. Pain was curled at his feet.<br /><br />Pops looked to the fire, taking comfort from the warm bright crackle of the flames. It’s hell getting old, he thought. Yeah, sure, you can still twist the head off the average young buck. But that won’t bring anything back.<br /><br />Physically, Pops was in remarkable shape. It was his mind that had grown weary.<br />What was it the kid had said? That he’d seen a lot of history? Oh, hell yes. Too damn much history.<br /><br />The worst thing about getting old, he mused, was that the world that one was born into receded further and further into history, never to be retrieved. It’s during one’s formative years that one’s standards for what’s right and normal are conceived. Since the beginning of modern times, virtually every generation had grown up in a different historical era from its predecessor. Changes in societal norms, technological innovations, shifts in international alliances, economic fluctuations; all had come at an increasingly accelerated pace since the Industrial Revolution. The pace of this change often exceeded people’s capacity to cope with it. Many came to feel overwhelmed by it. A sociologist had referred to this phenomenon as “future shock.” How much more disorienting, then, was it to live through a truly tumultuous era?<br /><br />What must it have been like to first see the light in the days of imperial Rome and breathe one’s last during the Dark Ages? Connor O’Rourke and his generation had a pretty good idea. O’Rourke had been born seventy-two years earlier in what had then been the western part of Pennsylvania. His father had been a Black Irish immigrant who had married a local woman of old Scots-Irish pioneer stock. He had grown up in Evans City, Pennsylvania, USA. The USA had stood for United States of America.<br />During his boyhood, he had often heard that America wasn’t what it used to be. It was a frequent lament of men who were as old then as he was now. Even then Europe was arguably more powerful than the US, China definitely so. But militarily, economically and culturally, the United States was still a force to be reckoned with. The trouble was that the nation seemed to be running solely on momentum. The country’s mentors were lax when it came to new initiatives aimed at assuring America’s continued preeminence. <br /><br />At that time, Europe was the up-and-coming power. But it was not the Europe of old. For generations, Muslim immigrants and their descendents had been supplanting the indigenous European races. European Christian civilization was on the wane. Indeed, O’Rourke’s father had emigrated from Ireland lest he find himself inundated by that rising tide. Germany was already an Islamic Republic before O’Rourke himself had been born. When he was in his early teens, the European Union formally reorganized as the Islamic Federation of Europe.<br /><br />While Europe was melding into the new superpower, America was fragmenting along ethnic, class and cultural lines. The middle decades of the 21st Century saw the nation torn by social strife. The country’s 300th birthday in 2076 was widely greeted with cynical indifference.<br /><br />The War had come but a few years later. A coalition of Mid-Eastern nations, with Iran at its center, finally moved to wipe out their mutually-despised foe, Israel. America was obliged to come to Israel’s defense. No sooner had it done so than the Islamic Federation of Europe issued a formal declaration of war against the United States of America. The American military, gutted by decades of neglect, proved no match for that of Islamic Europe. The eastern US came under relentless attack. Within weeks, America was fighting wholly on the defensive. The nation took a pounding that left it wrecked and ruined. The coup de grace was the invasion and occupation of New York City. O’Rourke had been in New York when it fell. He had been lucky to make it out alive.<br /><br />The War ended soon after that. European intelligence got wind of nuclear options being considered by rogue elements of the US military. Moreover, the logistics of invading, subduing and occupying the vast American continent were costly and problematic. The original root cause of the conflict, Israel, was by this point moot. The United States would never again pose a threat. The IFE stood to gain much in the way of concessions from a chastened America should hostilities cease at this juncture. An armistice was conveniently proffered by Europe. The Third World War had come and gone with the appalling swiftness and destruction of a hurricane.<br /><br />Early the following year, the World Peace Conference convened in Paris. The treaty that resulted from it was commonly referred to in America as “Versailles II.” The Conference had not been conducted in the Versailles palace. Rather, the allusion was to the treaty that had further humbled a defeated Germany in the aftermath of World War I.<br /><br />Among the provisions of the treaty was the mandate that American states with large Muslim populations be allowed to hold a special election to determine if Islamic law should be adopted as the supreme legal authority. As of the late 21st Century, this pertained to most of the Northeastern and Midwestern states. The Special Election was held in 2081. The measure passed in Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Michigan and Illinois. This did not go down easy in the non-Muslim areas of Muslim-majority states. In western Pennsylvania, there was considerable resentment over a vote that had been tipped by populous Muslim strongholds to the east such as Philadelphia. The western counties erupted in revolt. The Pennsylvania Uprising was underway.<br /><br />The rebellion had quickly spread to neighboring states affected by the Special Election. In the meantime, activists in western Pennsylvania issued the Westsylvania Manifesto. The Manifesto declared that, by virtue of having adopted a higher legal authority than the United States Constitution, the states in question had for all intents and purposes seceded from the Union. That being the case, the framers of the Manifesto deemed it only right and proper that the western counties secede from Pennsylvania.<br /><br />The Westsylvania Manifesto sparked secession movements in neighboring states. In Pennsylvania, the movement culminated in the Freedom March that took place in the spring of `82. Thousands of western Pennsylvanians trekked across the Alleghenies towards the state capital of Harrisburg. Many were armed with deer rifles and other weapons. Some carried the blue flag of the long-ago Whiskey Rebellion. Connor O’Rourke had been among the marchers.<br /><br />The governor of Pennsylvania attempted to quash the Uprising by turning out the National Guard --a move that backfired spectacularly. The Pennsylvania Guard mutinied en masse and threw in with the Freedom Marchers. A calamity was averted when the western counties of Pennsylvania separated peaceably from the eastern portion of the state.<br /><br />Other states followed suit, with southern Ohio, south Indiana and south Illinois separating from their parent states. The precise legal status of the sundered portions of these states was unclear. Local districts still retained their Congressional representatives, but no new senators or governors were selected. Government in those areas was now conducted at the local level. The seeds of the Border Region had been sown.<br /><br />The adoption of Islamic law in the Northeast and Midwest, and the subsequent division of some states, was overshadowed just a few years later by an even more momentous turn of events. In 2085, in a move that had long been anticipated, the southwestern states seceded from the Union to join Mexico. Nor did the balkanization of the US end there. In 2089, the northern New England states, separated from the rest of the country by the Islamic states, also seceded and joined Canada. The trend continued into the `90s, with the Pacific Northwest also joining Canada and the Florida peninsula seceding from the state and the nation to form half of what became known as Greater Cuba.<br /><br />Shadow had been born at the beginning of the last decade of the old century. At that time this part of the country was already Westsylvania, already Border Region. The War was a decade in the past by then. The Southwest and northern New England were already out of the Union. Shadow was only a baby when the Pacific Northwest and Cuban Florida broke away. She was not yet a teen when the Islamic States of America finally declared full independence. The United States of America, as it had existed before the War, when it had been whole and unsundered, was something she had never known.<br /><br />To the younger generations, those who had come of age during and after the War, the old flag was no more than a symbol of ignominious defeat. For many decades, even well before the War, the political, commercial and cultural life of the nation had been shifting to the South. In the `90s it became common to refer to the downsized nation as “the New American Confederacy.” The term carried a note of irony, owing to the fact that it had not seceded from the Union; rather, sections of the Union had seceded from it. During the New Constitutional Convention of 2104, the name “New American Confederacy,” in common usage for over a decade, was formally adopted. The New Constitution mandated that only Christians could be full-fledged citizens of the new nation, a measure aimed in part at stemming further balkanization. The new flag retained the red and white stripes, but the blue field now contained a cross instead of stars. When the old flag was lowered for the last time, only old-timers were seen to shed any tears.<br /><br />#<br /><br />Pops started awake, rubbing his eyes. The fire in the hearth was burning low. He had dozed off while watching the flames, letting them conjure visions as he thought about the past. He had relived the last forty years first in his thoughts, then in the visions in the fire, and finally in his dreams. Now it was daylight.<br /><br />Pops rose and went outside. He followed a winding narrow path that led to a small forest glade. Within the glade was a single grave marked by a Celtic cross chiseled from stone. Pops had carved it himself and set it there in place of the rude wooden cross that had been there. As though suddenly pressed by some great weight, he sank to his knees before the grave.<br /><br />“Oh, Steffy,” he groaned, “I miss you, girl. I miss you so much.”<br /><br />#<br /><br />Shadow and Christian awoke to the smell of breakfast cooking. Pops had prepared another hearty repast. There was more venison sausage, fresh eggs, coffee and biscuits.<br /><br />Over breakfast Christian asked Pops, “Have you known Shadow a long time?”<br /><br />“Long enough to teach her most of what she knows about the fighting arts, not to mention cards and a lot of other things.”<br /><br />“I’ve learned a lot from Pops,” Shadow admitted, “And we’re also business partners. Did he show you the still?”<br /><br />“Still?” Christian echoed, “Uh, no. He showed me the solar panel and windmill set-up, but no still. And you have a still for…?”<br /><br />“Making moonshine, what else? We get a lot of trade from our neighbors on the other side of the line,” Shadow explained, “See, we’re right on the very fringe of the Border Region here. Cross the county line headed east, and you’re in Pennsylvania--as in the Islamic States of America. The Pennsylvanians in these parts are rural, pretty friendly. Some of them come over here to visit and do a little bartering and some business. Being Muslim, they’re not supposed to drink. But a lot of them aren’t all that devout, so there’s good money to be made selling them moonshine. So that’s basically my whole racket. In the spring and summer I sell reefer to the Christians down south, and in the fall I sell moonshine to the Muslims up north. Pretty sweet, huh?”<br /><br />When Christian made no reply, she added, “You need to check out the still. Come on!”<br />So saying, Shadow took Christian by the hand and led him out the door. The still was located some distance from the other areas he had been shown. It was encircled by chain-link fence and stood beneath a metal awning to protect it from the elements. Christian had expected to see some crude ramshackle affair, in keeping with the pictures he had seen of moonshine stills from olden times. But the apparatus he saw before him was a fairly modern, sophisticated-looking piece of equipment. It would not have looked out of place in a laboratory.<br /><br />Shadow explained the workings. “It can make liquor from corn, wheat or barley. Most of the equipment was originally designed to make ethanol for flex-fuel hybrids. But it’s been many a year since any cars have been seen in these parts, so we adapted it for other use.”<br /><br />“Did Pops build this?” Christian asked.<br /><br />“Pops and I worked on it together. He provided a lot of the technical know-how. But it’s my baby. I purchased the equipment with money I made selling pot. The whole moonshine thing was my idea. There are other moonshiners further up in the mountains, but most of what they make is just cheap rotgut compared to what we’re doing. There’s always a demand for a superior quality product.”<br /><br />Shadow was explaining the workings of the still when Pops emerged from the cabin. He was clad in jeans and moccasins, as before, and had donned a green hunting shirt. The latter was a long tunic-like garment that fell to his mid-thighs. It was belted at the waist. The belt supported Pop’s sidearm, a Glock 21 chambered for .45 caliber ammo, and an Alaskan bowie with a coffin-shaped wooden handle and a massive twelve inch blade.<br /><br />“Ready to head up to see Leon?” He asked Shadow, “I know he’ll be happy to see you.”<br /><br />“Leon’s my other partner,” she informed Christian. “He looks after another one of my stills.” <br /><br />Presently they set out for Leon’s cabin, located some distance to the north. Shadow rode Incitatus, Pops rode a huge black stallion he called Balor, and Christian peddled his bike. They left Pain behind to guard the cabin.<br /><br />They reached Leon’s cabin by midday. As they entered the clearing, they were greeted by two men, one black and one white. The black man was medium height and strongly built. The white man was tall, lanky and youngish looking. Both were armed. The white man carried a twelve-gauge pump shotgun. The black man bore an M-16 assault rifle.<br /><br />At the sight of the weapons, Shadow’s alertness kicked into high gear. This did not bode well. The white man she did not know, but the black man was an old friend. <br />She called out to him.<br /><br />“Leon! What goes on here? Has there been any trouble?”<br /><br />“Trouble? Yeah, you could say that,” Leon replied grimly, “When we heard you ride up we thought there might be more on the way. We grabbed our guns and headed out to see what’s what.”<br /><br />Pops and Shadow instantly drew their own weapons and scanned the surrounding woods for any who might be skulking about.<br /><br />“It’s cool,” Leon assured them, “Wasn’t really expecting anything in broad daylight, but it pays to be on the safe side.”<br /><br />The old man and the young woman dismounted and led their horses to Leon’s corral. Once the animals were squared away, Pops said, “Suppose you tell us what this is all about.”<br /><br />“Better to show you.” Leon led the party around back to the other side of the cabin. Shadow cursed long and loud at what she saw there.<br />They were looking at what had been a still as sophisticated as the one at Pops’ place. Now it was a wreck, shot full of holes.<br /><br />Shadow’s face was a bone-white mask of rage. She was looking at the ruin of considerable work and investment. “So what the hell happened?” she grated.<br /><br />“Last night around ten we heard the animals acting up. I thought a bear or something had come around. I grabbed my deer rifle and headed out. I hadn’t taken two steps off the doorstep when I came under fire. Well, I dived back in here. Thank God these cabin walls are thick. I handed the rifle over to Arthur here, got the M-16, and we tried to return fire from the windows. <br /><br />“Well, it’s a good thing these cabin wall are so thick. See those chips and holes? That wasn’t from woodpeckers. Anyway, we traded shots with whoever was out there, when the other side of the house came under attack. We split up, with Arthur defending the rear window.<br /><br />“After awhile the shooting subsided. We waited out the night. This morning we went out to scout around. If we hit any of them, the others took them away. Didn’t find blood or anything, just a lot of spent shell casings.”<br /><br />“Any idea who did it?” asked Shadow.<br /><br />“Not really. But I think the object was to wreck the still. The initial attack was just to keep us penned in the cabin. Looks like a move by someone to run us out of the moonshine business. By the way, who’s the new guy?”<br /><br />“I was about to ask you the same question.”<br /><br />It was Pops who made the introductions. He started with Leon’s companion.<br />“Shadow, this is Arthur Gretch. He came to us while you were away.”<br /><br />Shadow clasped Arthur’s hand warmly and said, “Nice to meet you. We don’t have enough handsome men around here.”<br /><br />This brought a smile to Arthur’s normally sad countenance. He was quick to return the compliment, “I feel like I’m meeting a legend. Leon has told me so much about you.”<br /><br />“Charming, too. Not many guys these days know how to talk to a lady.”<br /><br />While Arthur and Shadow were getting acquainted, Pops introduced Christian to Leon. “Leon Jackson, meet Christian Foster. Chris is from the Confederacy.”<br />Christian shook hands with Leon, pleased at not having been called “Church-boy” or “Churchy.”<br /><br />“So what brings you all the way out here?” asked Leon.<br /><br />“It’s a long story.”<br /><br />“Arthur’s from the Confederacy too,” Leon said, indicating his tall companion.<br /><br />“Hi,” said Arthur, and that was the extent of his greeting. He took a step back as if to indicate that he did not wish to shake hands.<br /><br />They all sensed the sudden chill. And they all knew the reason for it. One look at Arthur’s clothes told the tale. He wore moccasins and a leather belt he had acquired recently, but the rest of his garments were those he had worn since leaving the Confederacy. Shirt, jacket and pants were of the cheap, loose-fitting, pajama-like variety typically worn by the working classes in the Christian South. Such garments were commonly referred to as “peon jammies.” They stood in stark contrast to the well-tailored travel garments worn by Christian. Christian was a member of the professional classes. Arthur was one of the working class peons. Except when the latter served the former, the twain did not intermingle.<br /><br />Shadow sought to ease the tension, “Well, whatever brought you guys to the Border Region, this is where you are now. And it looks like we could use all the help we can get.”<br /><br />“So it would seem,” Pops added.<br /><br />Then Shadow thought of something else. “Pops, if someone’s looking to bust up our moonshine business and get the racket for themselves, your place is likely to get hit next. We should get back there.”<br /><br />“We’ll come too,” Leon told her, “We can help defend the place. And besides, I wouldn’t mind a little payback. It‘s good to see you again, Shadow. We were expecting you back maybe a week or so ago. Funny knack you have for showing up just as a brawl is about to go down.”<br /><br />“Funny? Oh yeah, it’s hilarious.”<br /><br />#<br /><br />Pops, Shadow and Christian helped Leon and Arthur load a wagon with gear, weapons and provisions. Leon hitched a horse to it, and he and Arthur followed the others back to Pops’ cabin. They arrived just before dusk and managed to get everything unloaded before darkness, which came quickly in the mountains, had fallen.<br /><br />After supper, Pops rode out to patrol the various roads and by-ways that formed the vast perimeter surrounding his property. Christian accompanied him. When Christian informed the older man that he knew how to ride, Pops saddled one of his mares. They rode out together. Both men wore lightweight night vision goggles, no more cumbersome than glasses. Pops had even devised apparatus for the horses, using old 21st Century night vision hardware. In this manner they could traverse the dark roads without an obvious source of illumination that would draw the attention of other night riders.<br /><br />Back in the cabin, Shadow tried to get a conversation going with Arthur. It wasn’t easy. He wasn’t exactly shy, just unaccustomed to other people taking an interest in what he had to say. She felt that was too bad. He had a full head of thick tousled brown hair, and his eyes were a nice shade of green. She thought he would be very good-looking if she could get him to smile more.<br /><br />“You don’t like Church-boy, do you?” she asked in an effort to draw him out.<br /><br />“Uh, no, that’s not true,” he replied slowly, after taking a moment to choose his words, “He actually seems like a decent enough sort. It’s just that…” a pause here before committing himself, “…the fucking suits can’t be trusted.” And so saying he summed up the prevailing attitude held by the workers towards the professionals in the New American Confederacy.<br /><br />Arthur Gretch had been born thirty-one years ago in the shadow of Atlanta, the Confederacy’s greatest metropolis. His parents had been in early middle life when they married. At that time his father’s resources finally seemed sufficiently adequate to enable him to merge his life successfully with that of another. His mother had been the eldest of seven children, and had spent the better part of her life helping to care for her siblings until all were grown.<br /><br />Arthur’s father had died of overwork and exhaustion while Arthur was still a toddler. Arthur and his mother were left to survive on public assistance. His mother was a sorrowful woman who always seemed frightened of everything. He remembered her crying frequently.<br /><br />When he was old enough, Arthur was shoehorned into an inferior public school. The curriculum seemed designed mainly to teach students how to tell time, follow a schedule, remain stationary where posted, and enable them to follow instructions. The reading program, for example, aimed at making students functionally literate, but not at fostering any real enjoyment of reading.<br /><br />Upon “graduation,” Arthur entered the workforce. He lived with his mother well into adulthood. He was pleased to be able to furnish her with some small simple comforts. When she died, he was forced to move out of public housing. Even a tiny one-room apartment proved to be a strain on his budget. He opted to move into the “peon barracks.” There he had a bed and a locker. Such spare time as he had was spent mingling in the common areas. The “peon barracks,” like the public housing he had grown up in and the apartment house he resided in briefly, was an unadorned cinder block structure. Members of the working class were housed far from those they served. They were shuttled on special bullet trains to the more fashionable areas to perform their tasks.<br /><br />In church, the virtues of family life were extolled. However, Arthur had no desire to start a family. He couldn’t see siring children who would grow up with the same disadvantages he had known. Nor could he see sharing a wretched existence with some stooped, pinch-faced woman of the working class --so many prematurely grey, wearing their hair in buns while still in their thirties. How unlike the belles of the middle and upper classes.<br /><br />Arthur had served their kind while working as a waiter in a coffee shop. They had been resplendent in their finely tailored clothes. He had served them in silence, with a name tag affixed to the apron he wore over his peon jammies. How haughty they had been, so self-assured, while the men and women of his class lived in constant dread of the next horrible thing to go wrong. The professional and upper class women thought nothing of treating him as their personal flunky, when they deigned to notice him at all. When not needed he was invisible to them, part of the background like the wallpaper. It doubtless never occurred to any of them that a male of Arthur’s station would look upon them with lustful thoughts. He was less than a man to them.<br /><br />But Arthur was a man, with a man’s cravings. He lived in the peon barracks, subsisted on foodpaste, and put money aside all year so that he might enjoy a steak and a woman on his birthday. The steak had been tough, but the hooker had been nice. She had really tried to help, and made a sincere effort to make him feel better.<br /><br />How livid he had been, then, just a few Sundays later, as he sat rigid in his pew listening to his minister disparage “loose women” from the pulpit. The preacher had railed against “harlots” as a disgrace to “good upstanding women,” and warned that any man who trafficked with them was destined to share their fate in Hell. Arthur had glared back at the man as though his eyes could shoot laser beams of concentrated hatred. He decided then and there to flee the Confederacy and strike out for the Border Region.<br /><br />He had moved from town to town, gradually working his way northward. In the cities and towns of the Border Region he had found rich and poor, but no aristocrats and peasants. He could have settled in one of the city-states, but they were not his goal. His objective was identical to that of young men of bygone centuries whose options had been limited --to go to the frontier.<br /><br />In the New Settlements he had met Leon Jackson, who was working to expand his farm and needed assistance. Leon was Border Region born and bred, the descendent of Pittsburgh steel workers. He had treated Arthur as a peer from the beginning, and Arthur was proud to call him friend. It was here that he had met a man such as Pops O’Rourke…and now a woman such as Shadow.<br /><br />Shadow. God, what a woman! Never had he seen her like. She was beautiful, bold, dynamic, and sensuous beyond all belief. And she treated him like a man. Arthur felt a fierce glow of pride awakening at the thought of this, for Shadow made the women who had treated him with such disdain look like a bad joke.<br /><br />This is where I belong, he thought. In the Confederacy, he had walked hunched over. His skin had looked pale and pasty. Now he walked with head held high. He looked healthy and invigorated. His frame had filled out. Here he breathed clean mountain air. He performed meaningful productive labor instead of inane tasks. He realized he mattered and thought, I’m home.<br /><br />These thoughts passed through Arthur’s mind as he listened to Shadow narrate some of her adventures for his entertainment. The conversation took a more serious turn when she told him, “There could be more trouble on the way. Will you stay and fight?”<br /><br />“Fight? You bet I’ll fight.” <br /><br />#<br /><br />It wasn’t long after that when Pops and Christian returned from their vigil. They had nothing to report.<br /><br />“That doesn’t mean they won’t show up,” Pops told the rest, “Since they hit your place early on, they might hold off until the wee hours before dawn. Or they might not come at all.”<br /><br />Shadow and Arthur took the next patrol. Arthur had never been on horseback before coming to the Settlements, but he’d been in the saddle a number of times since. In any case, the mare was gentle enough for a novice rider. Christian didn’t care to see the two of them ride off together, but refused to admit to himself that he was feeling any sort of jealousy.<br /><br />After the pair had departed, Christian asked Pops if there was much money in moonshine. In answer, Pops conducted Christian to a small safe in the back room and opened it. Within it were stacks of bills, fastened by rubber bands, of various denominations.<br /><br />“Islamic States currency is good for personal transactions in most of this end of the Border Region,” Pops explained, “Come spring Shadow exchanges some it at her bank in Pittsburgh at the current rate. But take a look at this.”<br /><br />Pops withdrew a single small stack of a different kind of currency. “Fuckin’ Euros,” he stated bluntly, “And the ISA insists they’re not a colony of Muslim Europe. Pah!” He tossed the wad of bills back into the safe, slammed the door and spun the lock.<br /><br />Back in the living room, Pops and Leon filled Christian in concerning the history of the New Settlements.<br /><br />After the War, the eastern part of the Old Union lay in ruins. The infrastructure was so badly wrecked that food and other essentials could not be transported any great distance. Relief efforts were spotty at best. Once things became better organized, people in blighted areas took to tilling what they cynically referred to as “defeat gardens.”<br /><br />In the eastern rural regions, the Amish were instrumental in mentoring residents in the ways of self-sufficiency. Those residents in turn tutored others. After the Special Election and the subsequent Westsylvania secession, the Amish who had long dwelt in the northern and eastern parts of Pennsylvania chose to migrate rather than live under Islamic law. They resettled in what became the northeastern fringe of the Border Region.<br /><br />In the meantime, adventurous Westsylvanians who felt they had sufficiently mastered the necessary skills opted to embrace the rugged frontier existence their ancestors had known. The New Settlements gradually formed in areas between Amish enclaves. As in the frontier days of old, there were brawls, feuds and other outbreaks of violence. But none raised a hand against the peaceful Amish, who were revered as mentors. Like frontier physicians, the couriers who regularly brought news of the outside world, and roaming troupes of entertainers, the Amish were considered untouchable.<br /><br />By way of holding up his end of the conversation, Christian told of growing up in North Carolina and of life in the cities of the Confederacy.<br /><br />“`The New American Confederacy,’” Leon sighed, “I can’t get over that. You have to understand that as a black man, the term `Confederacy’ has certain unpleasant connotations.”<br /><br />“No one down there has a problem with it,” Christian informed him, “The name actually got started with the notion that it didn’t secede from the Old Union…”<br /><br />“…The Union seceded from it. Yeah, I know. I heard it.”<br /><br />Ignoring the interruption, Christian continued, “When they finally had the New Constitutional Convention, that became the name almost by default. That’s because everyone had already been using it for over ten years. So rather than call it something else, they just went with the name commonly used. By the way, black and white contributed equally to the new society. In fact, it was a couple of black clergymen who helped popularize the term `New American Confederacy’ during the previous decade. So race isn’t really an issue.”<br /><br />“Maybe not. But class is.”<br /><br />Christian didn’t have a rebuttal for that. For working class citizens of the Confederacy, opportunities for upward mobility were disgracefully few. But that state of affairs had hardly come about overnight. For well over half a century before the War and the breakup of the Old Union, American society had been polarizing along economic lines.<br /><br />“I take it you don’t think much of the Confederacy,” Christian said at length, “But parts of it are beautiful, like where I grew up. And there are exciting things being done there these days.”<br /><br />“Oh, I’ve been there,” Leon told him, “And a lot of the people are nice. But the government and business leaders give me a pain. They carry on like the Confederacy is this younger, leaner successor to the Old Union. But the sad fact is that on the world stage the New American Confederacy is a third-rate weenie power. Mexico has more clout internationally.”<br /><br />As well it might, Christian thought, with California and the other former southwestern US states now part of it. But he didn’t argue the point because he didn’t feel all that passionately about it. The truth was that he felt little in the way of patriotic sentiment regarding the New American Confederacy as a political entity. Christian had been in his early teens when the New Constitution had been adopted, too old to feel any sense of nationhood regarding the Confederacy. Likewise, he had little regard for the defeated and broken Union he had been born into. But for all of that he had fond memories of growing up in North Carolina. He did hope that the new country would one day wax strong and prosperous.<br /><br />Christian didn’t feel like talking much after that. It was getting on towards morning and Shadow and Arthur had not returned. He wondered about the delay. And then a thought occurred to him.<br /><br />What if they had come across some cozy spot and were getting better acquainted? Were they even now enjoying a lover’s tryst? As the notion crossed his mind, lurid images came to him unbidden: Shadow and Arthur nude, locked in passionate embrace. He imagined them writhing, coupling.<br /><br />Christian muttered a prayer between clenched teeth, calling on God to help him banish the obscene images. With an effort, he forced himself to think about other things, like baseball and the dog he had had as a kid. After a few tense minutes, the devil let go of him.<br /><br />The internal battle had left him shaken and sweating. He took a few deep breaths and grew calmer. Panic gave way to reason. Shadow wasn’t that kind of girl. She might not be a proper Christian woman, but it wasn’t her way to copulate with some man she had met only hours earlier. Probably. And even if she had done it once or thrice, she certainly didn’t do it with every guy she met. That much he knew. Then another thought occurred to him.<br /><br />Why did he care so much? What was it to him anyway? He was forced to take a cold, sober look at the situation. Did he actually have feelings for this woman? Angel was lost to him. He had to accept that. Why was he now interested in Shadow? Was he indeed interested in Shadow?<br /><br />A month earlier he would not have thought such a thing possible. Here was a woman who danced naked in front of men, sold drugs, sold moonshine, killed men in gunfights, danced naked in front of men… She was bold, savage, wanton, an outlaw. She was the sort of woman men dreamed of in those dreams they did not confess. He knew that many a man longed to possess such a woman. And if he had a woman such as Shadow, he would be the envy of many men. And that, he realized, would wipe away the shame and humiliation of Angel having left him. Was that the root of his growing infatuation with Shadow? Was that all there was to it? How was he any better than the leering patrons in a Wheeling strip club?<br /><br />But there was more to it than that. He genuinely cared about Shadow. He had seen her warm, thoughtful side. She was, in his view, a decent person who had adapted to tough circumstances. He had taken a real liking to her as a person. That, combined with her undeniable sexual allure, made for a potent cocktail that could go straight to a man’s head. He could end up falling hard for her, if he hadn’t already.<br />This raised another question for Christian to ponder. If he had fallen for her and decided he wanted to be with her, what next? Could he really “make an honest woman out of her?” The man wasn’t born who could tame that hellcat. If he wanted to remain with her, it would have to be on her terms. That meant starting a new life in the Border Region. He had a good life in the Confederacy, and a fine profession. Once he completed the business at hand, could he really chuck it all and leave home, friends and family?<br /><br />Christian knew that he must decide these matters soon. Shadow would not remain available forever. He knew that Arthur was interested in her. He could tell by the way he looked at her. In the Border Region, especially here in the New Settlements, they were equally eligible as suitors. If Christian wanted Shadow, he needed to make his move soon. If it wasn’t already too late, that is. Shadow and Arthur still were not back.<br /><br />Christian found himself wondering once again if they were somewhere making love. Then, for the first time in the course of all this morbid brooding, he considered the possibility that they might have come to harm. A fine friend he was, not to have thought of that before this. He felt himself growing really anxious when he heard them ride up.<br /><br />Shadow and Arthur‘s patrol had been uneventful. While they were out they detected no sign that any intruders had ventured into the area. The group bedded down after that, sleeping through part of the daylight hours. At any given time one person remained awake and on watch. The following evening they repeated the vigil. Shadow took the first patrol. Christian volunteered to accompany her before anyone else had a chance to speak up.<br /><br />Out on the trails, they rode together in silence. Shadow remained alert for anything out of the ordinary. As for Christian, it was as though he had been struck mute. When he tried to break the ice with an innocuous comment about the possibility of rain, his tongue felt swollen and his mouth had gone dry. A swig from his canteen relieved the parched feeling. He now felt he could talk without his voice cracking, but was actually glad he had been unable to speak a moment earlier. He didn’t want to embarrass himself by saying something that made his sound like a blithering idiot. He knew he had to frame his words carefully before he spoke.<br /><br />It was not the first time this paralyzing awkwardness around women had afflicted him. It had always been so. There had been times when he tried too hard and made the worst sort of fool of himself. On other occasions he had attempted to play it cool and let golden opportunities slip through his fingers. So what to do now? After much deliberation, he decided to err on the side of boldness.<br /><br />When the moment seemed right he told her, “I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate you.” This evoked a quizzical look, a raised eyebrow, and an odd little half-smile.<br /><br />Christian groaned inwardly. Way to go, Casanova, he told himself, How can you miss with a line like that? But at least he’d made an opening move. If he followed it up subtly and discreetly, he felt that a smart girl like Shadow was sure to take the hint.<br /><br />After they returned, Pops and Leon went out on patrol. That left Christian, Arthur and Shadow alone in the cabin. The situation made for some awkward moments. In addition to class resentment, she could sense the jealousy simmering between the two men and their sexual tension regarding her. Shadow worked at smoothing things over. It wasn’t easy. She managed to steer their conversation onto innocuous topics, and gradually felt the mood in the room lighten.<br /><br />#<br /><br />Following the second night on alert, with still no trouble materializing, the group assembled the next day to discuss future strategy.<br /><br />“We can’t keep doing this,” Shadow told the others, “They’ve tipped their hand, so they know we’ll be ready for them if they strike again soon. The smart move for them would be to lie low, bide their time, and lull us off guard before they hit us again. We can’t wait around for them to do that. We need to take the initiative, take the ball away from them, take the fight to them somehow.”<br /><br />“That could be a tall order, considering that we don’t even know who ‘they’ are,” Leon reminded her.<br /><br />“Well, somebody knows,” Shadow replied after a moment’s reflection, “Assholes like to brag. People hear things. Nobody in some shit pile like Eden can keep his mouth shut.”<br /><br />“Eden?” Christian asked abruptly, “What’s Eden?” His curiosity had been piqued as much by the Biblical name itself as by the context.<br /><br />Pops filled him in. “Eden is one of these little hamlets in the Settlements where people gather to mingle. You have your trading post, taverns, gambling joints, whorehouses; all made of logs mostly. Eden’s the nearest one.”<br /><br />“I’d like to go right up there and find out what the hell’s going on,” Shadow announced.<br /><br />“Except everyone will clam up when they see you,” Pops gently reminded her, “They’ll know it was your still that got hit, and nobody is going risk getting caught in the crossfire if there’s a feud brewing. They wouldn’t tell me anything for the same reason. Everyone knows we’re in business together.”<br /><br />“Same goes for me,” Leon added, “Arthur would be better, but plenty of people have seen us together by now. I even took him up to Eden a couple of times.”<br /><br />“So that leaves me.” It was Christian who had spoken, to the surprise of the rest. Their heads all turned his way. He had their attention. “Nobody knows me,” he continued, “I’m a total stranger. I could act like I got sick of my life and set out for the New Settlements. I could talk to people about all sorts of things, the way a person who didn’t know his way around naturally would. That way maybe I could find out what really happened.”<br /><br />“No way.” It was Shadow who vetoed the notion. She had no intention of letting Church-boy blunder into a potentially lethal situation. It was one thing to ask him to carry his weight in a fight with her there to watch his back. But this was different.<br /><br />“No,” she repeated emphatically, “What do you think you are, anyway? Some sort of secret agent?”<br /><br />Christian took that with a smile. “I might surprise you,” he said.<br /><br />“No, no, and no!”<br /><br />“Enough,” rumbled Pops, “We can’t just stumble around swinging blind. We need to figure this out better.”<br /><br />“So who’s the competition?” It was Arthur’s turn to speak up. “I mean, who else is making moonshine on a big enough scale that he might want the market to himself?”<br /><br />Pops knew the Settlements better than most. “Well, let’s see,” he said, “There’s the Wayne brothers, Bruce and John. There’s Peter Gonzales, Babs Kowalsky, Chuck Newman…oh, and Sailor Clanton. I believe you have a history with him, Shadow.”<br /><br />“Don’t remind me!” Shadow groaned, her face reddening with both anger and embarrassment. It had been a few years back. She’d been a kid then, dumb enough to almost fall for someone like Sailor Clanton. Lots of girls already had. He was a swaggering young rogue, devilishly handsome. There was no denying that he was a hunk, with his trim muscular body, black hair, blue eyes and killer smile. None knew how he came to be called Sailor; if he had actually been to sea or even seen it. It was just something that added to his mystique.<br /><br />At least that’s one youthful indiscretion I managed to avoid, Shadow thought. She had almost succumbed to his considerable charms. But even then she had been nobody’s fool. She knew damn good and well that Sailor was incapable of taking her or any other woman seriously. To him, she would be just another notch on the bedpost, another conquest to brag about to his doltish pals. While she certainly didn’t mind a romp in the hay with a handsome, muscular stud, she wasn’t having any of that shit.<br /><br />Unfortunately, Sailor Clanton was not the sort who handled rejection well. When Shadow spurned his advances, he tried forcing himself on her. She didn’t go for the ball shot, which he would surely be expecting, as her opening move. Instead she snaked a vertical-fist punch to the center of the face, breaking his nose and blinding him with tears. Then she kicked him in the balls and left.<br /><br />Looking back on the episode, Shadow now felt certain of one thing. “It’s Clanton,” she announced to Pops and the others.<br /><br />“How do you know that?” Leon asked sensibly.<br /><br />“Because no one else in the Settlements is that big an anus,” she told him, “He’s had it in for me since I shot him down when he tried to make it with me.”<br /><br />Shadow felt certain she was right. During their acquaintance, she had found Clanton to be petty and vindictive. He was just the sort to nurse a life-long grudge. In rejecting him, she had hurt his ego. The broken nose she had given him marred his good looks ever so slightly. That did not endear her to him either. Clanton was vain as well as proud.<br /><br />“Honey,” Pops said sympathetically, “You may well be right. But we need a little more to go on than your woman’s intuition before we start a feud with Sailor Clanton, his family, and his cohorts.”<br /><br />“You’re right, Pops,” Shadow admitted, “We’ll have to make sure he’s involved. If he is, well, maybe he’ll listen to reason. Maybe I can sweet-talk him, or we can cut some sort of deal. Or maybe we’ll have to fight it out after all. But whatever the case, I have to confront Sailor Clanton.”Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-24311530287768949212009-07-19T17:39:00.000-07:002010-05-09T17:10:11.288-07:00BLOOD LUST: Robert E. Howard's Spicy Adventures[Recent blogs have consisted of excerpts from my original fiction, in the interests of self-promotion. This time I am offering another of my essays on Robert E. Howard. "Blood Lust" was originally published in <em>The Cimmerian</em> in 2005, and was very well received. It went on to win <em>The Cimmerian</em>'s Hyrkanian Award. The version here is slightly longer than the one that appeared in print, so worth reading even if you're already familiar with the printed version. This version Copyright 2009 by Charles Hoffman.]<br /><br />“The girl looked up at him, her face like a dim white rose in the dark…<br />“`Tell me.’ His voice was soft, soothing, as one speaks to a babe.<br />“`Le Loup,” she gasped, her voice swiftly growing weaker. ‘He and his men --descended upon our village-- a mile up the valley. They robbed --slew-- burned…I ran. He, the Wolf, pursued me --and-- caught me--’ The words died away in a shuddering silence.<br />“`I understand, child. Then--?’<br />“`Then --he --he --stabbed me--with his dagger--oh, blessed saints! --mercy--’<br />“Suddenly the slim form went limp. The man eased her to the earth, and touched her brow lightly.<br />“`Dead!’ he muttered.<br />“Slowly he rose, mechanically wiping his hands upon his cloak. A dark scowl had settled on his somber brow. Yet he made no wild, reckless vow, swore no oath by saints or devils.<br />“`Men shall die for this,’ he said coldly.”<br /><br /> --“Red Shadows” <em>Weird Tales</em>, August 1928<br /><br /><br />“…He laughed at her struggles as his arms savored each intimate charm. ‘I’m no tell-tale, nor blackmailer! I’m not threatenin’ you. I don’t have to!’<br />“His mouth crushing hers thirstily --the way his muscular arms defeated her frenzied struggles-- was enough to convince her. But, jerking her mouth free, she stormed defiantly: ‘Damn you, let me go! I’ll kill you…you can’t--’<br />“Her defiance broke in a despairing shriek as she realized the futility of her resistance.<br />“Presently, as he looked down at her where she lay weeping in rage, shame and humiliation, he started to speak; then he changed his mind, shrugged his shoulders and headed for the door.<br />“There was no mercy in the game she played, and she had no reason to expect any.”<br /><br /> --“Murderer’s Grog” <em>Spicy-Adventure Stories</em>, January 1937<br /><br /><br />What a difference eight years make!<br /><br />The first quotation is from one of Robert E. Howard’s best-known stories, “Red Shadows.” It served to introduce readers to one of Howard’s most memorable heroes, the dour Puritan swordsman, Solomon Kane, a religious fanatic so morally upright that he takes it upon himself to protect all in peril and stamp out evil wherever he finds it. In “Red Shadows,” he seeks to avenge a girl ravaged by a vicious bandit called Le Loup, Kane’s opposite, an amoral thrill-seeker who lives to gratify his lustful appetites at the expense of those weaker than himself.<br /><br />The second quotation is from the denouement of “Murderer’s Grog” by “Sam Walser.” This story features a very different sort of protagonist, one Wild Bill Clanton, described by the author as a “sailor, gun-runner, blackbirder, pearl-poacher, and fighting man deluxe.” One might also add “serial rapist” to Clanton’s resume-- “Murderer’s Grog” is not the only story in which Clanton forces himself on a woman.<br /><br />The irony of the contrast between Solomon Kane and Wild Bill Clanton would have been lost on any who chanced to read both these stories upon their original publications in the pulp fiction magazines of the 1920s and `30s --such readers would have had no way of knowing that Robert E. Howard and Sam Walser were one and the same. Walser was a pseudonym --an ancestor’s name-- that Howard used for the Wild Bill Clanton series written in the final phase of his career. Debuting in <em>Weird Tales</em> back in 1928, Solomon Kane had been the first of Howard’s heroes to appear in print. Premiering in <em>Spicy-Adventure Stories</em> in April 1936, a mere two months before Howard’s death, Wild Bill Clanton was most likely the last of Howard’s heroes the author saw introduced. (He may or may not have lived to see his western hero Buckner J. Grimes debut in the June 1936 issue of <em>Cowboy Stories</em>.)<br /><br />So how was it that the creator of Solomon Kane came at the last to write a series of tales in which, essentially, Le Loup is the hero? In the beginning, it was solely for the money. <em>Weird Tales</em> was never a financially secure publication; it teetered on the verge of bankruptcy throughout its thirty-year history. Payment to authors was often late, and this considerably worsened during the Depression. Early in 1935, Howard was burdened by medical expenses for his aging mother, including a serious operation. At the time of his greatest need, payment from <em>Weird Tales</em> continued to grow ever more unreliable. <em>Weird Tales</em> had been paying Howard in a series of monthly installments, but these were cut off just as his need was greatest. On May 6, 1935, Howard sent “an urgent plea for money” to editor Farnsworth Wright that concluded, “A monthly check from Weird Tales may well mean for me the difference between a life that is at least endurable --and God alone knows what.” Wright responded with part of the money, but <em>Weird Tales</em> owed Howard over a thousand dollars at the time of his death.<br /><br />Desperate for more dependable sources of income, Howard looked about for fresh markets to tap. To that end he had previously engaged fellow pulp writer Otis Adelbert Kline as his literary agent. Now, in 1935, he followed the lead of his friend and colleague, E. Hoffmann Price. Price was a star contributor to the lucrative “spicy stories” market. The so-called “spicy” pulps were a line of magazines that featured fairly standard genre stories, but with the added ingredient of sex. Of course, for the most part the sex in the spicy magazines was tame, even quaint, by today’s standards. Erotic titillation was furnished mostly by the trappings of sex; the heroine’s scanty undergarments, her inviting boudoir, passionate attitude and so forth. Any actual sexual activity was left to the reader’s imagination. Sexual episodes were indicated by a sentence trailing off in ellipses… followed by a discreet line drop before the story resumed in the next paragraph. Both the cover paintings and the interior illustrations hinted that the magazine’s contents were hot stuff, but the actual stories always seemed to promise more than they delivered. Even so, they were condemned by prudish critics as an affront to decency.<br /><br />The company that published the spicy line was, as a business tactic for avoiding official censure, known variously as the Trojan Publishing Company or Culture Publications. The first spicy title was <em>Spicy Detective Stories</em>, its premiere issue dated April 1934. It was joined in July by <em>Spicy Mystery Stories</em> and <em>Spicy-Adventure Stories</em>. The last of the primary spicy magazines was <em>Spicy Western Stories</em>, which did not appear until 1936. Companion magazines from the same publisher included <em>Snappy Adventure Stories</em>, <em>Snappy Detective Stories</em>, and <em>Snappy Mystery Stories</em>. The “Snappy” titles were not appreciably different from those bearing the “Spicy” imprint.<br /><br />Most pulp writers who submitted work to the spicy titles did so --like Howard-- under pseudonyms. E. Hoffmann Price was bold enough to allow his work for the spicy pulps to appear under his real name. In fact, the spicies were Price’s single biggest pulp market, with over a hundred and fifty stories published in them over the years. Price wrote for <em>Spicy Western </em>as well as for <em>Spicy-Adventure</em>. According to Glenn Lord, Price revealed that most of the stories published in the spicies were actually provided by a select inner circle of half a dozen writers utilizing a vast array of pseudonyms. Price asserted that for an outsider attempting to crack that inner circle, it was as difficult as for the proverbial rich man entering the gates of Heaven. Even so, Robert E. Howard did it handily.<br /><br />Howard found in the spicy pulps just the sort of reliable revenue source that he so desperately needed. For one thing, the pay was good. <em>Spicy-Adventure</em> paid at the rate of one cent per word to its better authors, quite generous by the standards of the day. More important, however, was the promptness of payment. Authors were paid upon editorial acceptance of their material in contrast to <em>Weird</em> <em>Tales’ </em>editorial policy of payment upon publication. With <em>Spicy-Adventure</em>, Howard’s main complaint was that stories could be no longer than 5500 words. For the most part, however, he found the arrangement satisfactory enough to entertain plans to contribute to <em>Spicy Mystery</em> and <em>Spicy Detective</em> as well.<br /><br />Altogether, Howard wrote eight spicy stories and a synopsis for an additional unwritten story. Of the eight completed stories, six feature the hot-blooded rogue, Wild Bill Clanton. Five of the Clanton stories appeared in <em>Spicy-Adventure</em>. The additional Clanton story, the two unrelated tales, and the synopsis remained unpublished for decades after Howard’s death, finally appearing in the `70s and `80s.<br /><br />The first Clanton story, “The Girl on the Hell Ship” was received by the Otis Adelbert Kline literary agency on October 7, 1935, and duly forwarded to Frank Armer at the Trojan/Culture publishing group the next day. Otto Binder was at the time the Kline agency’s New York representative. Binder sold additional Clanton stories to <em>Spicy-Adventure</em>, including “The Purple Heart of Erlik” around December of 1935 and “The Dragon of Kao Tsu” in February 1936.<br /><br />In a letter to Novalyne Price dated February 14, 1936 --Valentine’s Day-- Howard wrote at length about the spicy pulps, describing his work to date and detailing the editorial requirements:<br /><br />“…A nice balance must be maintained --the stuff must be hot enough to make the readers bat their eyes, but not too hot to get the censors on them. They have some definite taboos. No degeneracy, for instance. No sadism or masochism. Though extremely fond of semi-nude ladies, they prefer her to retain some garment ordinarily --like a coyly revealing chemise. However this taboo isn’t iron-clad, for I’ve violated it in nearly every story I’ve sold to them. I’ve found a good formula is to strip the heroine gradually --she loses part of her clothes in one episode, some more in the next, and so on until the climax finds her in a state of tantalizing innocence. Certain words are taboo, also, although up to a certain point considerable frankness in discussing the female anatomy is allowed. The hero should be an American, and the action should take place in some exotic clime. I’ve laid my yarns in the South Seas, in Tebessa in Algeria, in Shanghai, and in Singapore…My character is Wild Bill Clanton, a pirate, gun-runner, smuggler, a pearl-thief and slaver, and carefully avoids all moral scruples in his dealings with the ladies.”<br /><br />Novalyne had once chided Howard for making heroes of such disreputable figures as gunfighter John Wesley Hardin. In his unabashed description of Clanton as such a scoundrel, Howard may have been subtly needling Novalyne. Note that Howard bluntly calls Clanton a “slaver” rather than using the charming euphemism “blackbirder.” Moreover, this occupation appears at the end of Clanton’s resume, right before mention of his lack of moral scruples in regards to women.<br /><br />The Wild Bill Clanton series began to appear in <em>Spicy-Adventure Stories</em> starting with the April 1936 issue. Howard was already dead by the time most of them saw print. Interestingly, the six Clanton stories can be divided into three pairs, grouped by location and plot devices. “The Girl on the Hell Ship” and “Ship in Mutiny” are set in the South Seas. Closely linked, these two episodes tell how Clanton seizes and retains command of the Saucy Wench, and feature the only recurring character apart from the hero, the beautiful and headstrong “Celtic-Latin” hellcat Raquel O’Shane, distinguished from paler Howard sex goddesses by a splash of Hispanic blood that presumably accounts for her stormy temper. The next two stories, “The Purple Heart of Erlik” and “The Dragon of Kao Tsu,” transpire in the Oriental port cities of Shanghai and Singapore, respectively. Each unfolds as a caper to acquire a priceless relic. The final pair of tales consists of “Desert Blood” and “Murderer’s Grog.” The former takes place in French Algeria, the latter in British India. Both involve gun-running and exotic femmes fatale.<br /><br />“The Girl on the Hell Ship” was retitled “She Devil” by the editor of <em>Spicy</em>-<em>Adventure Stories</em>, and featured as the lead story in the April 1936 issue. The story was also chosen for the cover illustration. As was often the case in the pulps, the cover did not accurately reflect the contents of the story. In fact, the editor may have simply used a painting he had on hand, hence the need to change the story’s title. Instead of a ship in the South Pacific, the cover depicts a tavern in the Yukon or some such place. Gruff male patrons are clad in furs and other heavy clothing. A young brunette girl prances merrily through their midst, cheerfully raising a shot glass. Seemingly impervious to cold that make tough men huddle in furs, the cover girl is clad only in a red bra and microskirt, stockings and garters.<br /><br />Readers familiar with Howard’s work will recognize plot elements in “She Devil” that the author employed previously in the Conan story, “The Pool of the Black One” (<em>Weird Tales</em>, October 1933). Like Clanton, Conan appears after swimming to a ship, having abandoned a leaky boat. Both protagonists were in that situation as the result of earlier predicaments. Aboard ship, Conan meets the pirate captain, Zaporavo, who has abandoned his usual trade to sail into unknown waters. Zaporavo, like the tyrannical Bully Harrigan encountered by Clanton, broods over maps and charts as he searches for some mysterious treasure kept secret from the crew. In both stories, the captain meets his fate after landfall on an island. Conan and Clanton assume command of their respective ships, which must take flight from the island’s dangers. Conan also appropriates Zaporavo’s sultry mistress, Sancha. Sancha is from Zingara, Howard’s Hyborian Age counterpart of seventeenth-century Spain. Like Raquel O’Shane, she is possessed of fiery Latin blood.<br /><br />The other interesting aspect of “She Devil” is the manner in which Raquel O’Shane mentally compares Bill Clanton to Bully Harrigan; “He was a man at least, not a beast like Harrigan.” Harrigan is described as “a bellowing, red-eyed, hairy monstrosity,” broad as a door” with “a chest and arms muscled and hairy as an ape’s.” Not a pretty picture, but Clanton engages in the same shady enterprises as Harrigan, is just as ruthless, and more devious. But the author holds up Clanton as a superior type, reflected in his appearance. “Clean-waisted” is a term Howard sometimes uses to physically distinguish a brawny hero from a brawny villain. Raquel is immediately taken by Clanton’s rugged good looks. To be fair, however, she has also had to constantly avoid being pummeled and slapped around by Harrigan. “That’s no way to treat a lady!” Clanton asserts gallantly. He is not one to physically abuse women --yet. That aspect of his personality only emerges in the subsequent stories.<br /><br />“Ship in Mutiny” is a direct sequel to “She Devil.” Notably, it’s the only Clanton story never to appear in the pages of <em>Spicy-Adventure Stories</em>. Commentators on this usually blame Raquel. Editorial policy dictated that the hero should remain footloose, savoring the charms of many women rather than staying more or less monogamous. In “Ship in Mutiny” Clanton does enjoy passionate sex with the island princess Lailu but, faithful in his fashion, returns to Raquel. The editorial mandate was clear; Raquel had to go. She does not reappear in any of the remaining episodes.<br /><br />In considering the rejection of “Ship in Mutiny” by <em>Spicy-Adventure</em>, commentators tend to look no further. However, other factors may have contributed to its unsuitability. In a letter to H. P. Lovecraft dated December 5, 1935, Howard complained that writing for the spicy pulps “requires a deft, jaunty style foreign to my natural style.” The first story, “She Devil,” was written in this jaunty style, with touches of playfulness and humor. “Ship in Mutiny,” on the other hand, is more typical of Howard’s prose, grimmer and more intense.<br /><br />The sexual element is more pronounced than in the previous story. In most pulp fiction, the hero inevitably gets the girl; there is little in the way of sexual tension. But Howard recognized the potential of sexual tension to enhance the overall suspense. Thus the villain Tanoa lusts mightily after Raquel, even as Clanton is aroused by Lailu. Passages speak of eager hands itching to cup velvety breasts. Raquel is in danger of being lured away from Raquel by Lailu’s ample charms.<br /><br />Of course, the pulp fiction double standard is in effect. Clanton actually bedding a woman of another race is perfectly understandable; boys will be boys. But when a nonwhite man even lusts after a white woman, his desire alone is usually a death sentence. In due course, Clanton fights and kills the island chief Tanoa. Clanton had previously rescued Raquel from a Kanaka native in “She Devil,” but that bout was just a warm-up for Tanoa. Tanoa is a half-breed whose European education includes “boxing in Oxford.” In several stories, Howard introduces a barbaric character who has had the benefit of some sort of civilized education or training; such a character is always presented as an especially dangerous foe. Most notable is a virtually identical character, Santos, for the Sailor Steve Costigan story, “Fist and Fang” (<em>Fight Stories</em>, May 1930). Other such characters could be said to include John De Albor from “Moon of Zembabwei” (<em>Weird Tales</em>, February 1935, as “The Grisly Horror”), or for that matter, Conan himself.<br /><br />Perhaps it is this mingling of civilized and barbaric traits that accounts for Tanoa’s extreme viciousness. In addition to making the story a little too hot, Howard may have violated the publisher’s stricture against sadomasochistic elements. When Clanton is Tanoa’s captive, the half-breed villain declares, “We’ll find the girl and make her watch while I skin him alive! I’ll make a garment of his hide and force her to wear it always about her loins to remind her how her lover died!” It is a sadistic fantasy worthy of the Marquis himself.<br /><br />The other two spicy stories written by Howard and unpublished in his lifetime do not feature Wild Bill Clanton. They are “Guns of Khartum” and “Daughters of Feud.” Both merit some comment. “Guns of Khartum” is perhaps most notable for its background. It is set in the Sudan in 1885, during the fall of the besieged city of Khartum. The ten-month siege of Khartum was the culmination of an uprising of Islamic militants led by a religious figure called the Mahdi. The famed British military hero Chinese Gordon perished when Khartum fell. In Howard’s story, an American ivory hunter named Emmett Corcoran is one of the defenders of Khartum. Corcoran battles the Islamic hordes, a French renegade in league with them, and even the Mahdi himself. In a calm during the storm, he finds time for heated sex with both a virtuous white woman and a sinister woman of color.<br /><br />The tale is anything but “jaunty.” An editor may well have deemed it excessive. The physical and emotional violence is unrelenting, and the sexual content is very intense. Just offstage, white city-dwellers are being slaughtered by non-white invaders. In the aftermath of the siege, the blonde heroine is enslaved in a harem for five months. At one point, the hero beds a woman he finds sexually alluring but otherwise despises. This last incident is certainly a commonplace situation, but perhaps a little too real for the spicy pulps.<br /><br />In his Valentine’s Day letter to Novalyne Price, Howard mentions setting spicy stories in the South Seas, Algeria, Shanghai, and Singapore. He then mentions yet another story, this one taking place in Kentucky. This last setting is a bet of a jarring note, coming after a string of exotic locales. Kentucky seems an unlikely backdrop for glamour and intrigue. Passion crosses all boundaries, however, as Howard sought to demonstrate in a story titled “Daughters of Feud.”<br /><br />The subject of feuds between rival clans fascinated Howard to some extent, and he sometimes incorporated it into his fiction. One of the Breckinridge Elkins humorous westerns is entitled “The Feud Buster.” “The Valley of the Lost” and “The Man on the Ground” are horror stories with western setting, and a feud is part of the background in each. Most notably, a feud between factions in a lost city is the subject of “Red Nails,” Howard’s final Conan tale. A feud could even serve as a catalyst for the events of a spicy story.<br /><br />In “Daughters of Feud,” Braxton Brent is the new schoolteacher in the rural backwater of Whiskey Run (which is not identified as specifically being in Kentucky in the actual story.) He presides over a one-room schoolhouse in which all ages are taught --from tots to nubile nineteen-year-old girls. Two of the latter, daughters of rival feuding families, erupt into a catfight in the middle of class. Dark-haired Ann and fair-haired Joan tear at each other, ripping garments, exposing breathtaking expanses of quivering young flesh, etc. Brent breaks them up and, to maintain discipline among the other unruly students, must administer corporal punishment. After class, he takes each girl in turn to the woodshed, which embroils him in trouble with both feuding families. Things are further complicated when he is overcome with passion for the untamed rustic beauty of Joan.<br /><br />Howard told Novalyne that the editors said his Kentucky story was “too hot for them to handle.” They might well have added “too rough” and “too kinky.” The lovemaking between Brent and Joan is a tad more explicit than was commonplace in 1936. However, the more objectionable elements would have been the rough stuff. The hero is threatened with castration and the heroine is threatened with gang rape. Brent’s whipping of nineteen-year-old Ann’s naked buttocks with a leather strap is described in loving detail. To protect Brent from charges of partiality, Joan displays her own marked buttocks, which she had actually lashed herself with a switch.<br /><br />The instances of whipping and self-flagellation in this story are no mere matter of happenstance. Howard’s personal library included such volumes as Experiences of Flagellation, A History of the Rod, and Curiosa of Flagellants and History of Flagellation. He also wrote poetry like “Limericks to Spank By” and “Good Mistress Brown,” the latter concerning the spanking of an adult woman. This does seem to indicate that Howard’s sexual interests extended beyond a simple taste for vanilla. These particular interests, however, are by no means rare. The spanking of a grown woman is often part of a “taming of the shrew” scenario in books and movies. Those who share the interest ate titillated, with the rest of the audience none the wiser. In the movie McLintock! John Wayne spanks Maureen O’Hara --clad in soaking wet undergarments-- in front of the whole town. The film is considered wholesome family entertainment.<br /><br />Returning to the saga of Wild Bill Clanton, we come to the second pair of stories, “The Purple Heart of Erlik” and “The Dragon of Kao Tsu.” These twin tales unfold in exotic Far Eastern ports teeming with danger and intrigue. Rare artifacts of great value are sought by an assortment of colorful characters. Sinister, inscrutable Oriental villains add a dash of mystery and menace. Such is the very essence of pulp fiction. It is also the sort of thing a master like Howard could write in his sleep.<br /><br />“The Purple Heart of Erlik” (<em>Spicy-Adventure Stories</em>, November 1936) takes place in Shanghai. Wild Bill Clanton has become a darker character since we saw him last. He does not actually rape the story’s heroine, Arline Ellis, but not for want of trying. When Clanton meets Arline in Shanghai, he tells her, “I’ve made a point to run into you in a dozen ports, and you always act like I had the plague…I came to Shanghai just because I heard you were here…” In contemporary parlance, he has been stalking her. Now comes the moment of truth, “If I didn’t think you were so good-looking, I’d smack your ears back!…Now are you going to be nice or do I have to get rough?…Nobody interferes with anything that goes on in alleys behind dumps like the <br />Bordeaux…Any woman caught here’s fair prey.”<br /><br />Arline escapes thanks to the handy pitcher she breaks over Clanton’s head. For some reason, this scene was chosen for an illustration in the pages of Spicy-Adventure. The quote from the story that accompanies the picture reads, “Not even Wild Bill Clanton could stand up under a clout like that.” Clanton has an unfortunate tendency to get hit over the head in these stories. He is stunned by a pitcher and a gun barrel, both wielded by women. On other occasions, he is knocked cold by a belaying pin and a rifle butt that hits him hard enough to break the stock. Clanton will be lucky indeed not to suffer from some form of brain damage later in life.<br /><br />One can only speculate as to why Howard portrayed Clanton as such a bastard. At the time he was writing the Clanton series, Howard was also writing the humorous western adventures of the powerful but good-natured Breckinridge Elkins. Nearly a score of these stories appeared in <em>Action Stories</em> during the final phases of Howard’s career. After writing so many stories about a character who is constantly being lied to and taken advantage of, the author may have indulged the urge to create a character who was nobody’s fool. Invisible behind the Sam Walser pseudonym, Howard was free to give reign to his darker impulses.<br /><br />“The Dragon of Kao Tsu” (<em>Spicy-Adventure Stories</em>, September 1936) finds Wild Bill in Singapore. Not surprisingly, he lusts after the wealthy heiress Marianne Allison throughout the story. This time, however, his lust is further fueled by class resentment: “Probably it had never occurred to Old Man Allison’s pampered daughter Marianne that a man on Clanton’s social plane would even think of making a pass at her, but he had to clench his hands to keep them off her.” Remarkably, Clanton is on his best behavior: “[T]here was a limit to even his audacity, and he didn’t dare try any rough stuff on the daughter of Old Man Allison, millionaire and wooly wolf of finance that the old devil was.” Marianne enjoys being in charge: “Feeling perfectly safe from him, she took a feminine delight in tantalizing him. She was aware of her effect on him, and she enjoyed seeing the veins in his forehead swell with frustrated emotion.”<br /><br />Eventually though, Clanton gains the upper hand. Marianne becomes indebted to him, and has a scandal to avoid. Clanton suggests that, instead of money, she pay her debt with her body. Marianne feigns agreement, then reneges --by striking Clanton on the head with a gun barrel. Though momentarily stunned, Clanton is able to prevent Marianne from fleeing. Swearing that she’ll keep at least one bargain, he then takes her by force. “`You don’t dare!’ she gasped, as he drew her roughly to him. ‘You don’t dare--’ …Bill Clanton didn’t even bother to reply to her ridiculous assertion.” Afterwards, he teases her about associating with men like himself. “Her reply was unprintable, but the look in her eyes contradicted her words as she took his arm and together they went out to the street.” The End.<br /><br />So it’s really all okay. Or is it? Nowadays, of course, glib rationalizations like the one Howard uses ---her lips said, “No,” but her eyes said, “Yes” -- are deemed unacceptable. No means no. Another such rationalization is “he knew her better than she knew herself.” This one is applicable to James Bond in the movie <em>Goldfinger</em>, in which Bond forces himself on Pussy Galore and saves the American economy by doing so. This scene occurs in one of the most popular movies ever made, a film produced decades after Howard’s death. It was not condemned when the movie was released nor, as far as I know, since. Also, the romance of the popular characters Luke and Laura on the soap opera <em>General Hospital</em> began with a rape, and other sympathetic rapists have been featured on daytime dramas aimed at a primarily female audience. Lest we judge Howard too harshly, we must take this into consideration.<br /><br />This is not to suggest that Howard just sort of unknowingly blundered into the rape scenes that occur in the Clanton series. He knew exactly what he was doing. In the synopsis for his unwritten spicy story, the hero is held up by a girl and Howard bluntly states “he knocked the pistol out of her hand and raped her.” Interestingly, the girl falls in love with the hero. As in “The Dragon of Kao Tsu,” all’s well that ends well.<br /><br />In his Valentine’s Day letter, Howard informs Novalyne Price that in the spicies, a favorite formula is for the hero to accomplish what only the villain attempts in conventional yarns. This indicates that not only were rapes by the protagonist tolerated by the editors, but also that such scenes may have been fairly commonplace. Considerable scrutiny is required to adequately account for shifts in attitudes from one era to another. At one time topless women were taboo in motion pictures; now they are a familiar fixture. Conversely, nude baby photos, once so sweet and innocent, are now regarded with suspicion. The sexual attitudes of times gone by can seem odd, ironic or mystifying to people of later eras. As an example, consider these editorial guidelines from Frank Armer, publisher of the Trojan/Culture line of Spicy magazines (reproduced in the Cryptic Publications chapbook <em>Risqué Stories </em>#5):<br /><br />1. In describing breasts of a female character, avoid anatomical descriptions.<br />2. If it is necessary for the story to have a girl give herself to a man, or be taken by him, do not go too carefully into details.<br />3. Whenever possible, avoid complete nudity of the female characters. You can have a girl strip down to her underwear, or transparent negligee or nightgown, or the thin, torn shreds of her garments. But while the girl is alive and in contact with a man, we do not want complete nudity.<br />4. A nude female corpse is allowable, of course.<br /><br />It is therefore difficult to gauge Howard’s personal attitudes concerning rape based on the fiction he wrote for the spicy pulps. He may have been following a common magazine format for commercial reasons, or he may have simply been in a bad mood. To be fair, one should look at how he handles the subject in his other fiction. We have previously noted that a rape/murder became the catalyst of Solomon Kane’s quest for vengeance in “Red Shadows.” The matter of rape is also touched on in a pair of stories featuring Howard’s best-known creation. Between Solomon Kane and Wild Bill Clanton, there was Conan. Howard began writing the Conan series in 1932, roughly four years after the appearance of Kane in print and four years before the appearance of Clanton. The two stories of interest at present are “The Frost-Giant’s Daughter” and “The Vale of Lost Women.” Neither saw print during Howard’s lifetime. Perhaps they were a bit too hot for the pages of <em>Weird Tales</em>.<br /><br />“The Frost-Giant’s Daughter” is set in the far North, where Conan encounters Atlai, the daughter of the god Ymir. The siren-like Atali lures men to their doom. Conan escapes Atali’s trap, but Atali barely escapes subsequent rape by Conan. In this story, Howard suggests that Conan was under a spell, and the author allows no actual rape to take place. In “The Vale of Lost Women,” Conan agrees to aid the virgin Livia, who offers her body as an inducement. He ultimately releases her from her agreement, stating that he has never taken a woman against her will and that holding Livia to such a bargain would be no different that forcing her. For the most part, rape or abuse of women, even by villains, is not a prominent fixture in the fiction of Robert E. Howard.<br /><br />The third and final pair of Wild Bill Clanton adventures is comprised of “Desert Blood” and “Murderer’s Grog.” In both, Clanton is a “fish out of water” in the sense that these exploits find him, not at sea or in port, but further inland. Both plots involve gun-running. In both we meet exotic femme fatales who seem to spend much of their time lolling about on couches, cushions and divans while wearing revealing costumes.<br /><br />“Murderer’s Grog” is much darker than “Desert Blood,” however. It appears to have been written a good deal later, when time was running out for Howard. In the Valentine’s Day letter, Howard remarks, “I’ve laid my yarns in the South Seas, in Tebessa in Algeria, in Shanghai and in Singapore.” If the order Howard mentions these locales reflects the order that their respective stories were composed (and in the case of the other episodes, it does), then “Desert Blood” was the third Clanton story to be written, after “She Devil” and “Ship in Mutiny” but before “The Purple Heart of Erlik” and “The Dragon of Kao Tsu.” The fact that Clanton displays better character in “Desert Blood” than in either “Erlik” or “Kao Tsu” also suggests earlier composition. Moreover, the Valentine’s Day letter does not mention the setting for “Murderer’s Grog.” That story only arrived at the Kline literary agency two and a half months later, on April 27, 1936. Otto Binder subsequently sold it to Spicy-Adventure in May. Therefore it does seem likely that it was written after a hiatus of weeks or months following the composition of the rest of the Clanton series. This makes “Murderer’s Grog” one of the last stories Robert E. Howard ever wrote.<br /><br />The earlier story, “Desert Blood,” was actually the second Clanton story to be published. It appeared in <em>Spicy-Adventure Stories</em> for June 1936. Howard may or may not have lived to see it in print.<br /><br />Set in Algeria, “Desert Blood” opens in the chambers of the local temptress Zouza. There Zouza successfully rebuffs the advances of Clanton, her feminine wiles enabling her to manipulate him. Preying on his vanity, she is able to convince him that only by killing a lion can he prove his manhood and win her. One would think that Wild Bill Clanton, famed as a brawler and womanizer, would possess greater self-esteem, but he submits to her terms. Leaving Zouza’s chambers, Clanton immediately runs into a woman he has met in his travels. She is Augusta Evans, an American schoolteacher (like Novalyne Price) vacationing abroad. Attractive but prim and aloof, she too rebuffs Clanton. Having gotten the cold shoulder twice in less than an hour, Clanton heads for a seedy dive to drink away his frustrations.<br /><br />After a bout of hard drinking, Clanton comes to his senses on the back of a mule taking him into the desert to meet his guide for the lion-hunting safari. He does not recall setting out. The safari turns out to be a ruse to get rid of Clanton, who ends up captured by the desert sheik Ahmed. Ahmed, Zouza, and another seductress, Zulaykha, are part of a plot to appropriate Clanton’s cargo of guns. Clanton is rescued by the Bedouin beauty Aicha, disguised in western garb. In the epilog, Clanton learns that Aicha appropriated her garments from Augusta Evans, last seen riding naked on a runaway donkey back towards town.<br /><br />It is admittedly possible that Howard had a certain schoolteacher ex-girlfriend in mind when he created Augusta Evans. Augusta’s embarrassing predicament at the end of the story could even be viewed as a sadistic humiliation fantasy. On the other hand, taking a pompous character down a peg has long been a staple of slapstick comedy. I tend to favor the latter notion.<br /><br />“Desert Blood” is fairly upbeat in tone, even “jaunty.” For once, Clanton is given an unselfish motive for his undertakings. Regarding his current gun-running, we are told “there was more than money involved. He had a genuine sympathy for these mountain tribesmen, fighting for their lives against a ruthless European power.” Sympathy for the underdog is a redeeming trait shared by a number of Howard’s more roguish protagonists. Moreover, in both his El Borak adventures and in his correspondence with Lovecraft, REH expresses anti-imperialist sentiments. In “Desert Blood,” the rakish Clanton also displays uncharacteristic warmth towards Aicha.<br /><br />Similarly, Clanton is atypically circumspect in dealing with the local temptress of the tale, Zouza. When Zouza rejects him, we are told that “it was easy to seen that she was not prompted by a coquettish whim, rising from a desire to be deliciously mastered after a mock resistance.” This indicates that Clanton is somehow able to discern the difference, and is possibly intended to mitigate the sort of behavior he exhibits towards the likes of Arline Ellis and Marianne Allison. Clanton makes no move to coerce Zouza. On the contrary, he caves in to her silly demands.<br /><br />For some reason, I was given to wonder about the possible inspiration for this sequence. Much has been made of Howard’s advice to H. P. Lovecraft concerning writing for the spicies; “Just write up one of your own sex adventures altered to fit the plot.” This comment has been viewed as bluster, or a playful attempt to tweak the puritanical Lovecraft, but most often dismissed with a baffled shrug. One can only offer conjecture as to what Howard actually meant by this remark.<br /><br />Conceivably, he was simply describing, in admittedly grandiose terms, a process by which he took a mundane incident and inflated it to heroic proportions for fictional purposes. Perhaps the Zouza episode, for example, was inspired by some instance in which Howard went out of his way to appease a female, to the point of doing something he would normally never consider. In the more colorful world of Wild Bill Clanton, the same sort of appeasement might entail killing a lion to impress an exotic mystery woman.<br /><br />Whatever the case, “Desert Blood” is one of the spicier Clanton adventures. Wild Bill encounters no less than four alluring females, and those are just among the principle characters. In the background there are also “half a dozen dancing girls who had just enough Sudanese blood in them to impart an untamed voluptuousness found only in mixed breeds.” This talk of blood imparting untamed voluptuousness is part of a motif that runs through the story and indeed the entire series. The title “Desert Blood” has less to do with actual blood spilt in the fight scenes than with blood as a metaphor for the libido. Clanton’s first sight of Aicha sets “his already hot blood a-riot.” When Zulaykha offers herself, “not even the realization that only a miracle could keep his severed head from rolling in the sand within the next hour could cool the customary ardor of his reckless blood.” Just as in the South Seas, when the “magnificent figure” of Lailu “drove a pulse of passion through his blood in spite of his plight.” In Singapore, the mere sight of Marianne Allison crossing her legs “made the blood boil to his head.” There was no place in the pages of Spicy-Adventure Stories for either crude talk of “blue balls” or timid, clinical references to “raging hormones.” “Blood” was by far a more apt metaphor for passion. “Blood” alone could denote either sex or violence. It was a strong word Robert E. Howard made frequent, skillful use of.<br /><br />“Murderer’s Grog” did not appear in <em>Spicy-Adventure</em> until the January 1937 issue. By that time, Howard had been moldering in his grave for half a year, the feast over, the lamps expired. “Murderer’s Grog” lingered like a bad aftertaste. Befitting its title, the last of Wild Bill Clanton’s exploits is a bitter hangover of a story. The bare bones of the plot are stark: Clanton attempts to rape a woman and is thwarted, but after a night at the bottle he resolves to try again and is successful. Fleshed out, the story is like a dark shadow of “Desert Blood.” The plot and location are similar, but the tone is redolent of bitterness and pain.<br /><br />“Murderer’s Grog” takes place in British India, recalling the French Algeria setting of “Desert Blood.” Clanton is on another gun-running mission. Once again the story opens with Clanton’s visit to a local femme fatale. Sonya Ormanoff is a mysterious adventuress involved in secret dealings. Like Zouza, she enjoys lounging around in a revealing costume. Also like Zouza, Sonya attempts to brush Clanton off though she had previously displayed an interest in him. This time, however, Clanton is not to be distracted by a snipe-hunting trip. He carries her roughly to the couch and begins to undo her clothes, but gets no further. Sonya has burly male henchmen at her beck and call. Though Clanton fights ferociously, he is overwhelmed by their numbers. He is thrown out of Sonya’s apartment and down a flight of stairs. Sonya’s maid follows him into the courtyard “to indulge in the age-old feminine sport of taunting the fallen.”<br /><br />As in the previous story, Clanton seeks to drown his troubles at this point. Once again, he heads for a vice den to brood, ogle dancing girls, and drink. Wild Bill’s hard drinking has been duly noted throughout the series. In “She Devil,” we are told that “liquor was to him what moonlight and perfume are to some men.” Indeed, the very sight of bottles of booze make Clanton’s eyes glisten. In “The Dragon of Kao Tsu,” Clanton is drinking in a bar when first seen. Eyeing Marianne Allison’s figure as she walks away from him causes Clanton to "moan with despair and grab the whiskey bottle.” In “Desert Blood,” Clanton retires to a hideaway where he “sat and drank and drank and drank…” As a result of that particular binge, he experiences a lapse of memory symptomatic of a problem drinker. Now Clanton’s career as a drinking man reaches a culmination in a story whose very title speaks of strong drink.<br /><br />Swaggering into a local dive, Clanton demands “'something liquid with a kick.'” When he repeats his demand for “'liquid dynamite,'” he is offered brandy and even opium. Unknown to Clanton, he has enemies nearby, rival gun dealers. They bribe the bartender to serve him a concoction called bhang. Bhang is known as the drink of murder, capable of inducing homicidal madness. Clanton’s foes hope it will cause him to attack a British official he had a run-in with earlier. His subsequent arrest would get him out of the way.<br /><br />Clanton drinks the bhang and calls for more. Soon he flies into a rage, abusing a dancer and challenging any man in the house to a fight. When no one takes up the challenge, he storms out. But instead of seeking out the British official, he heads back to Sonya Ormanoff. He fights his way through the henchmen. At the end of the tale, Clanton rapes Sonya and leaves her in tears before heading off to complete his gun deal. Here ends the saga of Wild Bill Clanton.<br /><br />This time there is no question of the woman’s eyes belying her protests, or of Clanton intuitively discerning here repressed desire. Instead, Clanton simply dismisses her sobbing and abject humiliation with a shrug of his shoulders. No excuse is offered for his behavior, other than the revelation that Sonya was a Communist and plotted his downfall. But Clanton knew neither of these things the first time he attempted to take her. Neither was the bhang, the rage-inducing “murderer’s grog,” a factor by the end. Howard goes out of his way to mention that the fight with Sonya’s henchmen cleared Clanton’s head, and that he is in full command of his faculties when he rapes Sonya. The one truly extenuating circumstance, the malign influence of the murderer’s grog, is discarded by the author like an empty beer can.<br /><br />Sonya Ormanoff is a character who deserved better treatment, by Howard as well as Clanton. We are told that she is a white woman who lives among the natives. “She was blond, with a glorious wealth of light gold hair, and her flesh was a purely white as unstained Northern snow.” Using terms like “purely white” and “unstained” serve to make Clanton’s defilement of Sonya seem all the more heinous. Sonya is comfortable in a foreign milieu and at ease wearing Eastern garb. Sonya had the potential to be the most interesting of all the Clanton women, a female counterpart to Howard adventurers like El Borak and Kirby O’Donnell. Instead, she is treated like a cheap throwaway.<br /><br />After raping Sonya, Clanton muses, “There was no mercy in the game she played, and she had no reason to expect any.” And in the real world, that is the plain truth of the matter. A man who traffics with dangerous individuals runs the risk of being beaten up and/or killed. A woman who does so runs the risk of rape in addition to being beaten up and/or killed. But in the “jaunty” pages of <em>Spicy-Adventure Stories</em>, it is an extremely harsh lesson for a female character to learn at the hands of the story’s hero.<br /><br />The bold adventuress Sonya Ormanoff is humbled in “Murderer’s Grog,” but Clanton himself seems little better off. As introduced in “She Devil,” Wild Bill Clanton is a self-assured winner. He starts out with nothing but a pair of pants and within twenty-four hours acquires an alluring lover and his own ship. In “Murderer’s Grog,” he is beleaguered and at bay. “Smoldering rage at the world in general, smarting vanity, and thwarted desire combined to make Bill Clanton a raging demon.” He give in to brooding and bitterly cursing his fate. “‘The British!’ raged Clanton, clenching his huge fists. ‘Always the damned British--’” This from a man who, in “Ship in Mutiny,” had nary a worry at all about escaping a British warship that was hunting him down.<br /><br />Emblematic of Clanton’s desperation is his isolation from his natural element --the sea. The first pair of Clanton tales takes place in the South Seas, the second pair in Oriental port cities. “Desert Blood” takes place further inland, but only a hundred miles or so. “Murderer’s Grog,” on the other hand, is set far from any ocean. We are told that Clanton came to India from Russia, bringing his guns by camel train all the way through landlocked Afghanistan. “Desert Blood” contains a number of references to his identity as a seafarer. Clanton is “a man of the sea” whose face is “browned by the sun of the Seven Seas.” In “Murderer’s Grog,” however, there is but a lone fleeting mention of him walking with “the lurching roll of a seaman” as he heads off in search of liquor to drown his misery.<br /><br />Clanton begins the series as a rogue and ends as a scoundrel. His later behavior is certain to be regarded as reprehensible by many modern readers, especially if they’re women. Naturally enough, he receives no comeuppance in stories written for the spicy pulps of yesteryear. Still, in “Murderer’s Grog,” he seems a man without a future. Given his drinking binges and repeated head injuries, he may well end up the toughest mug in the nursing home.<br /><br />Howard began writing spicy stories as Sam Walser late in his career for purely commercial reasons. At the same time, he was busy with other projects as well. His humorous western tales of Breckinridge Elkins were popular with readers of <em>Action</em> <em>Stories</em>, and he created similar westerns for other magazines. Shortly before his death he sold the first installments in a new western series that had been commissioned by the editor of the prestigious and high-paying <em>Argosy</em>. Ultimately he was successful in recouping his finances. June 1936 saw Howard stories published in no less than five different magazines --<em>Action Stories, Cowboy Stories, Spicy-Adventure Stories, Thrilling Mystery</em>, and <em>Weird Tales</em>. In “Lone Star Fictioneer,” an essay recounting Howard’s writing career published in <em>The Last Celt</em>, Glenn Lord notes, “By the spring of 1936, he was enjoying an all-time high in sales.” David Drake echoes this fact in his introduction to the Howard paperback collection <em>Cthulhu: The Mythos and Kindred Horrors</em>, observing, “By 1936, Howard was selling regularly to <em>Argosy</em>, one of the top three pulp markets of the day. Robert E. Howard was thirty years old, and his career was about to take off.”<br /><br />By most accounts, then, Howard’s career was back on track. But how did Howard himself feel about it? In another letter to Novalyne Price, written in late February 1936, he speaks of “my mother’s life ebbing away before my eyes, with my father breaking up and aging before me with the worry and strain we both labor under, and I myself faced with the wreckage of all my life’s plans and labors, and <em>the utter ruin of my career</em>.” (emphasis added) The fact that he went on to take his life a few months later indicates that Howard’s mood did not improve along with his finances. Perhaps money was not everything. Tales of heroic fantasy Howard written a year or more before were still appearing in <em>Weird Tales</em>. Now, these only served to remind him of his glory days.<br /><br />The fiction of Robert E. Howard is for the most part lacking in misogynistic elements. Not so the fiction of Sam Walser. In the vast range of fiction Howard wrote under his own name, whenever a woman suffers, we are most often meant to feel empathy. This holds true whether in the case of the sadistic abuse of Joan in the horror story “Pigeons from Hell,” or in regards to the terror experienced by Yasmina at the hands of the Master of Yimsha in the Conan adventure, “The People of the Black Circle.” But in one of Howard’s final stories, “Murderer’s Grog,” we find the author in a bitter mood indeed. In the spring of 1936, Robert E. Howard saw the world becoming a very dark place. On June 11, he turned out the last light as he left it.Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-82572126541743284822009-05-14T17:33:00.000-07:002010-05-09T17:10:43.433-07:00Guns of the Border Region -- Chapter Three[The novel <em>Guns of the Border Region </em>is now nearing completion, so I decided to post another chapter. It takes place in the future history I've outlined in <em>Twilight's Last Gleaming</em>. New readers can scroll down for previous chapters of the novel. It's a work in progress; I've moved a little of the information from Chapter One to this chapter, since posting that chapter. You can also scroll down to read various portions of the future history, or a short version of the entire history. With the novel, I'm attempting to package my ideas in an entertaining, commercially viable form. The story takes place in the next century after the US has broken apart, and concerns the exploits of the sexy girl outlaw Shadow and her encounters with various dangerous characters. Think of it as "The Road Warrior" meets "Pulp Fiction." Copyright 2009 by Charles Hoffman.<br /><br />CHAPTER THREE -- INDIAN SUMMER<br /><br /> Weirton was, if anything, an even wilder and rougher town than Steubenville, but Shadow and Christian tried to stay out of trouble. They planned to spend the following day and another night there to rest up before finally heading into Westsylvania.<br /><br />Having checked into the Gilman during the dark hours before dawn, they slept till well past noon. Upon arising the oddly-matched pair went to a late lunch. On Shadow’s recommendation, they ate at a small diner on the main drag with a full deli counter. The place was called Isaly’s, and like everything else in Weirton, it was old. Upon entering Christian took note of the chrome fixtures and the small marble tiles of the floor, mentally identifying the deli’s furnishings as late art deco or mid 20th Century modern.<br /><br />Shadow ordered sandwiches of some pinkish-colored luncheon meat, sliced paper thin, that she referred to as “chipped ham.” Christian was not familiar with it, but it seemed to Shadow that it was to his liking. Just to make sure, she asked, “Enjoying your lunch, Church-boy?”<br /><br />Christian looked at her oddly, as though annoyed, but didn’t reply with his mouth full. Instead, he just nodded.<br /><br />Shadow’s plans for the evening involved taking Christian to a series of dive bars. They would keep to the background. Shadow wasn’t looking for more action; she merely wanted to point out to Christian how things went down in those places. If they were to be traveling together, she wanted him to acquire more in the way of street awareness.<br /><br />Entering the first such place, she guided him to a small table in a dimly-lit area near the back. The location commanded a good view of the entire place, including exits, and limited the directions from which others could approach them. Shadow instructed Christian to wait at the table. She returned momentarily with two beers.<br />“I don’t actually drink,” he told her.<br /><br />“You were drinking last night.”<br /><br />“I was trying to blend in.”<br /><br />“Well, try blending in some more. Drink up, Church-boy.”<br /><br />“Why do you keep calling me that?”<br /><br />“Don’t all you people in the Confederacy go to church all the time?”<br /><br />“Not all the time. What about you?”<br /><br />Shadow quaffed part of her beer before answering. “I’ve seen a lot of bad shit, sonny. If there’s a God he can kiss my rosy red ass.”<br /><br />“Does everyone in the Border Region feel that way?”<br /><br />“Nah, most of `em are Christian. They’re just not nuts about it.”<br /><br />Christian didn’t deign to reply to this last remark. He had been praying for her last night, when she’d burst in on him, but he didn’t tell her that.<br /><br />After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Shadow informed him, “I have good friends among the Amish.” The comment was aimed at smoothing things over. That was unusual for her. Normally, if people didn’t like something she said, they could go fuck themselves. Suddenly angry at herself, she felt moved to add, “And besides, I had plenty of your good Christian brethren come over from the Confederacy to buy my wares.”<br /><br />“What sort of wares?” Christian gasped, paling as though this might be something he really didn’t care to hear about.<br /><br />“Marijuana,” she said flatly, “That’s what I did all summer before heading back home by way of Wheeling. I was growing and selling pot in Transylvania.”<br />If Christian felt any disapproval concerning the actual revelation, it didn‘t show on his face. Instead he simply remarked, “I never understood why that part of the Border Region was called ‘Transylvania.’ The name makes me think of the one in Europe. You know…”<br /><br />“Ah, yes. ‘Land of dark forests, dread mountains and black unfathomed lakes,’” Shadow replied playfully, quoting from some movie she had seen, “The home of Count Dracula.” Then her tone became more somber. “Too bad the real Dracula isn’t still around.”<br /><br />Christian nodded, knowing exactly what she meant. The historical Dracula, Vlad the Impaler, had actually ruled the neighboring kingdom of Wallachia. A warrior prince, he had expelled the Muslim forces of the Ottoman Empire from the regions that later became Romania. Not that it had mattered in the long run. Romania and its neighbors east, west, north and south had all ultimately been subsumed into the Islamic Federation of Europe, the leviathan that had smashed the Old Union<br />Christian finally took that drink. “So how did ‘Transylvania’ get to be the name of what used to be the northern part of Kentucky of all places?” he asked.<br />Shadow explained. “Transylvania”, which simply meant “the land beyond the forest,” had been the name of a short-lived colony in the 18th Century. It had been established in the region later known as Kentucky. The Transylvania Colony had been founded by Richard Henderson in 1775, after he purchased the land from the local Indians. The area had been explored by no less a trailblazer than Daniel Boone himself. In the following year 1776, however, Virginia, which then claimed all lands to its west, invalidated Henderson’s purchase. Otherwise, Transylvania might have become a fourteenth colony and one of the original United States. A college named Transylvania University was founded in Lexington, Kentucky (later Lexington, Transylvania) in 1780, and famous alumni included Stephen Austin and Jefferson Davis. It was still in operation, and Shadow had visited the campus. By the late 21st Century, following the aftermath of World War III, the northern counties of Kentucky were commonly seen as part of the Border Region. When the Old Union was formally dissolved, they seceded from their parent state and adopted the old name of Transylvania.<br /><br />Shadow went on to explain a little more about her livelihood, in an effort to forestall any further misunderstandings on Christian’s part. She had staked out some land deep in the woods of a remote rural county in western Transylvania to cultivate her marijuana crop. This was not a problem with such local authorities as existed in the sparsely inhabited region. She had selected the area with that in mind, but a more important consideration was its proximity to the Confederacy states of Kentucky, Tennessee, Missouri, and Arkansas. There was little to prevent pot-smokers in outlying rural areas of the Border Region from growing their own supply, which they also commonly used in barter. While some of Shadow’s customers did hail from the Region, the majority were Confederates in search of forbidden fruit. Among the latter, the more daring ones smuggled their purchases back home. However, it was also common to hole up in a rundown motel or some such place within the Border Region for weekend pot parties. That way they steered clear of possible discovery and censure by their more righteous neighbors and peers back home, which would entail denunciation from the pulpit as well as legal consequences.<br /><br />During the growing season, Shadow lived an isolated backwoods existence. That was why she had been eager to go on a tear in Wheeling, to relieve the pent-up tension of long, lonely months. Not that she had been a total hermit; there had been visits to such taverns as could be found along the rural roads and in the tiny hamlets that dotted the region. And she had neighbors close by, a gay couple occupying a small cabin. In return for a cut of the profits, they helped Shadow out and kept an eye on things when she was abroad during the off-season. <br /><br />It was important to have partners. After all, it was not like Shadow had the drug trade to herself. There were others in nearby areas who would be happy to force her out, alive or dead, and grab her share of the market. Therefore she had wisely invested in things like guard dogs and night vision goggles, not to mention a shit-load of weapons.<br /><br />In undertaking these measures, Shadow was merely exercising reasonable caution. She was not unduly worried about a drug war breaking out. Most of the other dealers concentrated on the manufacture and sale of harder drugs, something Shadow wanted no part of. That being the case, she was not in direct competition with them. The hard drug trade was both easier and more profitable. Still, its appeal was limited to the rougher outlaw elements of the Border Region. Shadow’s marijuana, on the other hand, was sought by the sort of mostly-respectable, fairly well-to-do Confederacy citizen that would give a wide berth to anything harder. That was a market worth getting a piece of, so Shadow did have some cause for concern. Therefore she had entered into a mutual-defense pact with other small-time marijuana growers in the region. It was important for her, her partners, and her associates to maintain a strong posture, so as not to tempt rivals by appearing weak. In the absence of that temptation, the status quo would be maintained and peace would prevail. <br /><br />An outbreak of drug violence was something to be avoided. It would cause nearby Confederates to shun the Border Region like the plague, thus defeating the purpose of seizing the local marijuana trade. It would also force the local militia of the western Transylvania counties to band together to settle the matter. In doing so they would eschew such niceties as arrests and trials and so forth. No one wanted that. <br /><br />Shadow gauged Christian’s reactions as she explained all this. He just sat quietly, taking it all in. That was good; he knew when to talk and when to listen. Based on what she had observed of him so far, she pegged him as naïve and clueless, but a fast learner. She now commenced to continue his education in the ways of the world.<br />Their vantage point in the bar afforded them a good view of the various patrons. Shadow instructed Christian in regards to the different types that frequented such places, explaining what their mannerisms and quirks revealed about them. She started with the fairly obvious; the loud drunk and the quiet drunk. In her opinion, loud drunks were basically insecure, needing to prove to themselves that they were having a good time. Insecurity was indicative of other personality problems, which could be a source of trouble. From there she described the various levels of intoxication, from buzzed to plastered, and how judgment and motor skills were affected at each level. She added her personal observations, such as how whiskey drunks were meaner than beer drunks. The real players in the outlaw trade were better at holding their booze. Shadow explained some more of the differences between pros and amateurs. Amateurs tended to be heedless; pros were always observant. <br /><br />Taking their leave of the first joint, they moved on to one with more action. There Shadow taught Christian the basics of body language, as well as what various tattoos and modes of dress revealed about an individual’s personality, group affiliation, and culture. The second place also had gambling and more women. Therefore it was a perfect laboratory for the study of how fights broke out. Hardcore troublemakers, those who went out looking to indulge their penchant for mayhem, would start the ball rolling on the flimsiest of pretexts. These could be spotted a mile off, and an experienced street-fighter would be prepared for anything they might throw at them. The unwary, however, could be drawn into a violent confrontation without even realizing they were headed that way. This could come about whether the other guy had started out looking for trouble or not. Immersed in that volatile witches’ brew of booze, women, money, and a highly-charged atmosphere, egos grew large and tempers grew short.<br /><br />Shadow now explained the difference between fights and combat. Fights were to establish dominance. People could and did get injured in them, sometimes severely, occasionally fatally. But there was a certain code about these things. Once a clear victor emerged, it was over and the matter settled. The former foes might even end up drinking together. Combat was a different story, however. Once somebody pulled a gun or a knife --and nearly everyone in Weirton was packing something-- it was combat, a matter of life or death. When it got to that point, the proprietor would usually haul out a sawed-off shotgun from behind the bar, force everyone to settle down, and eject the troublemakers. Every now and then some hardcore psycho would start shit looking to make a kill. These were rare cases; once someone acquired the psycho reputation, their days were numbered. Some civic-minded individual would take said psycho down by bushwhacking him when no one else was around.<br /><br />Life-and-death combats were far from nightly occurrences in the vice dens of the Border Region, even in Weirton. The norm was the so-called “friendly” brawl, although such a fracas could hardly be described as a good clean fight. Shadow hoped Christian would catch a live demonstration of one here tonight, and so he did. Unfortunately, as fate would have it, it was as a participant, not a spectator.<br />They were at the bar ordering drinks when a guy came over and started hitting on Shadow. He either hadn’t noticed Christian, or didn’t care. Clad in jeans and a leather vest that left his thickly-muscled arms bare, he looked to be a typical Weirton tough. As such, his pick-up banter left much to be desired.<br /><br />“Hiya, babe. Haven’t seen you before. People around here call me Big Jim.”<br /><br />“Really?” Shadow replied coolly. “Big Jim” was actually only average height, and therefore shorter than Shadow. She devoutly hoped that he wasn’t going to explain that his nickname actually referred to his dick.<br /><br />If Big Jim took notice of her icy tone, he gave no indication of it. “Waddaya say you and me grab ourselves a cozy little booth and get to know each other better?”<br /><br />“Uh, thanks, but I’m already with someone.”<br /><br />Big Jim raised an eyebrow as he looked Christian over. With his clean-cut looks and square-john duds, the latter looked as out of place as if he were wearing a powder blue tuxedo and had gotten lost on the way to the prom.<br /><br />“Who’s this, your kid brother?” Jim snarled. “Why don’t you lose this wimp and get with a real man?”<br /><br />“Because I’d rather fuck my kid brother,” she told him.<br /><br />“Okay skank, fuck you. I don’t need skunk pussy like you anyway. Adios, bitch.”<br /><br />Big Jim turned to walk away. Just then Shadow was startled to hear another voice ring out sharply at her side, cutting through the bar’s din.<br /><br />“That is no way to speak to a lady! You, sir, are no gentleman!”<br /><br /> It was Church-boy, sure enough. Thanks, Big Mouth, Shadow thought, Now I’m going to have to fight this asshole to get you out of this.<br /><br /> Big Jim turned back towards them, grinning. “Yeah, and what are you gonna do about it?”<br /><br />In answer, Christian stepped back smoothly into a boxing stance, chin lowered, guard raised, bobbing lightly on his feet. Shadow was surprised. Clearly the boy had some training. (He later informed her that he had “boxed a little in college.”) The crowd cleared a space for them as Big Jim advanced.<br /><br />As he stomped forward, Big Jim cocked back his fist to deliver a roundhouse right. He thought so little of his opponent that he was going for a one-punch knockout. Christian glided in to meet him, putting him off his stride with two quick left jabs to the kisser. Catching on quickly that kid brother had some moves, Big Jim danced back in time to avoid the right cross Christian launched as a follow-up.<br /><br />First blood to Church-boy, Shadow thought, watching with the other bystanders. But she knew that his moment of glory was destined to be short-lived. Christian was fighting like he was in the ring. In actuality he was moving about on a concrete floor slippery with spilled drinks, hemmed in by the crowd, with broken glass here and there as well as hard furnishings to trip over and fall against. Moreover, his opponent could hardly be expected to abide by the Marquis of Queensbury rules. Shadow realized, to her horror, that Christian probably didn’t even know enough to guard against a ball shot. It was true that Big Jim would be in hot water if he allowed a trained boxer to get up to speed. The trouble was that no street-fighter worth his salt was going to let that happen.<br /><br />Big Jim renewed his attack, unclenching his fists and wading back in with open hands. Going for the grapple, Shadow thought. Nor was she wrong. Jim knew that if he went in fast, grabbed kid brother and hurled him to the ground, it wouldn’t matter how good a boxer the kid was. <br /><br />With no room to backpeddle, Christian had no choice but to try to intercept his opponent. Stepping up, he attempted to nail Jim with a straight punch to the face. Jim deflected the blow by swatting it aside, then grabbed Christian’s shirt front with both hands and jerked him roughly off balance. He kicked at Christian’s instep, causing him to tumble to the floor. Christian went down hard, but twisted to avoid striking his head against the floor. He was momentarily stunned, and Big Jim gave him no time to recover his wits much less regain his feet. Christian could only curl into a ball as Jim commenced to viciously kick and stomp him. Wearing heavy boots, Jim would be able to grind his fallen foe into paste in fairly short order.<br /><br />He doubtless would have done so had not Shadow intervened. She began to move the second Christian hit the floor and was on Big Jim in a flash. She smashed the heel of her open palm into the side of Jim’s head to loosen him up, then flipped him onto the bar and rained hammer-fists onto his upturned face until he stopped squirming. It was a simple technique, crude but effective; she struck with the bottom of her clenched fist over and over just like she was pounding a table. Big Jim slid off the bar and dropped to the floor like a sack of manure. Christian had already risen, and Shadow’s quick inspection found no signs of serious injury.<br /><br />Shadow decided to call it a night after that. She knew that she ought to be mad at Christian, but couldn’t bring herself to rebuke him. For one thing, she’d learned that Church-boy wasn’t a total creampuff. And there was something else she had noticed. Big Jim had belittled Christian, and Christian had let it slide. It had only been when Jim had insulted her that Christian had called him out. She couldn’t help but feel touched by that.<br /><br />Back at the hotel, Shadow examined Christian more closely for cuts, abrasions and signs of a concussion. He stubbornly refused to take his underwear off, but she still considered the examination satisfactory.<br /><br />Before they retired to their separate rooms, she kissed him goodnight. She felt that he ought to be kissed since he had just lost his bar fight cherry.<br /><br />#<br /><br />They cleared out of Weirton the next morning. Christian’s face was unmarked from the fight, but the side of his body was one big bruise. Pulled muscles made bike riding difficult. Shadow had some first aid supplies in one of her saddle bags, including a variety of meds. She gave him a pill that made the pain go far, far away. Then they headed east on old Route 22.<br /><br />The Weirton city limits ended at the state line. Once they were out of town, they were in Westsylvania. At last, Shadow thought contentedly, There’s no place like home. Once Weirton had fallen behind them, Shadow relaxed. She even allowed Christian to see her smile.<br /><br />The weather was warm and sultry. Shadow rode without her duster. A few weeks earlier, it had been rather chilly. Now the sun blazed hotly in a clear cobalt sky, illuminating the autumn foliage of the surrounding countryside. Leaves of bright yellow, deep reds, vivid orange and gold dazzled the sight. The scent of new-mown hay was in the air. Occasionally one saw patches of pumpkins and squash. Indian summer had come to Westsylvania.<br /><br />After several miles of gradual uphill travel they reached a high crest. Shadow reined in her horse at the side of the road but did not dismount. Christian stopped alongside her. He thought she looked magnificent sitting there astride the stallion, but Shadow directed his gaze elsewhere. With a wave of her hand, she indicated the landscape stretching out below. It was a patchwork of hills, woods and farmland dotted with a few tiny hamlets. The riot of autumn colors created a breathtaking vista.<br /><br />“Take a look, Churchy,” she told him, “October in Westsylvania will make you feel great to be alive.”<br /><br />So will spring in North Carolina, Christian thought to himself. And to his surprise he felt a sudden longing to show it to her one day. For now, though, he had to admit that these rolling hills, painted in their sere autumn leaves, were a glorious sight. The land possessed a vibrant natural beauty distinct even from the wilds of West Virginia he had passed through.<br /><br />For Shadow, this was the best time to be back. Westsylvania autumn eased the mind and warmed the heart. She considered it a form of recompense. Summer and winter here toughened the spirit. The region had long been known for its brutal temperature extremes. Humid sweltering summers followed bitter cold winters, sometimes seeming to skip spring altogether. It was a climate that had felled many a pioneer. Shadow’s own childhood memories of summer were crowded with rank weeds and maddening insects. For every fond memory of a snowy winter wonderland, there were a dozen more of when there was no snow --just frigid rain, icy winds and blasting sleet. Then the land had looked as cold and dark, hard and barren as a lump of coal. Autumn, however, always brought to her a somber sense of peace, as though she had come home to some golden Valhalla.<br /><br />Shadow and Christian continued on their way, taking their time. They stopped at stores, motels and diners along the way so Christian could inquire about his runaway girlfriend, Angel. Shadow told him this would be a good place to begin his search. Meadville and Erie were due north. Both were located in the narrow corridor, still part of old Pennsylvania, that linked the Islamic states of the Northeast to those of the Midwest. Using either Meadville or Erie as a jumping-off point, Angel could head east towards New York or west towards Chicago. Assuming, of course, that her ultimate destination lay within the Islamic States of America.<br /><br />Shadow gauged Christian’s reaction to the notion and watched his face grow dark with repressed anger. Ah ha! She had known he was holding back the whole story, and had suspected something of the sort. To her mind, Christianity could be strict and repressive enough for anyone. Even so, she knew that many women and men converted to Islam because of a need for “structure,” whatever the hell that was. Shadow refused to waste time even thinking about what they meant by that. Instead, she thought about the saccharine little candy-ass in the picture Christian had shown her. “Angel” looked like just the sort to walk right over a nice guy like Christian to get to some bastard who would treat her like shit. Some women were like that. <br /><br />Rather than upset Christian further, Shadow kept these last thoughts to herself. They spent the night in an old abandoned house, one of the many to be found in semi-rural areas of the Border Region. Inside, they gathered broken bits of wooden furniture and heaped it in the fireplace along with fallen branches from the yard. It caught fire easily, and Christian and Shadow unrolled their sleeping bags before the crackling blaze. They retired after a simple foodpaste supper. Shadow slept lightly as always, ears alert for intruders. Of course, the horse tethered out back would raise a ruckus if anything came around, but Shadow’s habit of light sleeping was deeply ingrained.<br /><br />Christian awoke the next morning to find that Shadow had risen some time previous. “I’ve fed and watered Incitatus,” she told him, “We need to get going.” She now informed him of their next destination. She would be heading into downtown Pittsburgh to take care of some business. Christian’s curiosity was piqued. Greater Pittsburgh, which encompassed all of Allegheny County and some adjacent regions, was arguably the most eminent of the Border Region’s so-called “city-states.” Downtown Pittsburgh itself would be the largest urban area Christian would encounter since leaving the Confederacy.<br /><br />As they were preparing to depart, Christian noticed Shadow packing both her gun and her bowie knife into one of her horse’s saddlebags. In the major city-states, law and order held far stronger sway than in the outlying regions. Shadow, however, never went anywhere completely naked of weapons. She carried a small but deadly Spyderco folding knife clipped to her pants waist and concealed by her utility belt.<br />Shortly after setting out, the travelers took their leave of the main route they had been traversing. Further on, it had been rendered impassible during the war and remained closed to this day. They proceeded instead along Noblestown Road, a long narrow byway that wound its way through the hills and suburbs. <br /><br />Presently Shadow and Christian entered the Pittsburgh city limits. They approached the downtown area through a section called West End. The buildings along the main drag here were old, but the activity and commerce Christian observed conveyed a sense of renewal. He looked forward to seeing the heart of the city, but as yet the downtown area still remained hidden by the surrounding hills.<br /><br />At length they passed beneath a railroad bridge at a place called West End Circle to emerge onto a busy highway that ran along the banks of the Ohio River. Since reaching the greater Pittsburgh area, Christian had begun to notice more motor vehicles on the roads. Most were official and emergency vehicles powered by the latest generation of hybrid engines. There were numerous horse-drawn and peddle-powered conveyances as well. The pair merged into the traffic swarming along the thoroughfare.<br /><br />Up ahead, in the vast triangle where the confluence of the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers formed the Ohio, lay downtown Pittsburgh. The travelers paused by the roadside for a few minutes to better appreciate their view of the Pittsburgh skyline. It was a new sight to Christian, but not to Shadow. Her grandfather had come from Pittsburgh. In his day the city’s skyline had been dominated by the sixty-story rust-colored shaft of the U.S. Steel Building. Shadow’s grandfather considered the long-ago demise of Pittsburgh’s steel industry a milestone that heralded the decline of the Old Union. The Steel Building suffered serious structural damage during the War. Shadow’s grandfather had lived to see it demolished.<br /><br />Now the most imposing structure on the Pittsburgh skyline was the massive complex that Christian mentally dubbed “the Black Castle.” Consisting of a central forty-story tower surrounded by smaller buildings of matching design, the complex was a neo-Gothic fortress constructed of black glass. For all its sharp angles and smooth glossy surfaces, it suggested the spires and battlements of some strange castle to be found on an alien world. Since the glass was opaque from the outside, the buildings had no visible windows. Shadow informed Christian that the complex was actually called PPG Place, and that it had been built as the corporate headquarters of a major glass company. Construction had been completed in 1984. To Christian, the Black Castle looked as though it had been hewn by giants from cyclopean cliffs of jet or obsidian, then honed and polished to a high gloss. <br /><br />He was still staring at the Black Castle when Shadow spurred Incitatus into motion. Christian followed the great stallion on his bicycle. Their route took them along the shadowy base of Mt. Washington and onto the Fort Pitt Bridge. The bridge led over the Monongahela River and into downtown Pittsburgh. At one time a tunnel through the mountain had opened onto the bridge, providing direct access to the downtown area from communities to the south. The Fort Pitt Tunnel had been collapsed during the War, however, and never rebuilt. Now travelers were forced to circumvent Mt. Washington by various alternate routes.<br /><br />Crossing over the bridge, Christian felt a sense of relief upon reaching a major outpost of civilization. The bridge led directly onto Liberty Avenue, one of the downtown area’s main arteries. As Christian and Shadow made their way up the street, he noticed that an older mode of transportation, the trolley, had made a comeback. Throngs of pedestrians crowded busy sidewalks. Christian mentally likened the scene to Renaissance Italy, when a vital new culture began to emerge amidst the ruins of a fallen empire.<br /><br />The pair proceeded uptown several blocks to a multi-level parking garage, part of which had been converted to stables. There Shadow corralled the pinto and Christian stowed his bicycle. They passed a number of automobiles parked on a different level of the same structure. Some of the makes and models were unfamiliar to Christian, and he pointed these out to Shadow.<br /><br />“ISA imports,” she remarked, “Say what you want about the Islamic States, but some of the best cars in the world are coming out of Detroit these days.”<br />After departing the garage, the pair headed back down Liberty Avenue on foot. Shadow led the way. She took Christian down a side street into a small park-like square surrounded by various taverns, eateries and market places. “This is Market Square,” she informed him, “The whole Border Region actually got its start here.”<br />Shadow recounted how the first small demonstration protesting the adoption of Islamic law in Pennsylvania had assembled in the square. From this had sprung the Westsylvania secession movement. Christian had, of course, read of the Pennsylvania Uprising. He recalled how the old state of Pennsylvania had been torn asunder by rioting and rebellion which spread to other affected states following the Special Election of 2081.<br /><br />Christian pointed to a curious blue flag fluttering on a nearby flagpole. In the center of the blue field was the emblem of an eagle, surrounded by thirteen six-pointed stars. “I saw that flag a lot in West Virginia too,” he said. Shadow explained that the flag had originated in the Whiskey Rebellion of the 1790s, when farmers of the Western Pennsylvania frontier had revolted against an excise tax on whiskey levied by the George Washington administration. During the Pennsylvania Uprising nearly three centuries later, the Whiskey Rebellion flag was carried by Freedom Marchers marching on the state capital of Harrisburg. In the following decades, it came to be flown from Transylvania to Westsylvania as kind of an unofficial flag of the Border Region.<br /><br />From Market Square they proceeded to PPG Place, the “Black Castle” that Christian had found so ominous. As they crossed the vast open courtyard, Christian gaped pensively at the smooth black glass walls that loomed up eerily about him. He wondered what business Shadow had in such a place.<br /><br />As it turned out, she had an account at a bank branch located within the complex. It was here that she deposited a good portion of the rather large sum of cash she had been carrying in her utility belt. The New American Confederacy, the Free Republic of Alaska, and the Border Region all made use of a common currency (the “American Dollar”), although in practice the currency of the Islamic States was also commonly accepted in transactions in northern parts of the Border Region. Shadow had a number of bank accounts here and there in the more civilized parts of the Region. Elsewhere she had buried hidden caches of jewelry and silver dollars from the Old Union.<br /><br />At the bank, Christian deposited two thousand dollars into Shadow’s account --payment for two weeks of service as guide and bodyguard. He had ample funds loaded onto cards that could be used in the manner of old-time travelers’ checks. He also used one of his cards to withdraw some cash. Online banking was pretty much a thing of the past in most of the Border Region. During the War, telecommunications networks had been devastated, both by direct enemy action and sabotage, as thoroughly as the physical infrastructure. Afterwards, Federal recovery aid was cut to the rebellious areas that eventually formed the Border Region. Now the extent of telecommunications and other basic services varied widely from county to county. There were local intranets in operation, but only the largest population centers had full access to the world-wide web.<br /><br />After their banking was completed, Shadow took Christian to lunch at a place called the Oyster House on Market Square. The place was actually an incredibly ancient tavern with some tables for diners. Furnishings were of old, darkly stained wood adorned with brass fixtures. The walls were decorated with framed group photographs of contestants in the Miss America Pageant. This was a beauty contest that had been held annually throughout the 20th Century in Atlantic City, now a part of the Islamic States of America. Shadow informed her companion that the Oyster House was actually the oldest restaurant in Pittsburgh and had long been famed for its giant-sized fish sandwiches.<br /><br />Christian expressed surprise that seafood was available so far into the Border Region. “Pittsburgh gets a lot of stuff shipped in by rail,” she told him, “A lot of railway routes were wrecked during the War. Horseshoe Curve to the east of here was totally demolished, for instance, and new routes had to go around it. Of course, the rail lines pass through some pretty dark territory without much in the way of law and order. So the rail barons made arrangements with authorities in some of the Podunk counties to house private security personnel on their turf to protect the railroad interests. It’s something I might look into when I get too old for this shit and want a regular job. But I can’t believe how much Pittsburgh is booming. It’s even bigger now than when I was through here just last year.”<br /><br />Corporations had discovered that there were benefits to doing business in the Border Region. In Pittsburgh they could take advantage of a free-wheeling Hong Kong-type environment free for the most part from burdensome regulations and restrictions. They were also poised to conduct commerce with both the Christian South and the Islamic North, as the Confederacy and the ISA were commonly referred to in the Border Region. The Region’s most vital urban centers were Pittsburgh, the largest city in Westsylvania; Cincinnati, located at the convergence of southern Ohio, southern Indiana and Transylvania; and Wheeling, the crossroads boomtown in West Virginia’s northern panhandle. <br /><br />After lunch, Shadow and Christian took up the search for Christian’s runaway sweetheart. Once again Shadow felt like telling him that it was a stupid waste of time, a totally random scattershot approach to what amounted to a hunt for a needle in a haystack. But she didn’t. What the hell do you care? she asked herself, You’re getting paid.<br /><br />At her suggestion, they checked in with local law enforcement. Angel had taken off of her own free will and there was no law against an adult doing that, so they kept mum about the details and identified her as a “missing person.” Christian showed his pictures and furnished other vital information. Neither the Pittsburgh Police nor the Allegheny County Sheriff’s Department found any data to indicate that Angel had been processed by the local courts, jails, or hospitals. This reduced somewhat the possibility that she had come to harm or fallen in with serious bad company.<br /><br />Shadow and Christian spent the night in a downtown fleabag called the Edison Hotel. The concierge was obviously bewildered by Christian’s insistence on separate rooms. The first floor of the hotel housed a small strip club. Before they turned in, Shadow suggested showing Angel’s pictures to the management and the strippers on the off chance that any of them had information concerning her. Christian adamantly refused to even consider the notion. “My fiancée wouldn’t associate with women like that!” he snorted.<br /><br />“Shouldn’t that be ex-fiancée, Church-boy?” she snapped back, angry and offended. She thought, You stupid naïve little twinkie. Do really think that that prissy stick-up-her-ass little bitch of yours is as pure as the driven snow? She said, “Look, it’s pretty obvious you don’t know her as well as you thought you did. You’d be surprised where a chick on the run will turn. Now I know it’s past your bedtime, so why don’t you turn in? I’m going down to the bar for a drink. I’ll be up in a little bit.”<br /><br />#<br /><br />By the following morning, Shadow was over her anger. She took Christian to breakfast at a nearby coffee shop called the White Tower to make up. She didn’t bother to tell him about how she had filled in for one of the strippers who didn’t show up for work and had raked in some more dough. <br /><br />Afterwards, they took their leave of downtown Pittsburgh and proceeded on horse and bike to the city’s Oakland district. Most of Pittsburgh’s universities and colleges were located in Oakland. Christian had proved somewhat more agreeable to Shadow’s recommendation that they make inquiries at local chapters of Angel’s sorority than he had concerning her previous suggestion about the strip club. Upon reaching Oakland, Christian expressed curiosity concerning the only really tall building thereabouts. Shadow informed him that it was called the Cathedral of Learning and was the central structure of the vast University of Pittsburgh campus. To Christian’s mind the Cathedral was aptly named; it was a forty-story skyscraper built in the late Gothic revival style. He hoped to examine it more closely. In his teens Christian had aspired to become an architect, but had caved in to parental pressure to follow a safer career path.<br /><br />In addition to the sorority chapters, they checked with various campus organizations and examined a number of bulletin boards. They spent two days in Oakland, uncovering no leads but enjoying the college environment. Shadow turned Christian on to the delights of the crunchy natural-casing frankfurter at a place called Original Hot Dog, popular with students. Afterwards they went to the nearby Carnegie Museum to view dinosaur fossils.<br /><br />This is too much like a date, Shadow thought to herself. Time to head back into the boonies.<br /><br />#<br /><br />The next day they were on the road again, Shadow astride Incitatus and Christian pedaling his bicycle. Shadow’s gun and bowie knife were once more secure in their accustomed places on her belt. They were headed east into an uncommonly picturesque rural region called the Laurel Highlands. Here the autumn foliage seemed to Christian even more resplendent than that which he had seen thus far. They passed vineyards and apple orchards, saw rows of sheaves and yellow cornstalks where harvest was being gathered. Smoke curled from cottage and farmhouse chimneys. They were not all that far out of Pittsburgh, but to Christian it was as though the city lie a million miles behind them and existed in another age.<br /><br />Christian felt moved to comment on the patchwork nature of the Border Region, how it encompassed teeming, fairly modern city-states, isolated primitive backwaters, and everything in between. This brought a smile from Shadow.<br /><br />“Yeah, it’s not this or that,” she said, “It’s something else. I guess that’s why they call it the Border Region.” <br /><br />As they passed through the outskirts of a town called Latrobe, Christian noted a pleasant yeasty scent that hung in the air all around.<br /><br />“That’s hops,” Shadow informed him, “From the brewery. This is where they make 33.”<br /><br />“33?”<br /><br />“That beer you were swilling the other night.”<br /><br />During the 20th Century, the Latrobe Brewery had produced a pale lager called Rolling Rock. Originally a local brew, it grew in popularity and came to be distributed throughout the Old Union. Early in the 21st Century a major national brewing company had purchased the Rolling Rock brand name and moved production of the beer to New Jersey. Now, over a hundred years later, New Jersey was part of the Islamic States of America. No alcoholic beverages, including the ersatz Rolling Rock, were produced there any longer. About twenty years ago, however, a group of enterprising Westsylvanians had refurbished and reopened the old Latrobe Brewery. The beer they made there was brewed identically to the original Rolling Rock. The name of their brew derived from the enigmatic number “33” that had appeared on Rolling Rock bottles.<br /><br />Skirting Latrobe, the travelers headed further into the Laurel Highlands. Their trek took them due east. Less than two days ride brought them within sight of Johnstown. They spent the night in a nearby motel, turning in early. They lit out for Johnstown shortly after daybreak.<br /><br />Johnstown was an old community, and glancing at its many extant ancient structures Christian and Shadow alike felt its vast age. Once it had been a vital part of the Old Union’s industrial heartland, a major producer of steel before Pittsburgh opened its first mill. With the waning of the steel age, Johnstown, like so much of the area, collapsed into rust and ruin. But unlike Weirton and Steubenville, there was also a sense of renewal here.<br /><br />Manufacturers of various products had in recent years opened branch plants in Johnstown and environs. Christian was duly impressed by the presence of well-known companies, headquartered in Atlanta and other commercial centers in the Confederacy, who ran facilities here and elsewhere in Westsylvania. It was part of an emerging trend in the Border Region. With so many of the old major roads of the Region still in a state of disrepair, and with no central government to facilitate reconstruction, there was a need to circumvent the long-distance transportation of goods. The establishment of numerous small manufacturing facilities here and there saw that local areas were well-supplied. Places like Johnstown stood to benefit. Johnstown, including its satellite communities in Cambria County, was starting to come into its own as a minor city-state. <br /><br />Christian and Shadow made the usual inquiries concerning Angel with local authorities, and with local businesses catering to travelers, with the usual negative results. The next day they were on their way again. This time their route veered north-by-northeast through increasingly mountainous terrain, towards Altoona.<br />Their journey took them past the ruins of Horseshoe Curve, just five miles west of Altoona. Here, as the name implied, a railroad line had looped through a rugged mountainside area that encircled a small valley on three sides. The rail line had originally been established to link the eastern and western portions of the old state of Pennsylvania, and Horseshoe Curve had been constructed with great difficulty. An impressive engineering feat, it had been targeted for destruction by saboteurs during the Second World War of the 20th Century. During the Third World War of 2079, enemy agents finally succeeded in burying Horseshoe Curve in an avalanche.<br /><br />Shadow and Christian arrived in Altoona the following morning and spent the day there. Altoona, like Johnstown, was beginning to emerge as a small Westsylvania city-state. During dinner at a small local diner, Christian wondered aloud what would happen if Johnstown and Altoona pooled their resources.<br /><br />“They have, to a certain extent,” Shadow told him, “A lot of neighboring fiefdoms form mutual aid alliances for things like emergency services and law enforcement. That’s not unusual at all. Commerce is a little different, though. Altoona and Johnstown have worked together to improve the roads between them, and done some other stuff. Conceivably they could grow into one big metro area and maybe even rival Pittsburgh someday.”<br /><br />“What’s stopping them?” asked Christian.<br /><br />“Politics. They’re in two different counties, so that means two different sets of county commissioners, in addition to the two mayors. You have to look at the nature of the Border Region as a whole. West Virginia is the only part of it where there’s a central state government. That’s because West Virginia was an entire state of the Old Union that opted out of the New American Confederacy. It was commonly seen as culturally part of the Border Region anyway, and when the Union was formally dissolved, that made it official. West Virginia is practically a sovereign nation almost, with the governor as its president, but everywhere else in the Region --Westsylvania, Transylvania, southern Ohio, South Indiana, South Illinois-- the biggest political entity, geographically speaking, is the county. When you cross a county line here, you’re basically entering a separate little mini-nation. That makes for some interesting ramifications.<br /><br />“In rural counties where you just have these little flyspeck communities like Podunk and West Bumfuck, the county commissioners hold sway. But in Allegheny County, for example, the Mayor of Pittsburgh is the big boss. The Allegheny County Commissioners may try to wrest power from a weak mayor, or try to put their own man in the office. This is like a red flag, though, and the opposition parties are quick to make political hay out of it. As a rule, though, you don’t find weak mayors in Pittsburgh. Elections involve a lot of in-fighting, and when the dust settles the strongest guy standing gets the job. Last year the Mayor attended this big conference with the Governor of West Virginia, and acted like he was the King of Westsylvania or something. What a dick! But I digress…<br /><br />“It’s in places like Altoona that things get interesting, because the balance of power between the mayor and the county commissioners is more evenly divided. In both Cambria County and here in Blair County you have what amounts to a big town surrounded by smaller towns. But once someplace like Johnstown or Altoona starts being touted as a city-state, the county commissioners don’t like it because it implies that the mayor is the de facto ruler of the whole county --which, in cases like this, he usually is. The point is, these guys are assholes. They’re all looking to become these petty dukes and barons. Any progress occurs in little bursts and spurts.”<br /><br />Christian digested all this, then asked, “Is there any chance somebody with enough guts and vision could clean up Weirton and Steubenville, and start to make something of them?”<br /><br />“I doubt it. Wheeling is where the big action is in the West Virginia panhandle area. They’re lucky to lap up any leftovers. They stay alive by catering to the riff-raff.”<br /><br />“I really appreciate everything you’ve shown me and taught me about the Border Region,” Christian told her, “I hadn’t really realized how colorful and diverse it was. In Pittsburgh the thought occurred to me that it’s sort of like Renaissance Italy, made up of all these separate principalities. It wasn’t like what I thought at all.” <br /><br />#<br /><br />After supper, Shadow took Christian up to a high hill that offered a view of most of Altoona. Shades of evening were darkening the sky, and lights were beginning to come on all over town.<br /><br />“I wanted you to see this,” she told him, “Once you leave here and head east further into the mountains, there’s no more city-states or wannabe city-states. That ends here. These are the last electric lights you’re gonna see. From here on, people make use of oil lamps, candles, and firelight. The country folk have gone back to simpler ways. After the War, they looked to the Amish to learn self-sufficiency and that became their way of life. It’s all dark territory up ahead.”<br /><br />“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, half-knowing.<br /><br />“Because you can’t go where I’m going. You won’t find the girl there anyway. I recommend heading back west, maybe by a more northerly route. You’ll be making a big circle through the area, but I think you’d have a better chance of finding leads. Just hook up with some other travelers who are headed that way. Or get yourself another guide.”<br /><br />“But I want to go with you.”<br /><br />“Why? I explained why that won’t help your search. And don’t bother offering me any more money. You’ve paid me more than enough.”<br /><br />“But…”<br /><br />“Look, I’m headed for the New Settlements. Do you know what they are? They’re up in the mountains on the very fringe of the Border Region. After that, on the other side of the Alleghenies, Pennsylvania begins, in the Islamic States. The New Settlements are like the last frontier. They are most definitely not Renaissance Italy. They’re not even like simple Amish country. We’re talking log cabins, okay? Still want to go with me?”<br /><br />“Yes!”<br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />“My heart just tells me that that’s the right way to go.”<br /><br />Oh brother, Shadow thought, What the hell is it with this guy? Taking a moment to reflect, she considered the possibility that Christian saw himself as some sort of tormented romantic hero. She knew that much of the popular fiction produced in the Confederacy was simple-minded sentimental garbage, rife with sugary romantic delusions. A steady diet of that insipid crap could make anyone sappy. So maybe he fancied himself a knight on a hopeless Quixotic quest that he had to see through to the bitter end. Then another possibility suggested itself. Maybe he was starting to sour on his runaway Angel and looking to trade up for something better. Like her. Maybe deep down he was dying to make it with her, even if he didn’t fully understand the promptings of his “heart” (read “balls”) himself. The notion appealed to her vanity.<br /><br />“Okay Church-boy, you’re on,” she told him, “There might be trouble on the road ahead, in which case I might need a little backup. We’ll hit the hay early and set out for the New Settlements at first light.”<br /><br />#<br /><br />They arose early the next morning and checked out of the last motel east of Altoona. During the night Shadow had considered leaving quietly before Christian woke up, hopefully causing him to abandon his reckless notion of accompanying her to the New Settlements. But knowing him, he’d just follow whatever he considered her probable route and try to catch her again. He could end up God-knows-where, and anything might befall him. She didn’t need that possibility preying on her mind.<br />As they were preparing to depart, she told him, “Before we leave the area, I’d like to find someone who has some firearms for sale. Where we’re going, it would be better if you were armed.”<br /><br />“But I have a gun,” he replied, much to her surprise, “I packed one in case I found myself in some place really dangerous. It’s in one of my bike’s saddlebags.”<br /><br />“Well, a lot of good it’s doing in there! Get it out.”<br /><br />It took Christian a few minutes to comply; the gun was buried in the bottom of the bag under various other items. When he finally produced it, Shadow checked it out. It was a dinky little .32 revolver from some no-name firearms company. Better than nothing, she thought. She decided which of the many pockets of Christian’s jacket would furnish easiest access to the weapon, and instructed him to carry it there. <br /><br />Once he had the piece squared away, she told him, “I have a gift for you.”<br /><br />The gift was something she had found in her own saddlebags after rummaging through them. She hadn’t even been sure that she still had it, but knew that it would be perfect for Christian if she could find it. It was an eighteen-inch length of chain with a small steel weight affixed to either end. Christian examined it, quickly divining its purpose.<br /><br />“It’s called a manriki-gusarai,” she informed him, “It was an actual ninja weapon back in feudal Japan.”<br /><br />Shadow figured it would be a good weapon for Christian to carry. She didn’t have time to teach him the intricacies of knife-fighting, and knew that the manriki-gusarai would serve him well as back-up or in situations where firearms were inappropriate. It was fairly easy to utilize, and could be employed with devastating effect. A person could hold one end of the chain and whip the other weighted end about like a chain mace. If it where whirled in a spinning motion before striking, the centrifugal force could generate skull-cracking impact. Or one could grasp the chain in the middle and strike with both weights.<br /><br />“You have to layer your weapons,” Shadow told Christian by way of instruction, “Don’t have your gun, you go for your knife or your bludgeon. Don’t have those, you have to rely on your empty hand skills. Different things for different situations. You don‘t take a knife to a gun fight, as they say. If trouble goes down in one of the settlements, you‘ll most likely be using your fists or the manriki-gusarai. But if we run into trouble on the road, you may as well haul out your piece and start blasting. Just follow my lead.”<br /><br />She also taught him the best way to carry the manriki-gusarai. “This is my special fast-draw method,” she informed him, “I invented it. If you just put the whole thing in one pocket, it’ll get all tangled up and you’ll never get it out.”<br /><br />Shadow’s carry method involved placing one end of the chain in the rear pants pocket, and the other end in the front pocket. This left a few inches of the middle of the chain exposed; to casual onlookers, it just looked like the chain on a trucker’s wallet. To draw the weapon, one need only insert the ring finger and the pinky between the chain and the pants to draw it loose, then grasp it with the other fingers and thumb while whipping it free. “You just whip it out and smack your mark across the face with both weights,” she told Christian, “I guarantee he’ll be seein’ stars. Then you can shift your grip to one end of the chain if you want.”<br /><br />Christian spent about a quarter of an hour familiarizing himself with the weapon. “Manriki-gusarai” was a bit of a mouthful, so he mentally referred to it as his “ninja chain.” He practiced wielding it and drawing it.<br /><br />“That’s pretty much all there is to it,” Shadow said, “It’s pretty straightforward. Ready?”<br /><br />Christian nodded.<br /><br />Shadow strode over to Incitatus, inserted a booted foot into the stirrup, and swung herself into the saddle. She started off down the road without looking back to see if Christian was following. Christian got on his bike and began pedaling.<br />The blue summits of the Allegheny Mountains loomed up ahead of them in the morning mists.<em></em>Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-70345121063410285942009-02-12T15:58:00.000-08:002010-05-09T17:11:44.539-07:00Sample Chapter--Twilight's Last Gleaming: Part One[I'm back. I missed a couple of the monthly updates, due to the Christmas holidays and other demands on my attention during January. This is another selection from my future history, <em>Twilight's Last Gleaming</em>. In fact, it is the very first chapter of the entire history. In my history, and the novels I'm basing on it, the United States is defeated in a war with the Islamic Federation of Europe. In reading or viewing fiction about future societies, one is often given pause to ask, "How does something like this get started?" (<em>Logan's Run </em>is a good example here.) I've endeavored to create a plausible scenario based on present day events. Copyright 2008 by Charles Hoffman]<br /><br /><br />1--THE ROOTS AND FORMATION OF THE ISLAMIC FEDERATION OF EUROPE<br /><br /><br />In the year 2076, the United States of America was preparing to celebrate its Tercentennial (or “Tricentennial”, as it was commonly referred to.) At this time, the greatest external threat facing the United States was the Islamic Federation of Europe. The Islamic Federation had existed as a formal political entity for less than two decades, but its roots went back much further.<br /><br />At the dawn of the 21st Century, considerable Muslim populations already existed in almost all European nations. For the most part, they were concentrated in Eastern European areas such as the Balkans. Albania’s population of over 3 million was 70 percent Sunni Muslim. Bosnia was home to a million and a half Muslims, or 40 percent of its population. The Kosovo region’s population of 2 million was 90 percent Muslim. Turkey, linking Europe and Asia, had a large population of almost 70 million, 99 percent of whom were Muslim. These areas had once been a part of the Ottoman Empire, or had been in close contact with it. Islam had predominated there for centuries.<br /><br />By the late 20th Century, however, Islam had made remarkable inroads into Western Europe as well. Sizable Muslim minorities existed in France, Germany and the United Kingdom, in the Alpine nations of Austria and Switzerland, and even the Scandinavian countries of Denmark and Sweden.<br /><br />The once-formidable Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) had straddled half of Europe and all of Asia like a vast colossus. When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, Russia relinquished its hold on over a dozen smaller nations that reasserted their autonomy. These included such Islamic Asian countries as Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan. In Russia, Christians and Muslims had co-existed for centuries. With the fall of communism there came a resurgence of ethnic and religious identity among the various peoples. Approximately 20 million Muslims lived in Russia, a million or so residing in Moscow.<br /><br />Of the Western European nations, France had the largest Muslim population. Official French government estimates placed the figure at 4 to 5 million, or approximately 8 percent of the total population. However, many analysts regarded these figures as misleading. In accordance with French law, census figures did not identify citizens by race, religion, or ethnicity. The actual number of French Muslims in the year 2000 may have approached or even exceeded 8 million, close to 12 percent of the population. The majority traced their ancestry to Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia, formerly North African colonies held by the French.<br /><br />Germany’s 3 million Muslims accounted for 4 percent of its population. Most were descended from Turks who arrived as early as the 1960s under a “guest worker” program and had not been expected to become permanent residents. Their ranks were further swelled by refugees from the Balkan wars of the 1990s. Balkan refugees, as well as others in flight from Iran, Iraq, and Somalia, also sought asylum in Denmark during the `80s and `90s. There they joined Muslims who had come from Yugoslavia, Turkey, Morocco, and Pakistan in the 1970s in search of work. By 2000, Muslims from many nations comprised 5 percent of the Danish population. An additional million Muslims accounted for 6 percent of the population of the Netherlands. They had begun to emigrate there half a century earlier from former Dutch colonies, and tended to congregate in the larger urban centers. By 2015 they had achieved majority status in Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and The Hague.<br /><br />Muslims also gained strong footholds in Switzerland, Austria, Sweden, the United Kingdom, and other Western European states. By 2020, they were enjoying a remarkable resurgence in Spain, where the Moors had ruled throughout the Middle Ages. Once they became the majority in Spain and Portugal, additional waves of African Muslims surged up through Morocco into Spain, and from there into the rest of Europe. From the East, Asian Muslims passed through Turkey on their way to the Balkan states and points west.<br /><br />By and large, European Muslims did not assimilate into the cultures of their adopted countries. They retained the cultural identities of their ancestral homelands. More often than not they congealed into ghettos to form a disadvantaged underclass. This inevitably led to social strife. Disenfranchised youths were drawn to the militant tenets of Islamic fundamentalism, which had seen a resurgence during the latter part of the 20th Century. This pairing of alienation with religious and political extremism bore bitter fruits as the 21st Century dawned. <br /><br />In March 2004, bombings of four commuter trains in Madrid killed almost 200 people and wounded hundreds more. A radical Islamic group with roots in Morocco came under investigation. Taking place three days before a national election, the Madrid bombings had an intimidating effect on Spanish foreign policy that resulted in a curtailment of support to American military efforts in the Middle East.<br /><br />In September 2005, Muslims took to the streets throughout the Islamic world in violent protest over editorial cartoons published in a Danish newspaper that many deemed blasphemous. Riots in Nigeria, Libya, Pakistan, and Afghanistan killed 139 people. The Danish and Norwegian embassies in Syria were burned. The cartoonists were forced into hiding.<br /><br /> In October and November 2005, riots broke out in the heavily Muslim suburbs of Paris due to widespread dissatisfaction among disgruntled Muslim youths. The rioting quickly spread to Marseille, Cannes, Nice, and many other French cities and towns. Churches, schools and businesses were vandalized. The rampage went on for nearly a fortnight before French President Jacques Chirac declared a national state of emergency. When the violence subsided, several people had been killed, hundreds had been injured, and over four thousand arrests had been made. <br /><br />In September 2006, remarks by Pope Benedict XVI sparked another spate of violent protests. In a lecture on theology, the Pope quoted a 14th Century Byzantine Emperor who had made remarks critical of Islam. Thousands erupted into protest and the Pope was burned in effigy. Churches were firebombed and a nun was killed. <br />Reaction to the rising Muslim tide in Europe by indigenous Europeans was muted. Official government policy and media commentary concerning both Muslim immigration and subsequent social problems tended to be circumspect. This may have owed something to a collective guilt over Europe’s history of imperialist exploitation of former colonies, various pogroms, and, in the case of Germany, history’s most notorious attempt at total genocide. Socially liberal countries such as Sweden and the Netherlands adopted a policy of multiculturalism, essentially conferring a validity to the foreign cultures of recent immigrants that was equal to the long-standing indigenous cultures. In Germany and Austria, Islam was included in the public school curriculum.<br /><br />Islam gradually achieved greater and greater prominence in all areas of public life throughout the European states. This trend did not go unprotested by concerned citizens of old European ancestry, even if such voices were frequently stifled one way or another. Brigitte Bardot, a French former actress of once-great renown, was tried and convicted for “inciting racial hatred” in such writings as an article entitled “An Open Letter to My Lost France” and her best-selling book, Un Cri Dans le Silence (A Cry in the Silence). Bardot lamented the demise of indigenous French culture, citing among other things the proliferation of mosques in France while Christian congregations dwindled. Payment of hefty fines allowed the then-elderly Bardot to avoid prison incarceration.<br /><br />Dutch filmmaker Theo van Gogh was not so fortunate. Van Gogh had directed a documentary depicting the oppression of Islamic women. He was shot and stabbed to death in the streets of Amsterdam in broad daylight by a young Dutch Muslim who had taken offense at the film. Van Gogh was a descendent of the brother of painter Vincent van Gogh, and a fairly well known figure in his own right. His death incited violence between Christians and Muslims that caused both mosques and churches to go up in flames.<br /><br />In the final analysis, however, the occasional voice crying in the dark could do little to forestall the inevitable. Islamic culture came to supplant Western culture in Europe. Even as Muslim populations soared, the population of indigenous Europeans went into steep decline. By the turn of the 21st Century, birthrates among indigenous peoples had fallen to below replacement levels in every European nation. Replacement level was determined to be an average of 2.1 children per woman. In 2006, the German government’s Federal Statistics Office reported that the decline of Germany’s population was “irreversible.” Also in 2006, the Brussels Journal predicted that one third of all European children would be born to Muslim parents by 2025. The Journal estimated that there would be 100 million European Muslims by that year.<br /><br />As it turned out, such estimates proved to be altogether too conservative. The actual Muslim population of Europe in 2025 was closer to 150 million. Two additional factors accounted for this. The greater by far was an ever-increasing number of immigrants from the traditional Islamic world. As indigenous populations aged, the old came to far outnumber the young. With more of the former retiring every year, a further influx of immigrants was actually needed to shore up the tax base and maintain essential services. By 2025 it was common to refer to the indigenous peoples of Germany, France, Austria, etc., as “the Elder Races.” The Muslim citizens of those same nations referred to themselves as “the New Breed.” The term “Elder Races” was occasionally diplomatically employed in official channels to convey some measure of respect and appreciation. In common usage, however, it carried connotations of antiquity, frailty, senility, and irrelevancy. “The New Breed,” on the other hand, denoted the strength, boldness, and vitality of youth.<br /><br />This undoubtedly contributed to the secondary factor underlying the spread of Islam throughout Europe: conversion. The dwindling population of young indigenous Europeans felt alienated from what they viewed as a staid and dying culture. Consequently, they converted to Islam in great numbers.<br /><br />Even as early as the turn of the 21st Century, when they still comprised an ethnic and religious minority, European Muslims were already making their presence felt throughout the public sector. Able to vote and hold office in their adopted countries, they began to sway elections and determine government policy. As a result, they were granted concessions that further enabled them to increase their numbers and influence. The historic rivalry between Islam and Christianity, dating from the Middle Ages, was the basis of an inherited grudge on the part of Muslims towards the society they were infiltrating. Combined with exposure to the secularized, socially permissive culture of late 20th Century / early 21st Century Europe, this engendered a deep-seated contempt for the mores and values of Western European civilization. Subsequent generations of Muslims, born and raised in Europe, absorbed this sense of hostility in their cradles. For the most part, the New Breed had little use for the traditions and institutions of the Elder Races.<br /><br />In 2033, Germany became the first Western European nation to designate itself an “Islamic Republic.” France and Russia soon followed suit. Previously, a number of the Eastern Balkan countries had formally declared themselves to be Islamic theocracies.<br /><br />The Islamic Federation of Europe grew vine-like upon the framework of the old European Union. In doing so, it inherited an efficient bureaucracy already in place. This was the legacy of a century of military and commercial alliances.<br /><br />The first attempt at European unification came about as a result of the World Wars that were waged between 1914 and 1945. The whole continent had been ravaged, with tens of millions killed and cities reduced to rubble. Statesmen and intellectuals sought diplomatic means to forestall further devastation. Western European nations entered into a military alliance with the nations of North America as a deterrent to possible aggression by the Soviet Union. The North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) was established in 1949. The notion of a separate European union to allow nations to pool resources and address common problems was first proposed by French Foreign Minister Robert Schuman in 1950.<br /><br />The first step towards what would become the European Union was the establishment of the European Coal and Steel Community (ECSC) in 1951, followed by the European Economic Community (EEC), to regulate commerce. In the meantime, West Germany joined NATO in 1955, prompting the Soviet Union and its Eastern European satellites, including East Germany, to join a military alliance known as the Warsaw Pact.<br /><br />In 1967, the ESC and the EEC merged and became known as the European Community. This body successfully standardized exchange rates and other economic practices. In 1991, the Soviet Union collapsed and the Warsaw Pact fell apart. The following year, the Treaty of Maastricht established the European Union. The Treaty of Amsterdam (1997) and the Treaty of Nice (2003) streamlined the organization and created provisions for a common European citizenship, a common currency, and a constitution. In 2002, the Euro replaced the national currencies of most of the member nations. Initially comprised of Western European nations, the Union began admitting Eastern European nations in the early 21st Century.<br /><br />The admission of Turkey to the European Union in 2015 added 70 million Muslims to the population of the Union. As citizens of the EU, Turks could cross over all of Europe’s international boundaries in search of work and other opportunities. As a voting block 70 million strong, they tipped the scales decisively in favor of Muslims in Union-wide elections. Turkey also served as the bridge by which many Asian Muslims found their way into Europe. The population of Europe had already begun to shift in favor of the New Breed as the Elder Races began dying off. The evolution of the European Union into the Islamic Federation was inevitable.<br /><br />The final transformation and the establishment of the Islamic Federation of Europe (IFE) as a formal political entity was the work of many hands. However, two remarkable figures stand out; Abdullah Al Hamza, a Frenchman, and Yar Ali Ghazi, a German. Abdullah Al Hamza was a professor of Islamic Studies at the Sorbonne. He also held advanced degrees in economics and political science, was widely published in academia and the popular press, and was regarded as one of Europe’s leading intellectuals. Yar Ali Ghazi was the forceful and dynamic president of the Islamic Republic of Germany.<br /><br />The New Breed’s most eminent political theorist, Abdullah Al Hamza became the chief architect of the Islamic Federation of Europe. It was he who coined the widely quoted maxim “Retain and modify what is useful” in regards to Elder European social, political, scientific, and philosophic institutions. Al Hamza was the key figure at the yearlong Berlin Conference (2056 – 57) that oversaw the metamorphosis of the European Union into the IFE.<br /><br />In his opening address to the Conference, Al Hamza asserted that Europe had been a Muslim-majority continent since the admission of Turkey to the EU, and that Muslims were now the majority in nearly all of the individual European nations. Indeed, many had already been reconstituted as Islamic republics. The character of European civilization had undergone a profound change in the last century, and the political structure of a unified European state must reflect the new order.<br /><br />The work of the Conference consisted largely of dismantling all the previous European alliances that were still extant and subsuming the component bureaucracies into the auspices of the Islamic Federation of Europe. Member nations were required to subordinate their national sovereignty to the central government of the Federation. In several European nations, such as the United Kingdom, Muslims were still minorities, albeit sizable ones. Such nations were not excluded from membership, provided that the nation as a whole relinquished its sovereignty and submitted to the rule of Islamic law. No European nation with an indigenous majority elected to do so, but by the 2050s these were few in number. The only Western European countries to remain outside of the Islamic Federation were the United Kingdom, Ireland, Italy, Norway, Finland, and Iceland.<br /><br />On January 1, 2058, the Islamic Federation of Europe took its place among the great nations of the world. Yar Ali Ghazi was sworn in as its first president, and Abdullah Al Hamza became Secretary of Foreign Affairs. Thanks to the efficiency of mid-21st Century telecommunications, the problem of which city should serve as the Federation capital was avoided. Instead, various arms of government were headquartered in Berlin, Paris, and Geneva. The triple capitals were linked by special bullet trains that affected convenient rapid transit for officials. As president, Yar Ali Ghazi welded the Federation into a band of steel. Power was consolidated under the strong central authority of the chief executive and the ruling council. More ominously as far as the Western Hemisphere was concerned, the IFE inherited the formidable arsenals of both the former NATO powers and the Warsaw Pact nations.<em></em>Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-25580415663150214832008-11-23T15:03:00.000-08:002008-11-23T15:20:28.744-08:00Sample Chapter: Twilight's Last Gleaming, Part One[Here is another sample chapter from Part One of <em>Twilight's Last Gleaming. </em> It is preceded by <em>3. The Spread of Islam Elsewhere in the World </em>and followed by <em>5. Mexico Grows in Prominence.</em> I left the previous installment up for more than a month because I thought it very relevent to the Wall Street bailout and its implications. The chapter I have just posted below I think will be of interest due to the current proposed bailout of the American auto industry. Copyright 2008 by Charles Hoffman.]<br /><br /> 4--AMERICAN DEPENDENCE ON MIDDLE EASTERN OIL AND ITS REPERCUSSIONS<br /><br />The early decades of the 21st Century saw an increasing number of Muslim Americans elected or appointed to government positions on the Federal, state, and local levels. Many served with distinction. Even so, the growing power of Islam throughout the Eastern Hemisphere was viewed with mounting alarm in America, both by average citizens and officialdom. Unfortunately, the United States had failed to break its dependence on Middle Eastern oil, a holdover from the previous century.<br /><br />By 1970, the American consumer had long since come to take the gasoline that fueled his car for granted as a cheap, readily available commodity. During the middle period of the 20th Century, from roughly 1945 to 1973, the average American enjoyed a prosperity not seen before or since. With cheap fuel in abundance, the automobile became, not just a means of transportation, but a key accessory to an affluent lifestyle. It was common for motorists to enjoy the convenience of “drive-in” restaurants, banks, and theaters. An efficient system of interstate highways made it possible for Americans to easily travel throughout their vast country in their personal vehicles.<br /><br />This carefree era came to an abrupt halt in the 1970s, when the price of crude petroleum increased tenfold seemingly overnight. It was a momentous change that came about because of the volatile political climate of the Middle East.<br /><br />Oil-rich Middle Eastern nations such as Iran and Saudi Arabia were members of the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC). OPEC was founded in 1960 as a business organization aimed at regulating oil production and commerce, and included non-Arab nations elsewhere in the world, most notably Venezuela. In the 1970s, OPEC went from being a mere business enterprise to wielding real political clout. It was then that the Arab members founded an overlapping agency, the Organization of Arab Petroleum Exporting Countries.<br /><br />Victories by the Jewish state of Israel in the Six Day War of 1967 and the Yom Kippur War of 1973 left Arab countries in the region seething with resentment. Their wrath was directed at nations who had furnished Israel with aid and support, primarily the United States of America. In retaliation OAPEC launched the Oil Embargo of 1973. Petroleum production was curtailed and sales to the West were halted for five months. <br /><br />The Arab Oil Embargo sent shockwaves through American society. Americans had become accustomed to services designed to maximize their convenience. Now they were forced to pull their cars into block-long lines as they awaited entry into service stations to refuel their vehicles. They were stunned, perplexed, and utterly bewildered. They were told by political leaders that they must “conserve” for the first time since the Second World War. During the post-war era, many Americans had relocated to sprawling suburbs located some distance from the workplace. Now the gasoline necessary for lengthy daily commutes proved to be a considerably more burdensome expense. This “energy crisis” also placed limits on electricity produced by fossil fuels and created shortages of heating oil needed for many homes during the bitter cold Northeastern winters. In the years immediately following, the nation’s economy suffered in no small measure, reaching its lowest point since the Great Depression. Runaway inflation ravaged budgets and savings. Unemployment was widespread. Though not as widely reported, underemployment was also a major social problem. Recent college graduates entering a shrinking job market found that their expensive degrees were worthless. As the “Roaring Twenties” had been followed by the Depression in the `30s, so the “Swinging Sixties” were followed in the `70s by the “Recession,” as it was euphemistically called.<br /><br />America was still licking its wounds from the `73 Embargo when the Shah of Iran was toppled in the Islamic Revolution of 1979. Once again the flow of Mid East oil to America was choked off. Once again, hapless motorists were forced to form long lines at gas stations. The economy plummeted further. Americans who had come of age during the booming 1950s and `60s were overwhelmed with despair. President Jimmy Carter, whom the electorate had looked to as a beacon of hope, was finally moved to admit that the nation was in the grip of a spiritual malaise.<br /><br />One sensible adaptation to steeper gasoline prices was the introduction of more fuel-efficient vehicles. The American automobile industry was sluggish when it came to making this conversion. Consequently, the Japanese auto industry made remarkable inroads into the American marketplace during the 1970s and `80s. The Japanese manufacturers offered vehicles that boasted superior gas mileage. Many Japanese models also garnered a reputation for better overall quality. American manufacturers arrogantly chose to ignore market trends, yet wondered why affordable, fuel-efficient, well-built “foreign cars” were finding such favor with American consumers. Instead of improving their products, they promoted the slogan, “Buy American.” The implication was that purchasing foreign goods hurt the American economy. No mention was made of the fact that Japanese auto companies opened manufacturing plants in economically depressed areas of the United States such as Ohio and Tennessee, even as the manufacture of certain American models was outsourced to Mexico. This petulance culminated in a brief period of “Japan-bashing” in the early 1990s. The American business community promoted the notion that unfair Japanese competition was responsible for American economic woes. A popular quotation asserted that “the Japanese regard business as war.” Apparently the assumption was that business in America was conducted in the manner of a gentlemanly sport. In any event, such propaganda did little to curtail the popularity of Japanese automobiles. As one anonymous consumer quoted in Business World put it, “It’s a sad day for America when these car companies have to resort to a bogus appeal to patriotism to sell their over-priced, inferior junk.”<br /><br />Smaller, more fuel-efficient cars were eventually offered by all manufacturers. However, the United States remained in thrall to Mid-East oil producers. The main reasons were twofold. On one hand, sizable petroleum reserves in Alaska and off the coast remained untapped due to ecological concerns. On the other, alternative energy sources never got off the ground due to the shortsightedness of business leaders in the private sector.<br /><br />Offshore oil drilling met with frequent opposition due to the possibilities of harm to marine life, damage to the oceanic ecosystem, and the despoiling of coastal areas. Ecology activists likewise opposed the encroachment of oil-drilling into hitherto pristine areas of the Alaskan wilderness. The largest oilfield in North America lie beneath the north slope of Alaska. A portion of this region had been tapped by American oil companies. However much of this same enormous oil bed lie under the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR). The ANWR had been set aside to remain an unspoiled habitat for threatened species of indigenous fauna such as caribou and polar bears. Advocates of oil drilling in the ANWR asserted that less than 8 percent of the Reserve would be affected by the drilling and that the petroleum thus produced would greatly alleviate US dependence on imported oil. Opponents countered by insisting that the ANWR would suffer irrevocable widespread damage from the development that would take place and the amount of oil yielded would, at best, provide marginal relief for the country’s energy demands. A bitterly controversial issue, the question of whether to drill or not to drill in the ANWR was passed on from administration to administration.<br /><br />Some quarters called for a sensible compromise that would have made allowances for a certain amount of oil drilling, carefully implemented, as a stopgap measure to buy time while the energy and automotive industries redoubled their research and development efforts aimed at engineering alternative energy technologies. Skeptics were quick to insist that tapping the ANWR for oil would furnish business leaders with a convenient excuse not to undertake such a costly and demanding effort.<br /><br />In support of their argument, these skeptics cited the sluggishness of the American automotive industry when it came to marketing smaller, more fuel efficient cars in the first place, as well as their gradual return to the marketing of large, even massive, vehicles once the energy crisis of the 1970s had abated. The 1980s and `90s saw a resurgence of relative prosperity to the American economy, at least in some segments. The long gas lines of the ‘70s receded into a distant faded memory. American auto companies favored the production of larger, costlier vehicles over fuel-efficient economy cars because the former were more profitable for the manufacturer. By the late `90s one out of every five vehicles sold in America was a light pickup truck or a sport utility vehicle. Both were bulky motor vehicles that consumed great quantities of fuel in the manner of the “gas guzzlers” of an earlier era. Sport utility vehicles (commonly abbreviated as SUVs) tended to be oversized and ostentatious, and were especially popular among the more affluent American motorists.<br /><br />Such consumers received a shock in the summer of 2006 when the price of gasoline shot up to well over $3.00 per gallon. This development was greeted with alarm. Decades earlier, the manipulation of oil prices by OPEC was seen primarily as a matter of business, the political origins of the 1973 embargo notwithstanding. That is, it was perceived as natural that a region technologically backward but rich in raw materials would wish to exploit its key asset to best advantage. Americans may not have liked the way OPEC controlled Middle Eastern petroleum, but they thought they understood it. But following the series of terrorist incidents that culminated in the September 11, 2001, attacks on New York and the Pentagon, this outlook had changed. Americans now viewed the most oil-rich region on the planet as being dominated by Islamic fundamentalists, fanatics bristling with hostility towards America and the West. This left US citizens with a disagreeable feeling of vulnerability. There were increasing demands that the United States “free itself” from “foreign oil.”<br /><br />In the fall of 2006, gasoline prices dropped back down to what most Americans had come to regard as acceptable levels. Then in 2008, prices soared to over $4.00 per gallon. Business double talk about mysterious market forces went over the heads of average American consumers but helped to placate them nonetheless. The pattern of rising and falling gasoline prices was repeated many times during the following years and decades. The mentors who guided petroleum production in the Middle Eastern states were shrewd enough to keep America off balance. Fuel prices were raised when a need was perceived to exert pressure on the Western nations, then lowered when it was deemed prudent to lull the West back into complacency. In this manner, the oil-producing nations of the Middle East were able to string the West along well into the 21st Century.Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-87938953990775995552008-09-21T14:27:00.000-07:002008-09-21T15:10:46.201-07:00Sample Chapter: Twilight's Last Gleaming, Part One[This month's entry is another excerpt from the book length version of <em>Twilight's </em><em>Last Gleaming</em>. It is from <em>Part One: O'er the Ramparts We Watched. </em> It is preceded by Chapter 6: <em>America Loses Control of its Borders </em>and followed by Chapter 8: <em>Reconquista</em>. I've chose to include this because it also works as a stand-alone essay. New readers can scroll down to earlier blogs to read the short version of my future history, <em>Twilight's Last Gleaming, </em>a blog explaining the premise, and chapters of an adventure novel set in my fictional universe. Copyright 2008 by Charles Hoffman]<br /><br />7--THE DEATH OF THE AMERICAN DREAM<br /><br />Even as the population of Hispanic Americans grew by leaps and bounds, birthrates among Anglo-Americans, primarily white Americans, plummeted. [NOTE: The term “Anglo,” as used in this account, refers to English-speaking Americans regardless of race.] Many Anglo men throughout the United States came to feel disenfranchised and, facing an uncertain future, were reluctant to start families. The problem stemmed from significant changes in the workplace that sent shockwaves rippling through middle and working class society.<br /><br />Those shockwaves were first and most acutely felt by members of the so-called “baby boom” generation. The term “baby boom” referred to a surge in population following the Second World War. The baby boom spanned the period from 1946 to 1964. The elder generation that had survived the Great Depression and fought World War II returned to an America that soon became prosperous as never before. Upwardly mobile, they were eager to settle down and enjoy the benefits of a newly affluent lifestyle. Their offspring, the “boomers,” grew up during the era when American wealth, prestige, and power were at their zenith. It was a very forward-looking time. Americans living then sometimes referred to this period as the “space age.” This post-war period of prosperity came to an abrupt end with the onset of severe economic woes in the 1970s.<br /><br />Of the baby boomers, those born after 1950 are of special interest. The early boomers were fortunate enough to enter the workforce at a time when the American economy was still expanding. Later boomers entering the workforce in the 1970s found themselves facing altogether bleaker prospects. Many were ill-prepared for the difficulties they were to face, having lived their formative years during an era of heightened expectations. It was as though they had grown up during a golden age, only to have the bottom fall out of everything just as they were on the verge of adulthood. Consequently, many became emotionally troubled. Sociologist Morgan Price, looking back in an essay written in 2054, designated the later boomers as “the Lovecraft generation.” This was a reference to the American author H. P. Lovecraft (1890-1937). Lovecraft spent his childhood amid an environment of wealth and privilege, only to see his family’s fortunes collapse when he was a teenager. As an adult, Lovecraft endured humiliation and poverty. Before his death from malnutrition at age 46, Lovecraft produced some of the most vivid and disturbing horror fiction of the 20th Century. Dr. Price saw in this a parallel with the life experience and emotional angst of many of the later baby boomers. <br /> <br />The baby boomers were followed by what the contemporary media dubbed “Generation X.” The “X” alluded to the observation that this was the tenth generation to be born since the establishment of the American republic. Members of Generation X grew up acutely aware that things were changing, and not for the better. It was common for them to feel resentful of the fact that they were the first generation in American history not to live better than the generation that preceded it.<br /><br />Many members of the Lovecraft generation and Generation X came to believe that the American Dream had played them false. “The American Dream” was a term first coined by James Truslow Adams in 1931. At the heart of the American Dream was the notion that, regardless of one’s humble beginnings, one could achieve material prosperity if one were sufficiently industrious. Unfortunately a vast number of those who had bought into the American Dream had a regrettable tendency to blame themselves for their lack of success or reversals of fortune, even in the clear presence of limiting external circumstances and adverse economic conditions. For many, a diminished sense of self-worth combined with financial hardship to engender myriad social ills. Alcoholism, drug abuse, suicide, spouse and child abuse, and homicidal workplace rampages all became more widespread as the American Dream deteriorated. Several major changes in the economic life of the nation contributed to the Dream’s demise.<br /><br />The first of these was the transition of America from a manufacturing economy to a “service economy.” Key manufacturing industries, including the automotive industry in Detroit and Pittsburgh’s steel industry, declined so severely that the Mid-western region of the United States came to be known as the “rust belt.” American business also largely abandoned the manufacture of appliances such as televisions, which came to be increasingly imported from abroad. With the decline of manufacturing came a widespread loss of well-paying positions that had previously enabled many working Americans to enter the middle class. Those formerly employed in manufacturing were forced to accept lower-paying positions in less prestigious service industries. Many such jobs paid a mere pittance, requiring individuals to work long hours to maintain multiple sources of income.<br /><br />In addition to increased economic difficulty, the detrimental effect of this transformation on the psyche of the male American worker should not be overlooked. If the average working class male was not a warrior, explorer or pioneer like his ancestors, at least he was able to derive satisfaction from accomplishing enormous labors and producing tangible goods. Now he found himself relegated to menial and often inane tasks.<br /><br />In the late 20th and early 21st Centuries, many working class men came to bitterly lament that their jobs had been sold overseas to the lowest bidder. This practice was known in business circles as “outsourcing.” Major American corporations closed down manufacturing facilities in the United States and established new operations in other countries to take advantage of cheap foreign labor. As one example, several American car companies relocated their assembly plants to Mexico. Ironically, some displaced American autoworkers found employment with Japanese and European car manufacturers who constructed new plants in the US.<br /><br />Outsourcing also affected workers employed in service industries. In the early 21st Century, it became common practice for companies to outsource their customer service departments to India and other countries overseas. A consumer calling a company for assistance regarding one of its products could well find himself talking to a customer service representative on another continent. Such representatives required training in the English language and orientation classes in Western culture. Even so, American corporations found such measures more cost effective in the long run than hiring American workers.<br /><br />A related problem, noted earlier, was the employment of undocumented illegal immigrants residing in the US as a means of skirting minimum wage regulations. In time, many frustrated American workers came to view this situation as an actual conspiracy by big business aimed at exploiting illegal aliens to create a new slave class.<br /><br />Much like outsourcing, the practice of corporate “downsizing” also affected blue collar and white-collar workers alike. The necessity of laying off workers during economic downturns or reversals for the company had always been an unpleasant but unavoidable aspect of doing business. By the turn of the 21st Century, however, even solvent, successful companies routinely laid off workers in droves as an easy, expedient means of making themselves appear more profitable on paper. Since profits could be generated by either increasing revenue or cutting costs, many executives chose the latter as the path of lesser resistance. “Cutting costs” usually amounted to chopping workers from the payroll.<br /><br />White-collar workers who found themselves downsized often felt stung by a sense of betrayal. The 1980s had seen an economic recovery from the malaise of the previous decade, and many young people at that time pursued the American Dream with renewed vigor. The most ardent of these were dubbed Young Urban Professionals, or “yuppies,” by the media. They comprised an enthusiastic dedicated workforce willing to go to great lengths to demonstrate loyalty to the company as a means of career advancement. The first major round of corporate downsizing commenced just a few years later, in the early `90s. Many former yuppies were forced to start over at the bottom of the ladder. Only a fraction of them managed to obtain new employment commensurate with their previous positions. Job-seekers with college or university degrees often found themselves no better off than those less educated. Underemployment became a commonplace, if largely ignored, social problem.<br /><br />Still another factor in the changing workplace was the rise of the temporary employment industry. Temporary help agencies had been originally established decades earlier to furnish replacements for clerical employees who were absent due to illness or vacation. However, from the `80s onward, these “temp” agencies came to be used more widely as a flexible resource for business. Temporary employment grew from a few small staffing companies to a major service industry consisting of many such firms. Corporations found it easier to downsize their permanent staff, knowing they could hire and discard disposable “temps” as present needs dictated.<br />The March 29, 1993, issue of <em>Time </em>magazine published a feature article entitled “The Temping of America” that documented this emerging trend. The number of temp employees in the US eventually came to number in tens of millions. Many, if not most, such employees lacked benefits accorded full time permanent staff members such as health care and paid time off. Typically, a temp would work at a given assignment for a period of months, weeks, or days, and then contact his or her agency to see if another assignment was available. To ensure a steady flow of work, a temp would often register with more than one agency, sometimes with a dozen or more.<br /><br />Many downsized or outsourced workers availed themselves of temp agencies. Others got by working two or more part-time jobs. Still others combined both strategies. Whatever the case, countless workers found themselves juggling multiple unsteady, unpredictable sources of income. This could make planning a budget extremely difficult.<br /><br />A news report entitled “The Death of the Great American Job” referred to the manner in which the traditional livelihood consisting of a single full-time job had ceased to be a societal norm. The notion that one could work for a single company until retirement had, by the 21st Century, become a quaint relic of the past. The old corporate social contract that “if you take care of the company, the company will take care of you” had likewise been discarded. There was no longer any such thing as “job security.”<br /><br />A dearth of opportunity and a lowered standard of living engendered an embittered, jaundiced workforce. That chief executives awarded themselves huge bonuses and lavish perks as their downsized employees suffered did not escape the notice of the average American worker. “They’re ruining lives and taking food out of babies’ mouths,” one such disgruntled worker complained to a financial reporter from the <em>New York Globe</em>. Another was even more frank; “The f---ing suits can’t be trusted.” Public cynicism was also engendered by government bailouts of large corporations on the brink of disaster, as well as bogus appeals to patriotism made by American industries threatened by foreign competition. A popular blogger calling himself Hermes astutely observed, “It’s always ‘free market this’ and ‘free market that’ until it’s their dick caught in the mousetrap.” <br /><br />As early as the 1990s, some commentators observed that America was polarizing into a society of aristocrats and peasants. The last decade of the 20th Century saw the gap between affluent and struggling Americans widen considerably. As the new century dawned, the working class came to be increasingly referred to as the “working poor.”<br /><br />This widening disparity had more to do with questionable leadership in the private sector than with any government policy. In the name of “efficiency,” upper management would load as much work onto as few individuals as possible. This unwisely assumed a best-case scenario that failed to allow for potential difficulties. In addition, leading corporate entities had seemingly abandoned any notion of civic responsibility. Where banks once helped consumers to save money, they now saddled them with credit card debt. Outrageous interest rates made it extremely difficult for consumers to pay off balances. The blogger Hermes remarked, “If this isn’t usury, then there’s no such thing.“ The number of consumers driven to bankruptcy skyrocketed. Approximately 300,000 Americans filed for bankruptcy in 1980. By 2000, that figure had soared to over 2 million per year. As a financial analyst quoted in the <em>Globe </em>article put it, “Give people credit and no money, and what would you expect to end up with?”<br /><br />Economic developments such as downsizing, outsourcing, the “service economy,” <em>et al,</em> are particularly noteworthy from an historical perspective. Indeed, numerous latter day historians have been emphatic in citing them as key contributing factors to American society’s growing <em>lack of cohesion.</em> This lack of cohesion bore bitter repercussions during the many crises of the 21st Century. The first sign of trouble came with the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. The sense of “national unity” that followed the attack was extremely short-lived. When the time came to rally `round the flag, the American spirit was found wanting. The US military performed admirably in various campaigns, but a jaded civilian population did not feel themselves fully engaged in the struggle against looming external threats. As the blogger Hermes duly noted, “You can’t turn your whole society into a brothel and expect people to give a s--t about it.” <br /><br />Financial insecurity is also considered the chief factor in the “baby bust” of the 21st Century. Birthrates among Anglo-Americans fell to below replacement levels in many parts of the nation by mid-century. Throughout the Southwest, Anglos quickly became a minority.<br /><br />Even as birthrates dropped, suicide rates rose alarmingly. By the year 2000, suicide was the eighth leading cause of death among men. By 2050, it had become the sixth leading cause. Often men would take their own lives in dramatic ways to capture the attention of the media. It also became commonplace for a man to declare his intention to let his bloodline die out. “I don’t have the guts to kill myself,” one such man told<em> Newswatch</em>, “This is the next best thing.” Increasingly marginalized, such men retreated into apathy in regard to the society in which they lived. Frustrated, they fought back the only way they could –by dropping out and turning their backs on the world.<br /><br />The mid-21st Century saw the widespread social phenomenon of the “rogue male.” Rogue males were men relegated to extremely low-paying, low prestige jobs. Their mating prospects were not good. Emotionally hobbled by feelings of emasculation, they were given to bravado displays of self-destructive behavior. Public drunkenness and brawling were common methods of acting out. Participation in so-called “extreme” sports competitions and daredevil-type stunts left many broken and crippled.<br /><br />In considering such developments as the rogue male and the alarming rise in suicide rates among men, it is important to remember that many members of the baby boom generation lived well into the 21st Century. Even though later generations grew up in a world where uncertain financial prospects were the norm, they heard tales of a lost golden age from the lips of the old-timers. Countless extant pictures and films depicted life in that era. “We used to be better than this” became a truism of the mid-21st Century.<br /><br />As mentioned previously, disenfranchised Anglo-American males tended to punish themselves for circumstances over which they had little control. Hispanics were not so troubled; one could be poor and still be a good Mexican. But for many working class Americans of old native stock, terms like “loser,” “failure,” and “underachiever” were the source of considerable mental anguish. The American Dream was dead, but its ghost lingered to haunt the Anglo mind.Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-41081054895576129322008-08-23T22:27:00.000-07:002010-05-09T17:12:36.908-07:00Guns of the Border Region: Chapter Two[My August entry is the second chapter of Guns of the Border Region. Readers new to this blog will need to scroll down to a previous entry for the Prologue and Chapter One. Twilight's Last Gleaming offers a short history of the fictional universe in which this is set. Copyright 2008 by Charles Hoffman.]<br /><br />CHAPTER TWO -- THE ROAD TO WESTSYLVANIA<br /><br />The following morning found Shadow on the road once more, having been told to get out of Wheeling by sunrise. She was making her way north astride a large black and white pinto stallion, her duster tightly fastened against the morning chill.<br />After the fun with Laughing Boy, she had been hauled over to the Sheriff’s office to explain herself.<br /><br />“Honest, Mike,” she told him, “I did not draw a weapon until he did.” She knew the Sheriff, Mike Lytton, well enough that she felt comfortable seating herself on the edge of his desk. She wore a Go-Go Lounge tank top in place of her missing bra. “At least I tried to keep him alive,” she added, “That was a risky move on my part. It would have been easier and safer for me to sheath the blade in his black little heart.”<br /><br />“Everyone knows you play by the rules here, Tamar,” the Sheriff replied, “Plus there were scores of witnesses and this little toy.” He indicated the derringer the deputies had brought in. “Still, I think it best if you stay out of Wheeling for awhile.”<br /><br />“Okay. What about Laughing Boy?” she asked, not really giving a shit but figuring it might make her look better. <br /><br />“Well,” the Sheriff replied, “I know most folks down in the Confederacy don’t think much of Border Region hospitals, but there’s a good chance they can reattach his hand.” Then he added, “Either way he’s doing some serious time over this. His little `accident’ is not some `get out of jail free’ card.”<br /><br />Shadow nodded soberly. Packing heat in town, much less using it, was Wheeling’s one big taboo. Let one person get away with flouting it, and the streets in the rougher sections would soon be strewn with bullet-riddled corpses. So there was no way the law here could let that shit slide.<br /><br />“Well then, I guess I’ll be on my merry way,” she said, “You got my piece?”<br />The Sheriff went to a long row of lockers and returned with Shadow’s sidearm. Shadow slipped it from its nylon holster. Hefting its familiar weight in her hand, she couldn’t help but smile. It was her gun of choice, a Glock model 22. Though boasting a fifteen-round magazine, the Glock 22 was fairly compact. Chambered for .40 caliber ammunition, it provided considerably more stopping power than any 9 millimeter pistol, but with a still manageable recoil.<br /><br />Shadow re-holstered the weapon and then attached the holster to her belt in its accustomed place. After pulling on her duster, she said, “Adios Sheriff,” and took her leave.<br /><br />#<br /><br />Now Shadow was headed up old State Route 2 on horseback. So far traffic was light; just a few people on horses or bicycles. The old-fashioned horse and buggy was not an unusual sight in these parts, but more modern horse-drawn and pedal-powered fiberglass conveyances were the norm. Motor vehicles were few and far between in the Border Region.<br /><br />Probably just as well, Shadow mused, You couldn’t really go racing from town to town anyway, what with the roads and all. Most of the main thoroughfares of the Border Region were, in whole or part, impassable. The eastern half of the Old Union had come under extensive bombardment by the Islamic Federation of Europe during the War. The IFE’s strategy involved crippling America and forcing it into a defensive posture. To that end, the destruction of the Interstate Highway system and other major highways became a tactical priority. Making matters worse, sleeper cells had been activated to sow additional destruction; bridges blown, tunnels collapsed. The hand of sabotage had struck everywhere, disrupting the flow of water, electricity, and telecommunications. The integrity of civilization’s infrastructure had been erased, blotted out by the Third World War.<br /><br />The War had been waged years before Shadow was even born, but she had heard harrowing tales about it since infancy. They didn’t quite bomb us back to the Stone Age, she reflected, just back to the turn of the 20th Century. Other afflicted parts of the Old Union had recovered after a fashion; not so the area now known as the Border Region.<br /><br />After the War, America was required by treaty to hold special elections in states with large Muslim populations to determine if Islamic law would be adopted as the highest legal authority. The affected states were located in the Northeast and Midwest of the Old Union. This development did not go over well in non-Muslim regions of those states. The western counties of Pennsylvania erupted in rioting and rebellion which quickly spread to the southern counties of Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. An attempt by the governor of Pennsylvania to call out the National Guard had resulted in mutiny. The president realized that any attempt to impose martial law might well result in disaster. However, he could and did cut off Federal aid to those regions in rebellion. Even after they seceded from their parent states by mutual agreement, areas like Westsylvania remained left to their own devices as they recovered from the ravages of war.<br /><br />The name “Westsylvania” referred to the western counties of the old state of Pennsylvania that were located south of Meadville. Before the War, even since colonial times, the third of Pennsylvania located west of the Alleghenies had been a culturally distinct region from the eastern part of the state. The inhabitants there had more in common with the hardy West Virginians to the south. As the Old Union fell to pieces, the area that included Westsylvania and West Virginia, as well as the Ohio River Valley, came to be increasingly referred to as “the Border Region.”<br />When West Virginia failed to ratify the constitution of the New American Confederacy, it became firmly and officially part of the Border Region. It was the only former state of the Old Union to lie entirely within the Region. This made for some interesting political ramifications. In most of the Region, government authority resided at the local level. West Virginia, however, was still governed from the old state capital of Charleston. The governor’s actual authority did not extend beyond the state’s boundaries, but in practice he could wield influence throughout the Region. The only other figures that could be said to possess anywhere near that kind of clout were the mayors of Cincinnati and Pittsburgh. Therefore, the governor of West Virginia was the closest thing the Border Region had to a president.<br /><br />West Virginia had come through the War with its infrastructure mostly intact, but it remained one of the poorer states of the Old Union; mostly rural and sparsely populated. In post-US America, however, it became a source of goods and resources used throughout the Border Region. The city of Wheeling evolved into a thriving crossroads, much as Samarkand had been along the old Silk Road. It was now a colorful marketplace by day and a raucous party town by night. A lot of money passed through Wheeling, a good bit of it trickling southward through the state. The governor and local officials were eager to keep that cash flow running. In the Border Region, the line between legitimate and illicit enterprise was often blurred. Wheeling had waxed prosperous catering to a new breed of traders. These consisted of entrepreneurs or outlaws, depending on one’s point of view. It was the job of men like Sheriff Mike Lytton to maintain a modicum of order, without driving away the free-spirited element that had made Wheeling a boomtown.<br /><br />Quite a tightrope walk, Shadow thought. She certainly didn’t envy guys like Mike their job. But that wasn’t her problem. Right now, she needed a place to crash. A sleepless night, hard drinking, pigging out, dancing, stripping, and two bar fights were beginning to take their toll on even her iron constitution. Her plan was to get into Weirton before noon and get a room there. There was only one thing wrong. She suspected she was being followed.<br /><br />Awhile back she had spotted a guy on a bicycle some distance behind her. She took advantage of curves in the road to check him out. He appeared to be deliberately hanging back, lagging behind when he could have overtaken her. Blessed with hawk-like vision, she placed him as one of the crowd in a couple of the Wheeling joints last night, including the Go-Go Lounge. So what was his story? Shadow had enemies; was this a minion of one of them? Probably not; he was an amateur or she never would have spotted him so easily. Maybe he was some boob who had caught her act and was stalking her now. In which case, he was pretty ballsy, because he would have seen what she’d done to Laughing Boy. Or maybe it was just a coincidence, and he wasn’t actually following her after all.<br /><br />Finding out for sure would involve a change of plans. Steubenville, Ohio, lay a few miles southwest of Weirton, on the other side of the river. Shadow would take the ferry over and find lodging there instead of Weirton. If she spotted her newfound friend in Steubenville, then she’d know he was on her trail.<br /><br />Crossing over on the ferry, Shadow reflected that if the guy was indeed following her, he’d better have his shit wired tight. Steubenville, like Weirton, was no place for a tenderfoot. They were a little pair of twin sin cities; mini-Sodom and mini-Gomorrah. A swell could go slumming in the wild parts of Wheeling and not come to harm if he didn’t get stupid. Not so the rough sections of Weirton and Steubenville. Those were for hardcore types only. Like her.<br /><br />After she disembarked from the ferry, Shadow headed up old Route 7. She reigned in the pinto at a motel just past Mingo Junction on the outskirts of Steubenville. She corralled the pinto with a few other horses behind the motel, got a room and moved her gear in. She locked the door and threw the bolt. Then she stripped and showered.<br /><br />Shadow tossed her belt under the bed before entering the bathroom, but took her gun and knife with her. She left both weapons on the toilet tank within easy reach before stepping into the shower. The place had plenty of hot water, thank god. She let the spraying water run over her; hot, cold, then hot again. As she lathered her body with one of those little bars of soap, she felt the aches and tension seep out of her.<br /><br />After a relaxing shower, she toweled off. Exiting the bathroom, Shadow seated herself at a rickety wooden desk and began cleaning her weapons. First she dried them, wiping away any moisture from the steamy bathroom. After cleaning the gun, she honed the blade of the bowie with a whetstone. She placed the knife on the nightstand and the Glock underneath a pillow. Reclining naked on the bed, she stretched out catlike and was soon asleep.<br /><br />Shadow slept soundly but lightly. The slightest noise made by anyone attempting to enter the room would instantly rouse her to full wakefulness. She also had the knack for awakening precisely when she wished to. Almost eight hours to the minute later, she woke up fully refreshed.<br /><br />After dressing and checking out, Shadow got on the pinto and rode the last mile or so into Steubenville. It was only an hour after sunset, but already most of the honest working people were off the streets. <br /><br />She stabled the pinto at an old bus station that had been converted for horses. After stowing her gear in a locker, she bought feed for the horse. Then she headed into town on foot. No need to worry about her ride; anyone attempting to molest the great stallion would end up mashed to pulp under its stamping hooves.<br /><br />The horse had something to eat; now what about her? Since leaving Wheeling early that morning she had snacked on foodpaste while in the saddle. Hungry again, Shadow went straight to one of the greasy spoon diners she knew of. At Ike’s Café, she enjoyed a platter of pork chops smothered in chili and an ice cold bottle of 33. She ate heartily, consuming her fill but not enough to slow her down if there was action later.<br /><br />When she finished she made her way to the town’s main drag. Most of the bars were off on side streets leading away from Market Street, but they were all contained within a fairly small area easily traversed on foot. Her plan was to hit as many as possible in order to spot her pursuer or allow herself to be spotted by him. If he didn’t turn up she would find another back room card game --something she had planned to do in Weirton-- then get a room and call it a night.<br /><br />The streets were quiet. There were no boisterous crowds milling in the open, as in <br />Wheeling. Here all the action was inside. Even the main drag wasn’t that crowded. Old buildings of crumbling brick surrounded Shadow, for Steubenville was an old town. Two hundred years ago, this part of the Old Union had been that nation’s industrial heartland. But slowly the industry had died out, and the surrounding region came to be disparaged as the “Rust Belt.” Many cities and towns lost half their populations. The restless young drifted away in search of better prospects elsewhere. Others hung on grimly through depression and strife, anchored by deep roots. Their people had dwelt there since time immemorial, or so it seemed, and so they remained. After the War, the area went from being part of the Rust Belt to part of the Border Region. Many localities made a comeback. Then there were towns like Weirton and Steubenville, brooding in the hills and along the rivers, waiting out the centuries.<br /><br />Shadow chose a side street at random and went down it. She walked with her duster open, allowing easy access to her weapons. Yellowish light pouring from a large window indicated a tavern up ahead. Shadow headed for it. As she neared the entrance, she heard none of the sounds of a lively crowd. Inside, there were just a few hard-bitten men drinking in sullen silence. Heads turned her way as she walked in. A woman abroad by herself was an unexpected sight. But no one bothered her. Shadow had the warrior’s mark. Anyone with an ounce of street sense could see that she could handle herself. She had one drink and left.<br /><br />After the first place, Shadow hit several more. Some were more lively. She witnessed a few drinking contests and bar fights, gambling, guys picking up hookers; in general the sorts of things rogue males have always done to let off steam. She went to half a dozen joints before spotting her quarry. As she had throughout the evening, she slipped in quietly and seated herself at the bar. Her dark hair and duster concealed her in the dim tavern lighting as she used the mirror to look the place over. Lo and behold, there he was; the guy who had been following her that morning.<br /><br />He hadn’t made her yet, so Shadow took the opportunity to study his reflected image. Shadow could see like a cat in the dark. Despite the tavern gloom, she was able to size him up fairly quickly.<br /><br />The guy looked to be about 24 or 25, or a year or so younger than Shadow. He was well-groomed, with sandy hair, and his unlined face was rather handsome. His clothing was designed for travel, but the garments didn’t look cheap. Definitely from the Confederacy, he appeared to be a member of the professional class --a “suit” as opposed to one of the working “peons.” Right now he was seated by himself at a table, nursing a beer. He seemed jittery, like he didn’t know what he had gotten himself into.<br /><br />Shadow swiveled about on the barstool to face him. His stunned look of recognition was priceless. An enigmatic smile playing on her lips, Shadow rose abruptly and exited the bar. She had reached the end of the block when she heard the patter of footsteps as the guy came out after her. Shadow then turned, entering an alley. She could hear his footsteps quicken as she concealed herself besides a dumpster. A moment later, he appeared at the entrance of the alleyway. Not seeing her, he hesitated a moment before heading in the direction she had presumably taken. He had just passed the dumpster when he froze at the sudden sound of a voice in the dark: “You’ll never get to Sea World that way.”<br /><br />He turned and found himself looking down the barrel of Shadow’s Glock. The woman stepped into the ghostly lamplight that seeped into the alley from the street beyond. “Okay Joy-boy,” she said, “Why the hell have you been following me?”<br />“Yes, I have been following you,” he admitted, raising his hands, “I was hoping to hire you.”<br /><br />Even through her annoyance, Shadow was a little impressed. He had come clean immediately, raised his hands so she could see them, and mentioned money --all of which made her trigger finger slightly less twitchy. He might not be a player, but he could keep his wits about him. <br /><br />“Hire me for what?” she asked, not lowering her weapon.<br /><br />“I’m a stranger to these parts,” he told her, “I don’t know my way around. To be honest, I could use a guide.”<br /><br />Shadow cut him off. “We’ll talk about it somewhere else. Let’s get out of this alley.” She holstered her pistol. “Walk ahead of me and don’t try anything funny unless you want my knife in your guts.”<br /><br />She took him to a well-lighted coffee shop that was open all night. They had coffee and pie; apple for him and pecan for her. Shadow listened as he told his story.<br />“My name is Christian Foster. I’m from Mount Olive, North Carolina, and I’m an accountant. I was engaged to be married, but my fiancée ran away from her parents’ home about a month ago. I’m pretty sure she headed into the Border Region.”<br /><br />“Why?” Shadow asked.<br /><br />“It’s where people go.”<br /><br />“Sounds like she doesn’t want to get found.”<br /><br />“I just want to talk to her.”<br /><br />“The Border Region’s a pretty big place.”<br /><br />“I’m reasonably sure she went north instead of west. Her ancestors were from Pennsylvania.”<br /><br />“But still…” Shadow didn’t finish the thought, suddenly intrigued by a new notion, “I don’t suppose you have a picture of your runaway sweetheart.”<br /><br />Christian fished around in one of the many pockets on the jacket he wore for traveling. He produced a photograph and passed it across the table.<br /><br />Shadow studied the photo, scarcely able to conceal her distaste. The girl in the picture had a smiling, sickeningly sweet face. She wore no make-up, and her hair was combed straight back from her forehead and held in place with some sort of clip. Her modest blouse was buttoned up clear to her throat. Shadow thought she looked like some well-scrubbed eight-year-old the day they take the school pictures.<br /><br />“Do you think she’s good looking?” Christian asked eagerly.<br /><br />“How am I supposed to tell if she’s good looking?” Shadow replied tartly as she flipped the picture back to him. “So what’s Sweetie Pie’s name?”<br /><br />“Angel Kometka.”<br /><br />Christian. Angel. What was it with these dicks and their religion? Shadow frowned. A simpering little frail like the one in the picture could not have taken off into the wilds of the Border Region on her own. Obviously, she had run off with some guy. But looking into Christian’s boyish face, Shadow didn’t have the heart to tell him that. “So what do you want me to do?” she asked instead.<br /><br />“I made my way up West Virginia on my own okay. But in Wheeling I started to feel like I was out of my depth. Then I saw you handle that guy in that topless bar.”<br /><br />“It was a nudie bar, actually,” she corrected, “but go on.”<br /><br />“Anyway, it occurred to me that here’s someone that knows the Region and can handle trouble. But then you had to go off with the cops. I slipped some money to people around the sheriff’s station and at the stable, and found out that you had left town headed north. So I followed you, but didn’t know how to approach you about something like this. I’m not all that great when it comes to talking to women.”<br /><br />“So I gathered.”<br /><br />“You were headed north, which was the way I wanted to go. I lost you when you crossed over on the ferry. The ferry guy told me that your probable destination was Steubenville. I got a room here, got some sleep, then went out looking for you. I hoped to spot you on the street or in a bar or something. You showed up at that last place. I was going to come over, but then you took off.”<br /><br />“I just wanted to get you alone with a gun in my hand. A woman can’t be too careful around here.”<br /><br />Christian looked abashed. “I’m sorry to be such a bother. So do you think you’ll be heading east, into Pennsylvania?”<br /><br />“That’s Westsylvania,” she told him, “And yes.”<br /><br />“And then what? North or east or south?”<br /><br />“Nosy, aren’t we? Well it just so happens that I am headed up north, but I’m in no great hurry to get there.” Shadow wasn’t particularly wary about giving Christian so much information because she thought he was a puddin’. <br /><br />“Well, that’s perfect. Would it be okay if I tagged along? Like I said, I can pay you.”<br /><br />“Ah, those magic words. How much?”<br /><br />“A thousand dollars a week.”<br /><br />It didn’t take Shadow long to think it over. She suspected that he wasn’t telling her everything, but that was okay. He didn’t give off any sort of dangerous vibe. And if he did try any funny business, he’d be fuckin’-A sorry.<br /><br />“Then I guess we’ll be traveling together,” she told him, “My name is Tamar Lane, but most people call me Shadow.”<br /><br />“Tamar Lane? By any chance named after the conqueror, Tamerlane?”<br /><br />“You’re quick, and a man who knows his history. Yes, but my dad actually got it from Poe. It’s a Border Region thing. Some parents like to give their kids names with weird associations. I have two little nieces named Lois and Margo.”<br /><br />“Margo? Shouldn’t she be called Shadow?”<br /><br />Shadow couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Knows the classics too,” she said, liking him but not trusting him or anyone else. Right now, though, she was more concerned with the three knuckle-draggers who had come in during their conversation.<br /><br />They had seated themselves at a table on the other side of the coffee shop. Shadow had been keeping an eye on them. They were outlaw types, clad in leather vests or jackets. Possibly they were members of one of the old biker gangs like the Pagans that had taken to horseback, but Shadow didn’t notice any insignia. The least of them was bigger than she was, and tell-tale bulges in their clothes indicated that they were armed.<br /><br />The trio had noticed Shadow as well. A troop of baboons in heat could have made it no more obvious. Salacious grins, coarse laughter, elbow pokes to each others’ ribs and other such juvenile antics all made the plan growing in their dim little brains all too plain. Shadow decided to see just how stupid they were.<br /><br />“All done with your pie, Sweetie?” she asked Christian, “Then we should be off.”<br /><br />After leaving the coffee shop, Shadow led Christian across the street and started down the sidewalk. That way a slight turn of her head could bring the coffee shop entrance within range of her peripheral vision. Sure enough, the Stooges came spilling out mere moments later. There hadn’t even been time for their orders to arrive. This left no doubt as to their intentions.<br /><br />“Don’t look back,” Shadow told her companion, “But there are three guys following us. I said don’t look back!”<br /><br />Christian instantly checked his hasty instinctive motion. “Wh-what do they want?” he stammered.<br /><br />“Nuthin’ much. Just to rape me and kill you.”<br /><br />“My God! What do we do?”<br /><br />“Just put your arm around me like we’re a couple.” As Christian did so, Shadow informed him, “I’m going to lead them into an alley and get the drop on them. Worked on you.”<br /><br />Shadow led the trio down a dark street. The three men’s heavy footsteps clearly announced their presence to anyone within earshot. The normal reaction of a woman being followed by strange men would be to seek refuge in a crowded place. Instead she was headed into a more deserted area. This should have roused the trio’s suspicions. To Shadow, the fact that it didn’t was further indication that these three knuckle-draggers didn’t have four brain cells to share amongst them.<br />The trio hung back, curious to see where the man and woman were going. Shadow surprised them by ducking into an alley, leading Christian by the hand. One of the <br />Stooges actually let out a hoot, like he couldn’t believe their luck.<br /><br />In the alley, Shadow flattened herself against a building in the first dark cranny she could find. She told Christian to keep going, “Run! I’ll catch up in a minute.” Christian took off, dashing fleetly down the alley.<br /><br />Momentarily, the three pursuers came rounding the corner. They spotted Christian in his light clothes running away and assumed that Shadow, clad in black, was lost in the gloom ahead of him. They quickened their pace to overtake him. As they rushed past Shadow’s position, she called out to them.<br /><br />“Hey Assholes!”<br /><br />The three halted abruptly, almost stumbling into one another. They turned. Shadow had them covered with her Glock. It would have been far safer for her to have just bushwhacked them, but shooting guys in the back always made her feel icky. If they were smart, they would raise their hands and keep them high in the air as she made them face the wall while she disarmed them. Shadow hoped they were stupid.<br /><br />They were. Asshole number one went for his own gun as soon as he saw her. Good, Shadow thought as she shot him in the face. He clutched at his ruined features as he pitched backwards, dead before he hit the ground. Shadow was already pumping bullets into the chest of a second asshole fumbling for his weapons. He toppled into some garbage cans, knocking them over with a loud crash. The third one almost had his gun leveled at Shadow when he felt her hot lead tearing through his body. The impact of the slugs spun him about as he reeled and fell headlong to pavement.<br /><br />#<br /><br />Up ahead in the darkness, Christian stopped running when he heard the shots. He slumped back against a wall, gulping air. The echo of the gunshots reverberated down the narrow alleyway. Somewhere, a couple of dogs started howling. As the gunshot echoes died away, Christian felt an icy jolt of fear at the sound of approaching footsteps. Then, with relief, he realized that it was just one pair of footsteps.<br /><br />Squinting into the inky blackness, Christian was able to make out the silhouette of a tall figure as it drew near. Another second and Shadow stood before him. Unexpectedly, he found himself struck by her loveliness as she stepped into the patch of soft moonlight that revealed her. Her strange pale beauty was like nothing he had ever seen. The wan moonlight bathed her in its glow. For a brief moment she seemed like some ethereal being, unearthly if not exactly angelic. <br /><br />“Praise the Lord!” Christian gasped. Then the scent of gunpowder that clung to her jostled him from his reverie. “What happened back there?”<br /><br />“Played `em a deadly song on the Glockenspiel,” Shadow said coldly.<br /><br />“Was it necessary?”<br /><br />“Yeah,” she snapped, “They were fuckin’ armed to the teeth.” It was true. The first guy she’d shot had been pulling a Heckler and Koch machine pistol from a shoulder rig. He’d also had a Beretta 9 mm. clipped to his belt for backup. The last guy to go down had been leveling a SIG Sauer .40 at her. The Stooge in the middle was the only one who hadn’t had a chance to draw on her. Gazing coldly down on his corpse, Shadow discovered that he wore a pair of .45 automatics. All three piles of fresh worm food had been carrying a lot more firepower than she had<br /><br />“Look,” she told Christian, “This is nothing to worry about, but we really shouldn’t hang around town. Where’s your bike?”<br /><br />“It’s at the hotel.”<br /><br />Shadow and Christian headed back to the town’s main drag, where a few pub-crawlers were still abroad. For appearances’ sake they played the cute couple. They made an odd pair, to be sure, but opposites do sometimes attract. No one gave them a second glance.<br /><br />There they caught a pedi-cab. This was essentially a bicycle towing a backseat big enough for two people. A few of these were still about despite the lateness of the hour. The cab-drivers all went armed, and there was money to made picking up drunks.<br />At the hotel, Christian retrieved his bicycle and backpack. The old bus station where Shadow had stabled her pinto was not far from there. Before long they were headed north out of town. After a few miles they came to an intact bridge and crossed over the Ohio River back into West Virginia. Now Shadow could breathe a little easier.<br /><br />Surely by this time the Steubenville cops had decided that it was safe to investigate the mess Shadow had left for them in the alley. Law enforcement officials in these parts were notoriously corrupt, not to mention lazy. They were perfectly willing to let the “undesirable” elements thin out their own ranks. This time they would find three heavily-armed thugs that had been out-gunned by a single foe, with the entry wounds in their fronts and the exit wounds in their backs. Nobody would be doing much hand-wringing over them. Right now they were probably being loaded onto the horse-drawn meat wagon. Next stop, the morgue. Final destination, potter’s field.<br /><br />Shadow took comfort in the certainty that no Steubenville officers would come knocking on the doors of their Weirton counterparts any time soon. There was little love lost between the two agencies. If some troublemaker cleared out of Steubenville headed for Weirton, it was Weirton’s problem.<br /><br />Weirton authorities, like those in Steubenville, were content to let the various outlaw factions settle their own disputes, cracking down only if some innocent civilian got caught in the crossfire. If things got too out of hand, they could give a yell for help to the Wheeling authorities or the West Virginia State Police. The arrangement suited just about everyone. The hardcore badasses could drink, drug, fight and screw to their hearts’ content. With the very worst elements “contained” in Weirton, Wheeling was able to thrive as a boomtown. This made its mayor and the governor very happy.<br /><br />There were others, however, who were not so pleased. The Weirton riffraff inevitably spilled over into neighboring Steubenville. In a dying community, there were many purveyors of food, drink, sex, drugs, and other basics willing to profit by catering to the outlaw trade. The fact that the Weirton hot zone had almost immediately spread to encompass Steubenville was the source of the animosity that Steubenville officials felt for Weirton and West Virginians in general.<br /><br />Shadow and Christian got into Weirton late in the wee morning hours. A fog had rolled in. The streets were all but deserted. The town’s revelers had mostly concluded their various debaucheries and had bedded down to sleep it off. The fog enveloped the deserted streets like a shroud. Visibility was poor, but Shadow knew Weirton of old. She guided the pinto unerringly through the mist, Christian walking his bike alongside. They soon reached the center of town.<br /><br />They checked into an old hotel called the Gilman. After corralling the horse in a courtyard to the rear of the building, Shadow returned to the street. She and Christian entered the lobby through the front door, trailed by a few clinging tendrils of fog. Shadow banged on the bell on the worn front desk to summon the night manager, who had been sleeping in a back room. The concierge escorted them up three flights of creaking stairs to a pair of adjoining rooms. Christian awkwardly bid Shadow goodnight, and they retired to their separate quarters.<br /><br />Shadow was pleased to find that her room was reasonably clean and free from vermin. She began to undress for bed. She was clad only in her thong panties and Go-Go Lounge tank top when her finely-honed survival instincts alerted her to some faint noise that seemed out of place. She froze, her keen ears straining to catch and identify the barely audible sound. The concierge had said that the other rooms on this floor were all vacant. Yet the distinct sound of a human voice in a neighboring room was unmistakable. She realized with alarm that it was coming from the room Christian had taken.<br /><br />That little shit! Who was he talking to? She recalled earlier warning signs: him stalking her, that lame story about the girl. Was she being set up after all? But how? They had seen no one else. No one could have followed…<br /><br />Shadow wrestled her racing mind under control. She’d know soon enough, by god. She unholstered the Glock and glided towards the connecting door. She pressed her ear to it. It was his voice alright, but she couldn’t tell what he was saying.<br />Slowly, taking care not to make any noise, Shadow released the deadbolt on her side of the door. The door itself was pretty flimsy. One good shove would bust it right open. Shadow braced herself and butted hard with her shoulder.<br /><br />The door turned out to be neither locked nor bolted on Christian’s side. Shadow was through it in an instant. She had expected more resistance, and her momentum carried her stumbling into the middle of Christian’s room.<br /><br />Jolted by the crash of the door as it was flung open, an astonished Christian looked up to behold a half-naked Shadow, gun in hand, as she came reeling into his room. But Shadow was no less surprised by what she saw there.<br /><br />Christian was by himself. He was kneeling by the bed in his dorky-looking underwear, hands clasped in front of him. Shadow was taken aback for a second, not knowing what to make of what she saw. Then it came to her: Oh yeah, right…he was saying his prayers.<br /><br />“Uh, sorry,” she said, lowering the gun, “I thought you were talking to someone.”<br /><br />“I was,” he said.<br /><br />For a second Shadow looked as though she were poised to deliver some caustic remark, but she didn’t. Her expression softened. “Get some sleep, Church-boy,” she told him.<br /><br />That said, Shadow turned abruptly on her heel and headed back towards the connecting door like she was striding down a runway. She indulged a sudden temptation to flaunt her ass as she walked. Pausing at the threshold, she looked back over her shoulder at Christian and was gratified to see him gawking at her. “Pleasant dreams,” she added with a sly smile before disappearing back into her room.<br /><br />Shadow closed the door behind her. The hinges were a little loose from her shoving through it, but nothing was broken. She locked and bolted it.<br /><br />She stretched out on her bed and sighed contentedly, thinking about Christian in the next room, certain he was thinking about her. She wasn’t normally such a dick-tease, but he’d really bugged her with that praying shit. If he spent the night tossing and turning, it served him right. For her part, she’d be glad just to get some sleep. After having to hightail it out of a different town two nights in a row, she was more than happy to spend what was left of the night here in this room.<br /><br />By the time the first gray light of dawn began to dispel the darkness and the fog outside, Shadow was fast asleep.<br /><br /><em></em>Next: Indian Summer<em></em><em></em><em></em>Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-60410879648408548502008-07-04T19:28:00.000-07:002008-07-17T02:59:36.214-07:00About TWILIGHT'S LAST GLEAMINGIt may sound trite, or bogus, but it came to me in a vision. Over the course of an eleven hour work day --never mind where-- bits and pieces of this future history started coming to me unbidden. By the end of the day, I had over ninety percent of the fictional events I recount in the short version of <em>Twilight's Last Gleaming</em>. I wrote the short version and sent copies to some friends, solely for their and my amusement. I thought that was the end of it. But in the months that followed, more and more details of this imagined future began to reveal themselves to me. Finally, I felt I had enough to undertake the writing of a novel-length chronicle. Over the next year, I did just that.<br /><br />An imaginary future history depicting the world-wide ascendency of Islam, and the fracturing of America along ethnic and religious lines, cannot help but be controversial. That's okay. So long as my fictional future prompts people to think, "<em>That's </em>not what's going to happen, <em>this</em> is...", then it's done its job. I intend for my chronicle to be a provocative work of dystopian fiction, alarming regardless of one's position on the political spectrum, but it is not my purpose to give offense. I honestly believe that most people everywhere would prefer to live and let live, lead normal lives, and go about their business. The strife in the world stems from comparitively small groups of determined trouble-makers. Such is the sad story of humanity. The sole point I wish to emphasize is that we, as a nation and a civilization, cannot be as stupid, lazy, and complacent as we want and still expect to be around. If we are supplanted by a younger, more vigorous civilization, the fault will lie with us and not with them.<br /><br />So if it helps, just think of this as <em>The Road Warrior </em>without Mad Max. It's fiction, after all. As time goes on, I hope to add additional tales using <em>Twilight</em> as a background. I've always wanted to create my own fictional universe, ala Baum's Oz, Burroughs' Barsoom and Pellucidar, Howard's Hyborian Age, Tolkein's Middle Earth, Roddenberry's Federation, Lucas' Galactic Republic. Well, now I have. I intend for my fictional timeline and post-US America to serve as a backdrop big enough for any type of story --action-adventure, techno-thriller, war, drama, Dickensian social commentary, suspense, mystery, and possibly even comedy and romance. <br /><br />The first chapter of the first novel set in what I might as well call "the Twilightverse" appears on this blog. It's a pulp fiction action saga called <em>Guns of the Border Region.</em> More chapters will follow as I create them. I have also included sample chapters from the opening, middle, and concluding sections of the full, book-length version of <em>Twilight's Last Gleaming</em>.Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-32595446779688791602008-07-04T14:06:00.000-07:002008-08-09T13:02:43.058-07:00TWILIGHT'S LAST GLEAMING: A History of the Future (short version)[The following is the short version of my book-length fictional future history, <em>Twilight's Last Gleaming </em>. I made a few changes as I expanded it into a novel length work, and so have made revisions in this short version to bring it in line with the full-length chronicle. Copyright© 2006, 2008 by Charles Hoffman]<br /><br /><br /><br />As America prepared to celebrate its 300th birthday in 2076, the greatest external threat facing the United States was the Islamic Federation of Europe. The Islamic Federation of Europe had existed as a formal political entity for only a few decades, but its roots went back much further. At the dawn of the 21st Century, sizable Muslim minorities already existed in such European nations as France, Denmark, Germany and the Netherlands. As the indigenous populations dwindled, the Muslim population expanded, both through considerably higher birth rates and additional unchecked immigration. Muslims also made remarkable inroads into Spain --formerly ruled by the Moors-- and Sweden, socially experimental as always and open to social engineering schemes.<br /><br />Able to vote and hold office in their adopted countries, European Muslims began to sway elections and determine government policy. Achieving greater and greater prominence in all areas of public life, Islam also succeeded in winning many converts among the younger generations of indigenous Europeans. By 2060, the only countries in Western Europe to remain outside the Islamic Federation were the United Kingdom, Ireland, Italy, and parts of Scandinavia. The Islamic Federation of Europe had grown vine-like upon the framework of the old European Union, inheriting an efficient bureaucracy already in place and gradually consolidating power within a stronger central authority than had previously existed. More ominously as far as the western hemisphere was concerned, the IFE also inherited the formidable arsenals of both the former NATO powers and the Warsaw Pact nations.<br /><br />In the meantime, Islam was roaring its power in its ancient homeland as well. Representative democratic government, which had been successfully transplanted to regions formerly ruled by shoguns, Kaisers and czars, failed to take root in the sands of the Middle East. It had gained a tenuous foothold in places like Afghanistan and Iraq due solely to considerable exertions and patience on the part of the US and its allies, but within a few decades these nations reverted to Islamic theocracy. At first the frameworks of representative government were kept in place, so as to lull the West into complacency and forestall further intervention. However, religious control of those regions returned in swift increments. Elected officials all-too-soon became figureheads placed in power to rubber-stamp the decrees of religious authorities.<br /><br />The Islamic nations of the Middle East formed a powerful coalition with Iran at its center. Interfaith squabbles between Sunni and Shiite factions in the Mid East gradually ceased to be a significant problem due to the cool guidance of the religious and secular authorities of the Islamic Federation of Europe, who soberly arbitrated disputes and fostered cooperation throughout the region. Mid-East oil now flowed freely to Europe, fueling a robust European economy and enriching the nations of the IFE.<br /><br />In the second half of the 21st Century, Islam dominated the Eastern Hemisphere. At this time all of Africa, with the exception of South Africa, was Muslim. The continent as a whole, however, remained impoverished and of marginal importance. Islam also made remarkable inroads in areas of the Far East where it had not hitherto flourished, in India, and also in North America. In the northeastern United States, African-Americans converted to Islam in great numbers, as did many whites.<br /><br />In the US, both officialdom and average citizens viewed the growing power of Islam throughout the Eastern Hemisphere with alarm. Unfortunately, the United States had failed to break its dependence on Mid East oil. Sizeable petroleum reserves in Alaska and off the coast remained untapped due to ecological concerns. Alternative energy sources never got off the ground due to the shortsightedness of business leaders in the private sector. The price of crude oil continued to skyrocket, touching off a series of recessions, panics, and depressions that plagued America throughout the first half of the 21st Century. Widespread unemployment and poverty tore at the social fabric. Yet while the man in the street wept in helpless fury, government found that its hands were tied. Europe and the Mid East held all the aces, and impotent saber rattling was never even considered.<br /><br />One political measure the US did undertake in reaction to Islamic hegemony was to strengthen ties with Catholic Latin America. This entailed pursuing amicable relations with the growing powerhouse that was Mexico.<br /><br />Mexico had grown prosperous in part by adapting an alternative energy plan pioneered by Brazil. Brazil’s primary alternative fuel was ethanol, made from sugar cane. By 2005, seventy-five percent of Brazilian cars were running on flex-fuel, accepting gasoline, ethanol, or a blend of both. Early attempts by Mexico to manufacture ethanol from corn resulted in food shortages. However, Mexico achieved greater success with ethanol derived from sugar imported from Cuba. The economies of both nations benefited as a result. Unprecedented prosperity enabled Mexico to beef up militarily. Mexico’s chief supplier of arms was China, who had since the early 21st Century been expanding its military assistance to Latin America. In this, China was only filling a vacuum left by the United States, the former arms supplier to the region. The US insisted that client nations conform to restrictions in regard to human rights, ecological, and other concerns as a condition for military assistance. China made no such demands.<br /><br />In addition to growing power and prosperity, Mexico also gained in international prestige. Italy, isolated from Muslim Europe, was desperate for support from Catholic Latin America. In due course, the first Mexican pope was elected.<br /><br />In regards to relations with Mexico, US policy was also heavily influenced by an ever-increasing Hispanic population within its own borders. Since the 1970s and earlier, illegal aliens from Mexico had been swarming unchecked across the border in increasingly massive droves. Security at the border was scandalously lax. Border Patrol agents found themselves spread thin and hamstrung by government officials who steadfastly ignored the problem until it was too late.<br /><br />By the year 2000, the population of these “illegal immigrants” had swelled to between ten and twenty million, according to various estimates. The majority of those who crossed the border illegally were ordinary people who were just seeking a better life. Even so, they placed a tremendous burden on education and social services designed for US citizens.<br /><br />In California taxes soared, driving businesses and longtime residents to relocate northward and eastward. By 2025, the entertainment industry formerly centered in Hollywood and environs had been completely transplanted to Vancouver. The economy of Southern California was dealt a crippling blow from which it never fully recovered.<br /><br />The other Southwestern border states also experienced difficulties due to the strain placed on government services. Still the flood of illegal aliens continued unabated. A series of amnesty programs, under various guises, served to entice more and more Mexicans to illegally enter the United States. As Mexican and other Latin American immigrants gained legal status, they came to wield increasingly greater political clout.<br /><br />The Hispanic population of the United States was largely Mexican, though not exclusively so. An expanding segment of the population of southern Florida was Cuban. Many of their number arrived as refugees from the oppressive regime of Fidel Castro. The Castro regime had at the outset been abetted by the now-vanished Soviet Union. With the death of Fidel Castro, Cuba turned away from communism. Long-established sanctions against Cuba were lifted as a more progressive government was established there. Even so, few of the Cubans who had been residing in Florida for so long returned to their native soil.<br /><br />Birth rates were also an important factor in the Hispanic population boom. The children of illegal aliens born on American soil were automatically deemed US citizens. The Catholic Church frowned on any sort of birth control, let alone abortion. Hispanic children benefited from the support of large extended families. Meanwhile, birthrates among Anglo-Americans plummeted. Disenfranchised and facing an uncertain future, many men in “rustbelt” areas and elsewhere were reluctant to start families. During the so-called “baby bust,” birthrates among Anglos fell to below replacement levels. Anglos in the Southwest became a minority.<br /><br />A huge percentage of the illegal immigrants failed to assimilate and were, in fact, discouraged from doing so by political leaders that arose in the Mexican-American community. Mexican culture was lauded over American culture. The MEChA movement was active on all University of California campuses and at many other colleges and universities throughout the Southwest --indeed, throughout the United States. The ultimate goal of MEChA was the restoration to Mexico of all territory that had been part of it prior to 1846. The Mexican War of 1846-48 was seen as a blatant land-grab by the US. Activists ignored, or dismissed as irrelevant, the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo signed on February 2, 1848, in which Mexico had been compensated $15 million for its vast, sparsely settled hinterlands. Also ignored was the fact that Mexico had never truly held sway over Arizona and West Texas; in the 1840s these were still the domain of the fierce Apache and Comanche.<br /><br />In any event, a separate culture took shape in the western United States during the early decades of the 21st Century. It was a Hispanic culture that revered both the Spanish culture of Old Mexico and, paradoxically, the Aztec and Mayan civilizations that it supplanted. The Hispanic culture of the West was as different from the Anglo-American culture of the East as the antebellum South had been from that of the industrial North prior to the Civil War of 1861-65. Hispanics came to be regularly elected governor of western states. Representatives and senators from the West were also increasingly Hispanic as time went on. When they went to Washington, many of these staunchly advocated Mexican national interests as well as those of Hispanic Americans. The last Anglo governor of California left office in the late 2020s. In 2046, the MEChA flag was raised at the state house in Sacramento, and at several other western state capitals as well. It was an ironic --and to some ominous-- development that was duly noted at the time.<br /><br /> In the portions of the United States where Anglo-Americans still predominated, there was an upsurge in religious fervor among Christians. This was true among Protestants and Catholics alike. Denominational differences were set aside in the name of Christian solidarity, although fundamentalists in both camps began to eclipse more moderate factions. Commentators deemed the phenomenon an inevitable historic reaction to the worldwide rise of Islam. The philosophy, history, traditions, and art of Christianity was embraced and celebrated. The downside of this trend, however, was a growing fundamentalist stranglehold on various topics of discourse, with a consequent chilling effect on dissenting points of view. Both fine and popular art assumed a uniform blandness. Certain avenues of scientific inquiry and research were abandoned, causing America to lag behind in the sciences. Yet despite these drawbacks, the renewed prominence of <br />Christianity in public life often gained the support of even those with no strong religious beliefs. Many such persons viewed it as a matter of pragmatism, a robust Christianity was seen as a necessary counterbalance to Islam. “It takes a faith to fight a faith” was a frequently heard maxim.<br /><br />However, Islam was alive and well in America. Nowhere did this make for more bitter controversy than in the African-American community. Black Americans in the southern states remained the staunchest of Christians, while inner city blacks in the Northeast and Midwest were increasingly drawn to Islam. White American Muslims also became more common in these areas, joining with the Black Muslims and those of actual Mid-Eastern origin or descent. Muslims from other parts of the nation relocated en masse to the Northeast and Midwest, further swelling the Islamic populations there. They were able to swing elections and influence public policy. One result was a weakening of the nation’s defensive and intelligence capabilities.<br /><br />Inevitably, the more radical Islamic factions also made their presence felt. Suicide bombings occurred with mounting frequency in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Cleveland, Detroit and Chicago. These were followed by anthrax outbreaks in several cities, as well as a nerve gas attack in the New York subway that killed over 700 people. Other atrocities ensued. The end result of this activity was a “white flight” from these urban centers so massive that it was referred to at the time as a “rout.” Businesses and the middle class fled like rats from a doomed ship. The municipal tax bases were eroded, setting the stage for urban decay on a scale never before seen in America.<br /><br />In the meantime, the Southwest was making a modest comeback, after a fashion. Traffic had been flowing freely back and forth across the Mexican border for some time. The southwestern US and northern Mexico were evolving together into a semi-autonomous region --at least as far as the US was concerned. In 2060, a Congress in large part Hispanic overrode a presidential veto to declare the border officially open, citing “commerce” as a rationale. Previously, Spanish had been declared an official language of the United States.<br /><br />And so it came to pass that the American Tercentennial of 2076 was celebrated, where celebrated at all, in a lackluster half-hearted fashion. Some wag wryly noted that this in itself was something of a tradition. The Centennial celebration of 1876 had been marred by bitter memories of the Civil War that ended little more than a decade earlier, and the Bicentennial of 1976 had been observed amid the malaise that followed the disastrous Vietnam War and a major political scandal. Even so, the United States of America was, at least in theory, still “one nation indivisible” in 2076. However, the cracks and fissures in the nation were now all too plain to see. One good jolt was all that was needed to shatter the Union into fragments like a piece of cheap crockery.<br /><br /><br />II.<br /><br />That jolt was not long in coming. Just a few years later in 2079, Iran celebrated the 100th anniversary of its Islamic Revolution. It was a milestone that heralded dire events. Before the year was over, the worst fears of western intelligence agencies were realized when Iran and its allies launched an all-out attack on their mutually despised foe, Israel.<br /><br />The state of Israel had been a thorn in the side of the Islamic Middle East for over a century. Iran especially longed to wipe it from the map. Iran was held in check at first by the deterrent effect of America’s military might, and later by the Islamic Federation of Europe. The IFE counseled patience and restraint, bidding Iran to bide its time even as it helped Iran prepare for the day of reckoning. The Islamic world consolidated its power, watching and waiting as America was corroded by internal strife.<br /><br />Iran’s first attack wave came in the form of carefully coordinated air strikes and non-nuclear missile strikes that took out Israel’s defenses. The tiny nation was pounded by further air strikes that paved the way for a later invasion by ground forces.<br /><br />American military response was swift. Aircraft carriers rushed to Israel’s rescue. They could not arrive in time to intercept that crippling first wave, but subsequent Iranian air attacks met with fierce resistance. In an effort to take the fight to the enemy, the latest generations of stealth bombers and cruise missiles struck deep within Iran and its allies.<br /><br />Then, in a lightning move that bespoke much prior anticipation and planning, the Islamic Federation of Europe issued a formal declaration of war against the United States of America. This declaration was so worded that any and all allied of the US were included in this drawing of the battle lines. The battle was quickly joined. Nations around the globe were drawn into the fight as the regional conflict escalated with appalling rapidity into World War III.<br /><br />Within hours of the IFE war declaration, the eastern seaboard of the United States found itself under aerial bombardment. European forces were able to swiftly reach American soil by striking from Greenland. Even before the creation of the Islamic Federation, Europe had begun to establish military installations in Greenland. The IFE subsequently busied itself for decades completing this task. Throughout that period, many warned that Greenland was becoming a huge dagger aimed at the heart of North America. However, this issue was never adequately addressed.<br /><br />In the wake of the first attack, the US Air Force scrambled to neutralize Greenland. The Labrador Sea northeast of Newfoundland became the scene of fierce aerial combat as the air forces of the United States and Canada sought to hold the Europeans in check. The second European attack wave targeted Canadian as well as American defensive installations. Greenland also allowed the European Navy to dominate the North Atlantic. Here epic sea battles were waged on a scale not seen since Jutland.<br /><br />Both on the sea and in the sky, the Europeans were better prepared and more effective. America was essentially fighting blind due to the destruction of its intelligence satellites at the outset of the war. In general, America lagged woefully behind Europe technologically. On one hand, defense budgets had been gutted in favor of social programs and failed social engineering schemes. On the other, distrust of scientists by powerful religious leaders had been influential in retarding technical advances.<br /><br />The British Navy was quick to come to America’s aid in the North Atlantic. No sooner had it set sail than an invasion force from France swept across the English Channel. Britain was now fighting for survival as never before, not even during the Battle of Britain in the Second World War. Not since 1066 had an invading army overrun British soil, but one did so now. Ferocious bloody combat took place in London and other urban centers and throughout the countryside.<br /><br />It did not take long for the conflict to spread to a Pacific theater, making it a true world war. Australia declared solidarity with its English-speaking brethren and at once found itself at war with Indonesia. At this point India became a factor. India joined with Pakistan in backing Indonesia. Boasting a formidable arsenal and an enormous population, India stood poised to deliver the coup de grace to Australia and New Zealand. It was forestalled from doing so only by the timely intervention of an even greater giant, China. China vowed severe consequences should India pursue its present course. India backed down, and soon afterwards hostilities in the Pacific gradually began to subside.<br /><br />In the main theater of operations, the United States was being forced into an increasingly defensive posture. Enemy attacks remained unrelenting, even as America was being crippled from within. Sleeper cells were activated and went into action, striking at military installations and their support facilities, as well as civilian population centers. Most significantly, key areas of infrastructure were targeted for destruction. Highways, bridges, railways, power plants, reservoirs and food supplies were demolished or rendered useless.<br /><br />Within weeks of the outbreak of hostilities, America was fighting wholly on the defensive. The US Government had retreated to the vast, underground Liberty’s Fortress complex in Virginia. In the meantime, Israel was left to fend for itself. Though it resisted valiantly, it was no match for the combined might of Iran, Iraq, Syria and their allies. After weeks of punishing air strikes, ground forces moved into the beleaguered nation. The invaders dealt death and absorbed casualties with the grim fatalism of their creed. At length, every Israeli man, woman and child found alive was put to the sword. Then all temples and monuments, indeed any structures of any type, were demolished. The conquerors of Israel razed it to the ground and salted the earth.<br /><br />Subsequently, an IFE invasion fleet was launched to menace America’s east coast. A portion of the fleet was detached to launch an assault on New York City. The battle plan for this attack was designed to maximize civilian casualties. New York was the epicenter of the American Jewish population. At the behest of powerful clerics, the forces of the Islamic Eastern Hemisphere intended to purge Jews from the New World as they had from the Old.<br /><br />Yet while the eastern United States was ravaged by attacks from within and without, the western states remained virtually untouched. The USA and the IFE traded blows from opposite sides of the Atlantic, but the western US remained protected by the vast Pacific and the absence of a formidable Islamic presence in the Far East.<br />Even so, there was a reluctance to leave the back door unguarded. Valuable troops and materiel sorely needed to defend the besieged eastern seaboard were left in place out west. This caused anguished and indignant voices to be raised among Easterners. The Hispanic Americans of the West had thus far not been threatened, while Anglos in the East were being decimated. [NOTE: The term “Anglo” as used in this account refers to English-speaking Americans regardless of race.] Never was the cultural divide between East and West more glaringly apparent. Over 80 percent of all Americans spoke some Spanish, but the majority of Hispanics spoke only Spanish. Nevertheless, fluent English was an essential prerequisite for service in the US armed forces. Clear communication was always of paramount importance in any sort of military organization or operation. The technical nature of much 21st Century warfare only served to emphasize this. A century earlier Hispanic Americans had been a backbone of the US military, but now they served in scant proportion to their numbers in the general population. Anglos bore the brunt of the fighting, and their bitter memory of the disparity bore repercussions in the post-war period.<br /><br />As the American situation grew more desperate, fears arose that the war would spiral out of control and result in some sort of thermonuclear exchange. Fortunately, nuclear weapons were never utilized in World War III. The time of greatest danger from atomic weapons and other Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMDs) such as chemical and biological agents was actually the early 21st Century. Atomic and hydrogen bombs, though the object of considerable angst, were never deployed during the long Cold War between the United States and the Soviet Union. A nuclear strike by one superpower would bring retaliation in kind, inevitably escalating to global Armageddon. This stalemate was commonly referred to as “Mutually Assured Destruction” (or “MAD”), and actually had a chilling deterrent effect that decreased the likelihood of the USA and USSR sliding into a shooting war.<br /><br />After the internal collapse of the Soviet empire, the chief threat from WMDs was in their potential use by terrorists. Various rogue agencies espousing Islam aimed to break the will of their ideological foes, rather than seize territory or capital as in traditional warfare. Terrorists operated outside the auspices of any nation, although nation-states could and did support these networks covertly. An invisible menace without borders, terrorist networks were immune from similar retaliation. Thus it was now possible for an American city to go up in an atomic fireball without it sucking the rest of the world into a nuclear conflagration.<br /><br />Ironically, this danger decreased as radical Islamic factions came to power in more and more nations. Now that these formerly outlaw elements were “on the map” with clearly defined borders and political centers, they could be targeted for a counterstrike. Therefore, when World War III broke out, nuclear weapons were not deployed. As in the previous century, no one wanted to open that can of worms.<br /><br />Nevertheless, the mere fact that everyone dreaded the specter of nuclear warfare didn’t remove it from the realm of possibility. As America found itself reeling, nuclear options began to be considered. As these murmurs reached the ears of its enemies, a ceasefire and armistice were conveniently proffered by Europe. IFE representatives sensibly pointed out that the original root cause of the war was now moot. Israel was no more, and the Jewish voice in America had been muted. Few were left to champion the cause of Israel. The Islamic powers could afford to be magnanimous. They stood to gain considerable concessions from a chastened America. Even if these concessions fell short of Islam’s ultimate ambitions, the compromise was an acceptable one. There would be other wars and Islam was patient. The guns fell silent and peace talks began.<br /><br /><br />III.<br /><br />The Third World War had been short, swift and vicious, like the whirlwind of fangs and claws that ensues when two wildcats fight. The talks that followed dragged on longer than the duration of the war itself. Still, the dust finally settled and a new world order was in place.<br /><br />The United Kingdom was forced to accept the yoke of Islam. Britons were faced with the choice of conversion or becoming second-class citizens of their own country. Most accepted the latter indignity as an alternative to complete capitulation. Britain became a minor satellite of the Islamic Federation of Europe.<br /><br />China, on the other hand, emerged from the war with its stature enhanced. It took full advantage of the opportunity to reclaim Taiwan. The United States, having been brought to its knees, was in no position to interfere, and no one else was terribly concerned about the matter. Before long, China also assisted North Korea in its conquest of the South. Ironically, however, it was the capitalist culture of South Korea that was subsequently nurtured by China. China had long viewed the rise of the Islamic world with wariness and growing displeasure. A thriving Pacific Rim was seen as an essential bulwark against the further spread of Islam. Therefore China came to encourage capitalistic enterprise in Korea, Taiwan and Japan, which became a vassal of China.<br /><br />America emerged from World War III torn and bloodied. Much of the Northeast lay in smoking ruins. The infrastructure was fragmented. Many regions were without water and power. Foodstuffs rotted in warehouses because they could not be transported to starving areas. Much of the nation’s navy had been sunk, and its arsenal had been depleted. Postwar America was weakened and vulnerable.<br /><br />The armistice that America was obliged to accept included the provision that the citizens of states with heavily Muslim populations be “allowed to” vote to establish an autonomous region in which Islamic law was the highest legal authority, superseding the Supreme Court and even the United States Constitution. Such elections were held in a dozen states in the Med Atlantic and Great Lakes regions. The measure passed in all but a few of these states.<br /><br />This development did not go unopposed. Trouble first flared up in Southwestern Pennsylvania. Angry citizens there were loath to accept a condition imposed by a popular vote tipped by populous Muslim strongholds like Philadelphia and other cities in the eastern part of the state. The southwestern counties flamed in riot and open rebellion. Rebel leaders issued a manifesto declaring that states opting for Islamic religious rule had for all intents and purposes seceded from the Union; if secession were the order of the day, then they would secede from Pennsylvania. All the counties south of Meadville and west of the Alleghenies soon separated from the rest of Pennsylvania by mutual agreement. The secession movement spread like wildfire as other affected states followed suit. The southern rural regions of states like Ohio and Illinois broke away from the more urbanized areas of the North.<br /><br />What would become the Islamic States of America included all of New York, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhode Island, and New Jersey, as well as vast parts of Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Michigan. In the meantime, the hardy Southwestern Pennsylvanians joined with the equally stalwart West Virginians in the formation of a semi-autonomous buffer zone insulating the Christian South from the Islamic North. In time this would include all of the Ohio River Valley and environs, and become known as the Border Region.<br /><br />These momentous developments sent shockwaves through the West as well. The citizens of the Southwestern states overwhelmingly favored leaving the Union and joining Mexico. They made this known both through their elected representatives and by taking to the streets in protest. Mexico itself added its voice to theirs, politely insisting that citizens of those states be allowed to “determine their own destiny.”<br /><br />Back east, editorial cartoons of a weeping Abraham Lincoln failed to move many. The West had come through the war relatively unscathed, to the resentment of many in the East. America’s loss of the war was blamed on the nation’s lack of cohesion. Critics were quick to point to Southwesterners’ longstanding embrace of Mexican, rather than American culture. If these states left the Union, they would take their representatives in Congress with them; their influence on American policy would vanish.<br /><br />Within a year the entire states of California, Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico left the United States to join Mexico. Of the Southwestern states, only Texas split in two as Pennsylvania had. The Big Bend area of West Texas that included El Paso joined Mexico, as did all the regions south of Austin. The rest of the state remained in the Union. Before leaving San Antonio, Anglos there dynamited the Alamo to prevent it from falling into Mexican hands.<br /><br />Both the secession of the Southwest and the establishment of the Islamic States came to be seen as a blessing in disguise by certain commentators. The Northeastern states lay in ruins and the cost of rebuilding would be staggering. If they left the Union, however, they were no longer America’s problem. Let the Europeans help the Northeast to rebuild, some reasoned; after all, they were the ones who wrecked it in the first place.<br /><br />These commentators regarded the “downsizing of America” in a positive light. It was thought that America could get back on its feet faster if certain problem areas were no longer parts of it. “Smaller is better” and “leaner and meaner” became popular mottos. Others simply snorted “Good riddance” in regards to the departing states.<br /><br />Unfortunately, secession did not end there. Within five years the northern New England states of Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont, cut off from the rest of the Union by the Islamic States, were clamoring to leave the Union and join Canada. A weary Federal government caved to their demands. In due course Oregon and Washington, along with the northern panhandle of Idaho and the upper peninsula of Michigan, were joined to Canada. However, Canadian gains of US territory were offset by the loss of Quebec. Secession fever had spread to Canada, and Quebec finally realized its long-sought goal of independence. Quebec had long been the world center of French language and culture, now all but extinct in France.<br /><br />Canada and Mexico were not the only nations to gain from the break-up of the American Union. Apart from the Southwest, the largest concentration of Spanish-speaking Americans was to be found in southern Florida. These were of mostly Cuban descent. In 2093, all of Florida south of the Panhandle left the US to form a union with Cuba.<br /><br />Throughout the final decade of the 21st Century, what was left of the United States continued to struggle to haul itself out of the abyss into which it had been plunged. In doing so, the nation redefined itself along the way. Almost half of its former territory had been lost. What remained consisted of the Southeastern states, with the notable exception of Florida, and the still sparsely populated central states such as Montana, Wyoming, and the Dakotas. The political, economic and cultural life of the recovering nation centered in what had been the Old South of two hundred and fifty years earlier.<br /><br />It became common to refer to the South, and by extension the downsized nation as a whole, as “the New American Confederacy.” The term was spoken with a tone of irony at first. It was frequently observed that this new “Confederacy” had not seceded from the Union --rather, the Union had seceded from it! And unlike the old Confederate States of America, the new Confederacy was not built on the rotten foundation of racism and slavery. Rather, the new nation that was being erected on the ash heap of the old was the work of both black and white --brothers and sisters all, united in Christ.<br /><br />One thing the New Confederacy did have in common with its predecessor was a lessening of the power held by the central authority of the Federal government, with greater autonomy being retained by individual states and regions. As a result of this trend, certain states became, for all intents and purposes, miniature nations. In Utah, the population was overwhelmingly Mormon and elected to return to their old ways. Polygamy was reinstated with nary an objection from the Federal government. Since such once-unthinkable concessions had been granted to American Muslims, not much of a case could be made for denying the same considerations to the Mormons, who were at least Christians. Alaska also began to function more and more independently of the central government. In the meantime, a whole separate culture was taking form in the Ohio River Valley’s Border Region. Places like Utah, Alaska, and the Border Region were neither wholly in nor wholly out of the Union, or rather the Confederacy, as it increasingly came to be called.<br /><br />As the map of North America was redrawn, the populations of various areas were uprooted and transplanted to different locations. Asian Americans on the West Coast had been drifting northward for decades. Those of Chinese, Japanese, Filipino and other Asian descent formed enclaves in the northernmost regions of California, now part of Mexico; in Oregon and Washington, now part of Canada; in British Columbia and in the southern panhandle of Alaska. Christians in Michigan migrated to the Upper Peninsula, which seceded from the state and the nation to join Canada. The Amish of Eastern Pennsylvania joined those in the sundered western part of the state to occupy the northeastern fringe of the Border Region. In time the Amish came to adopt a more militant stance, becoming the watchmen along the border with the Islamic States of America.<br /><br />Hawaii loosened its ties to the rest of the country, now without a west coast, as it became a thriving crossroads of the commerce conducted by the nations of the Pacific Rim. In time Hawaii became a protectorate of Japan. More notable, however, were the formal declarations of nationhood on the part of the Islamic States of America and the New American Confederacy.<br /><br />For twenty years the Muslims in the former northeastern US labored to create an Islamic nation in the Western Hemisphere. For a time they were governed from the various state capitals by local religious leaders who worked with their counterparts in the other states in an informal committee. The actual rebuilding of the war-ravaged areas was accomplished, as predicted, with foreign aid courtesy of the Islamic Federation of Europe. In the meantime, leaders worked to construct a more permanent government and draft a constitution. This constitution was ratified in the fall of 2100. A fully independent Islamic States of America now took its place among the nations of the world. A yearlong celebration concluded on September 11, 2101, when a monument commemorating the martyrs of a century earlier was unveiled in New York at the former site of the World Trade Center.<br /><br />To the south, in what only the elderly still insisted on calling the United States, there was a growing movement calling for a new constitutional convention. The old fifty-star flag still flew on flagpoles across the land, but to many it seemed a mockery --a symbol of ignominious defeat. A whole generation had now been born and grown up in a fragmented Union. Those a little older, who had been children when war came, remembered the fifty-state Union only dimly. So it came to pass that the constitutional convention was held, that the nation might officially become what it had long been in fact.<br /><br />In 2105, the New American Confederacy was formally adopted as the name of the reborn nation. Optimists referred to the period of the constitutional convention itself as the “Era of Rebirth.” The terms “reborn” and “born again” were used frequently, since America had been “born again” in Christ. The New Constitution mandated that citizens at least pay token service to some form of Christian faith. This was in some measure a matter of practicality; the few remaining Muslims in the Confederacy were obliged to relocate to the Islamic States. Persons of other faiths, free thinkers and nonconformists found new homes in Alaska and the Border Region. Alaska did not ratify the New Constitution, opting instead to become an independent republic.<br /><br />The Confederacy flag retained thirteen red and white stripes to acknowledge an esteemed past, but in the blue field all the stars were gone. Instead, the blue field was divided into four quarters by a white cross. This was not the only break with the past. Throughout the tumultuous post-war decades, the Federal government had been conducted from Liberty’s Fortress. An elaborate complex called Liberty’s City was constructed adjacent to it. Liberty’s City was now designated the new nation’s capital.<br /><br />In Washington DC, the monuments and artifacts of the Old Union were preserved and honored. Yet latter day tourists visiting the former capital often felt as if they had come instead to Cairo, a place of museums housing relics of a long-vanished empire. They felt stained by the dust of antiquity, and came less and less to visit. Washington became a necropolis.<br /><br />The whole world had changed. It was entering an age of warring faiths. Islam had already established a formidable beachhead in the Western Hemisphere. Islam may have even encompassed the whole globe in time, but here the vision grows hazy. It made little difference to the passing generation of Americans. With the adoption of the New Constitution, with the unfurling of the new flag, the last feathers had fallen from the molting American eagle. The United States of America, as it had been known to history, had ceased to exist.<br /><em></em><em></em><em></em>Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-50240117194599954532008-06-29T16:31:00.000-07:002010-05-09T17:13:13.651-07:00Guns of the Border Region: Prologue and Chapter One[The following is the prologue and opening chapter of a new novel I'm working on set in the universe of <em>Twilight's Last Gleaming</em>. It is my intention that the fictional universe and timeline I've created serve as a backdrop for any type of story. For the first one, I've decided to cut loose and go with an action-adventure, pure pulp fiction. Subsequent chapters will appear as I complete them. Copyright 2008 by Charles Hoffman.]<br /><br /><br />PROLOGUE<br /><br />In the year 2079, the world was rocked by a war the likes of which it had not seen in well over a century. Nations around the globe were drawn into the conflict, but the main antagonists were the United States of America and the Islamic Federation of Europe. America, already in decline, proved no match for the ascending power of Islamic Europe.<br /><br />During the war’s decades-long aftermath, the American Union broke apart. The Southwest rejoined Mexico, and southern Florida aligned itself with Cuba. Other states seceded to join Canada or become small independent nations.<br /><br />The Northeastern and Midwestern states were, by the late 21st Century, home to large populations of American Muslims. Under the terms of America’s surrender treaty, these states were to be permitted to adopt Islamic law as their supreme legal authority, superseding even the United States Constitution. In time these states achieved full independence and formed the Islamic States of America.<br /><br />Meanwhile, the political, commercial and cultural life of what was left of the United States had slowly become centered in what had been the Old South prior to the American Civil War of 1861-65. This section, and the downsized nation as a whole, came to be commonly referred to as the New American Confederacy. Early in the 22nd Century, a new Constitution was ratified. Among its provisions was the stricture that only Christians could be full-fledged citizens. The name “New American Confederacy” was formally adopted. The Old Union was no more.<br /><br />Between the Islamic States of America and the New American Confederacy lay the Border Region. This area originally consisted of non-Islamic areas of Islamic-majority states that had broken away. In time, however, it included the entire Ohio River Valley and the whole state of West Virginia. The term “Border Region” referred to a location rather than a political entity. With the exception of West Virginia, government was conducted solely at the city and county level. The Border Region was essentially a patchwork of small fiefdoms, with the major urban centers functioning along the lines of ancient Greek city-states.<br /><br />The people of the Border Region were united chiefly by an independent spirit and a libertarian philosophy. The societies of both the Islamic States and the New American Confederacy, on the other hand, tended to emphasize conformity. Consequently, the Border Region became home to numerous free thinkers, non-conformists, misfits, rogues, entrepreneurs, outlaws, and adventurers.<br /><br /><br /><br />CHAPTER ONE -- WILD NIGHT IN WHEELING<br /><br />The setting sun still reddened the western sky, but already the dives and fleshpots of Wheeling were roaring. Bars, clubs, gambling dens and bawdy houses were all crammed full of rowdy patrons. Located in West Virginia’s northern panhandle, a slim finger thrust between southern Ohio and Westsylvania, Wheeling had by the early 22nd Century become known far and wide as a booming crossroads for the countless travelers, wanderers and wastrels that traversed the Border Region.<br /><br />Hot nightspots were scattered throughout the city, but the greatest concentration of the wilder venues were to be found across the railroad tracks from the main part of town, where the Ohio River flowed darkly southward before turning west. Here in the old section, winding narrow streets, their asphalt worn away to expose the underlying brick, formed a tangled maze lined by garishly lit taverns, strip clubs, and other establishments offering various forms of raucous entertainment. Rain-slick sidewalks reflected the lurid glare of multi-hued neon blazing forth from the buildings’ colorful facades. Barkers stood near some entrances, loudly hawking the pleasures to be found within in an effort to entice the throngs of passers-by. It was a warm night. Throbbing music and shrill laughter blared from open doorways. Meat grilling in open stalls and on tiny food carts scented the air with its savory aroma.<br /><br />To this dark carnival-land came the woman called Shadow. She strode boldly down the center of the street, spurs jangling on her heavy boots. Clad in a long black duster, the young woman stood over six feet in her boot heels. The upturned collar of the duster framed a delicate-featured face that yet conveyed a hawkish toughness. Her long straight black hair was parted in the middle to reveal a high contemplative forehead and the keen eyes of an observer. Her thin nose and lips gave her pale features a dour cast.<br /><br />Shadow had just hit town and was looking for kicks. She had spent the long summer in the western reaches of the Border Region cultivating her gardens. A bumper crop of reefer had left her flush, and now she was headed back up the long trail to her native Westsylvania. There she would tend to other enterprises before settling in for winter. But first she was stopping off in Wheeling, her old stomping grounds, for what she trusted would be a truly memorable party night.<br /><br />For right now, however, the drinking and carousing could wait. After weeks of subsisting mainly on foodpaste, Shadow’s first order of business was a real meal. To that end, she headed straight for Wotan’s Carving Board.<br /><br />Wotan’s was a popular eatery that saw a lot of the rough outlaw trade. It resembled nothing so much as an old Viking mead hall. Rows of rude wooden tables and benches filled most of the vast interior. Whole hogs and sides of beef roasted over open flames, sending tendrils of blue smoke curling to the rafters. Elsewhere, steaks and chops were being grilled. It was only early evening, but Wotan’s was already crammed to near capacity with hungry feasters come to gorge and guzzle.<br /><br />Shadow scanned the crowd as she entered Wotan’s, acknowledging the greetings of fellow patrons who knew her of old. She made her way to a table near one of the fire pits. Because of the heat of both the flames and the many bodies that surrounded her, she removed her duster before taking her seat.<br /><br />Shadow doffed the garment with a shrug of her supple shoulders, a move that drew appreciative glances. Many of the outlaws and adventurers of the Border Region enjoyed dressing the part. Shadow was no exception. Beneath the duster, much of her superb young body was bared. What little she wore was mostly black. Tight boots came to just below her knees, and studded gauntlets encircled her wrists. Crotch-hugging leather pants clung to her powerful thighs and full womanly ass like a coat of lacquer. Above the waist she wore only a scanty bra of PVC. Her exposed body was white as fresh cream, typical of one bred in the cloudy, darkly wooded hill country of Westsylvania. A tribal design had been tattooed onto her right upper arm, and a small ring piercing her navel adorned her rippled drum-tight abs. Her breasts were splendidly shaped, but not overly large. Shadow was built for action.<br /><br />The sole spot of color in her apparel was the military utility belt that hung snuggly about her hips. It supported an assortment of olive green pouches and a bowie knife in a worn brown leather scabbard. The knife’s blade was narrower than that of the traditional “iron mistress,” but the clip point design was unmistakable. Jutting hilt first from the woman’s left hip, it could be unsheathed, sword-like, with a quick cross-draw motion. Travelers stopping in Wheeling were required to check their firearms with the local sheriff’s office, but other weapons could be worn openly.<br /><br />Shadow seated herself and ordered her meal. She and several table mates agreed to split a whole ham. As the waiter departed with their order, Shadow added, “Bring me a pitcher of 33 to wash it down.”<br /><br />33 was a beer brewed in Latrobe, in the Laurel Highlands of Westsylvania. During the 20th Century, the Latrobe Brewery had produced a pale lager called Rolling Rock. Originally a local brew, it grew in popularity and came to be distributed throughout the Old Union. Early in the 21st Century, a major national brewing company had purchased the Rolling Rock brand name and moved production of the beer to New Jersey. Now, over a hundred years later, New Jersey was part of the Islamic States of America. No alcoholic beverages, including the ersatz Rolling Rock, were produced there any longer. A few years ago, however, a group of enterprising Westsylvanians had refurbished and reopened the old Latrobe Brewery. The beer they made there was brewed identically to the original Rolling Rock. The name of their brew derived from the enigmatic number “33” that had appeared on Rolling Rock bottles.<br /><br />Shadow had nearly finished her first mug of 33 when the feast arrived steaming on a heavy wooden platter. The ham was actually a whole haunch of half-wild boar, a Wotan’s house specialty. Eschewing the steak knife in front of her, Shadow hacked off hunks of meat with her bowie knife. She then stuck the bowie point first into the wooden table, within easy reach. The boar meat was far more savory than any ham from a factory farm hog; it was the rich dark purple of port wine and flaked apart like good tuna. A whole loaf of fresh bread, still warm from the oven, accompanied the ham. Shadow tore off a big piece and slathered it with butter. Potatoes and a large wedge of tangy yellow cheese completed the repast. Shadow fell to with gusto.<br />As she ate, Shadow studied the crowd more closely. West Virginians and Westsylvanians predominated, along with others from elsewhere in the Border Region. Many, like Shadow, were of the footloose roving breed. There was also a smattering of Muslims come down from the Islamic States to the north to partake of forbidden earthly delights. Likewise, some goody-good Christians from the New American Confederacy had traveled up from the south to go slumming in the Border Region’s wildest town. That could be a dangerous pastime, but too bad if they didn’t know how to look out for themselves. Shadow also noticed some darker complexions that bespoke origins still further south --Mexico or Cuban Florida.<br /><br />After eating her fill, Shadow rose to take her leave. She plucked the bowie knife from the table, wiped it clean, and re-sheathed it. Slipping on her duster, Shadow exited Wotan’s. Time for bar-hopping and some serious drinking.<br /><br />Shadow headed off down the street in her long-legged stride, the long unfastened duster billowing out behind her. At length she came to a cozy little bar she had frequented in times past. The place had no name, just a neon sign hung above the door that said “Bar.” Shadow entered the dimly-lit tavern and traversed a floor strewn with sawdust and peanut shells to seat herself at the bar.<br /><br />The bartender smiled in recognition and shoved a drink across the bar to her. He had remembered her favorite, Jack Daniel’s with Mountain Dew for mixer. Shadow sipped the drink as she took in her surroundings. Behind an assortment of liquor bottles, a mirror ran the length of the bar. This afforded her a view of the entire place. Whenever she went to a bar, club, or other public place, Shadow always seated herself in a location that gave her the best view of the crowd and the exits. When hanging out in a joint, Shadow wanted to know what was going on in every square foot of it.<br /><br />There was a television behind the bar. Broadcast and cable TV were things of the past in most of the Border Region, but the bar’s set was hooked up to a deck capable of playing home videos in a variety of formats dating clear back to Betamax. Right now the set was showing an old black-and-white monster movie from the mid-20th Century called <em>The Creature Walks Among Us</em>. A character in the movie remarked that mankind was poised midway between the jungle and the stars. After several more Jack-and-Dews, Shadow was moved to reflect that mankind had backslid quite a bit since the movie had been made.<br /><br />By now Shadow had caught a good buzz, yet gave no outward sign that she had a few drinks under her belt. She had an uncanny knack for holding her booze. Shadow never got so drunk or high that she couldn’t snap back to stone cold sobriety in an instant should the situation require it. When the movie was over, she left the bar to go in search of one with a pool table.<br /><br />Before long she found a place called Antonio’s that had several tables, so there was no waiting. After hanging up her duster, she moved to one of the empty ones. A guy who seemed pretty nice asked to play, and a few minutes later they were engaged in a friendly game.<br /><br />It didn’t take her long to draw a crowd of spectators. Most of the men in the bar, as well as many of the women, were looking her way. Shadow in any kind of action was an incredible sight. Circling about the pool table, planning her next shot, she looked like a panther softly stalking its prey. Bending over to take the shot, she exposed breathtaking flashes of her luscious milk-white cleavage. The overhead light illuminated the supple play of her toned muscles moving smoothly under her skin.<br /><br />When she finished her game with the nice guy, others were waiting. A big guy with an attitude nudged the nice guy rudely aside. He seemed a little drunk. Shadow was adept at sizing up people at a glance. Taller and heavier than Shadow, he looked to be a former athlete gone to fat. Some ex-jocks had personality problems and could be dangerous. Shadow was willing to humor him, but only up to a point.<br /><br />Shadow agreed to play him, rather than create a scene. Not playing at her best, she still beat him handily. Other men were eager to shoot pool with Shadow, just for the pleasure of her company. But her present opponent had something to prove, and insisted on playing her again.<br /><br />“Okay, Mac,” Shadow agreed pleasantly, “You’re on. Care to make it interesting?”<br /><br />Ego-driven, Mac accepted Shadow’s wager. He was not a bad player, just not as good as he thought he was. Shadow made a show of her superior skill, executing difficult shots, pointing out which balls she intended to sink into which pockets and then doing it. She hoped Mac would get the message that he was outclassed and back off while he was not too far behind.<br /><br />Unfortunately, Mac was none too bright. To make matters worse, his equally oafish friends were egging him on. Thanks guys, Shadow thought. After losing the bet, he still wasn’t ready to quit. “Aw, c’mon,” Mac pleaded, “Just give me a chance to win back my money.”<br /><br />“Alright,” Shadow sighed, “You asked for it.”<br /><br />By now, the full attention of nearly all the bar patrons was focused on the one-sided contest between Mac and Shadow. Two more games, and Shadow had cleaned him out.<br /><br />Not surprisingly, Mac was a sore loser. The jibes of his buddies and the laughter of the women in the bar did little to sooth his temper. “You bitch,” he spat, “You hustled me.”<br /><br />Shadow knew well from past experience that it was pointless to try to reason or argue with morons. But for the sake of the bystanders, she made the effort.<br /><br />“I did not set you up,” she said slowly, careful to speak clearly and use direct simple language, “I did not pretend to be lousy to sucker you in. You could have quit any time. Dig?”<br /><br />Mac wasn’t buying it. “You owe me money or ass,” he snarled, and made a grab for her. Shadow swatted his hand away. Mac cocked back a clenched fist and swung. Shadow wasn’t about to take chances with a bigger, stronger opponent. Before he could connect, she kicked him in the balls hard enough to lift him off the ground.<br />It was a front snap kick, perfectly executed. Shadow’s booted foot crashed sickeningly into Mac’s testicles. He flew up and back like a puppet on strings. Mac thudded against the bar, then slid down to the floor. He lay there shivering for a second before disgorging a thick puddle of vomit.<br /><br />Shadow glowered down at him. Hopefully he would stay down long enough for her to get out of there without further incident. No such luck. Mac’s friends helped him to his feet. Shadow backed away slowly, keeping her eyes on her foe to determine if there was any fight left in him.<br /><br />There was. Mac stalked forward, his face an inhuman mask of rage. Even through her considerable annoyance, Shadow was impressed by his ability to take a ball shot and recover so quickly. Mac snatched up one of the pool cues from the table. Shadow grabbed the other one. Mac swung his cue like a club, aiming the thick end at Shadow’s head. Shadow gripped her cue with both hands, quarterstaff style, and raised it to block. So powerful was Mac’s blow that it actually snapped Shadow’s cue in half.<br /><br />Shadow jumped back as Mac’s cue whizzed past her head. She shifted her grip on the broken cue halves and bored back in, wielding the pieces like a pair of fighting sticks. Trained in Filipino kali, Shadow could launch an effective attack with weapons in both hands. Her first blow smashed Mac’s own weapon hand, causing his cue to slip from his numbed fingers. Filipinos called this “defanging the serpent.” Shadow then used her sticks to batter Mac to the floor. This time he stayed there.<br /><br />“How ‘bout you assholes!” Shadow roared at Mac’s cronies. Dumbstruck, they were quick to shake their heads vigorously back and forth and raise their hands in appeasement gestures. Shadow spat in disgust, cast her broken pool cue away, and left.<br /><br />#<br />Shadow went to another bar and grill to chill out. She downed several tequila shots, followed by an ice-cold bottle of beer. She had eaten a heavy meal early in the evening, but the fight had whetted her appetite. Hot dogs were sizzling on a grill behind the bar. The wieners were the kind with the natural casing, the only kind Shadow considered worth eating. Shadow ordered two hot dogs, indicating the ones that had been on the grill the longest. A devotee of the crunchy hot dog, she savored the crispy snap as she bit into her first dog.<br /><br />As she munched on hot dogs and drank more beer, Shadow contemplated her next move. All the trouble notwithstanding, her win at the pool table had left her feeling that she was on a lucky streak. There was a little casino not far away where card games went on all night. Shadow was in the mood for some poker. Maybe she could win herself a pretty big pot. A malicious little grin formed on her thin lips, exposing sharp white predatory teeth. Why not? After all, she would be playing with Mac’s money.<br /><br />#<br />When Shadow reached the Monte Carlo Casino, she headed straight past the slots, roulette and other sucker games to the back rooms where cards were being dealt. It didn’t take her long to find a game. A guy had just folded and hot chicks were always welcome at the card table. <br /><br />Shadow was dealt in. She spent the first hands taking the measure of the three other players. One was a Southern swell who liked the action but didn’t seem like a serious player. At least he looked like he could afford to lose. Next to him was a non-descript looking guy who appeared to be in his late thirties. Shadow quickly pegged him as a formidable card sharp, but that was okay -- so was she. The last guy was kind of young, with an annoying habit of laughing at remarks that weren‘t particularly funny. He was pretty good, but not in her league.<br /><br />Shadow felt that she had her work cut out for her. It would take a little time to build some momentum. Snacks and beverages were available. Shadow had some sushi and a bottle of Mad Dog 2020 brought to the table. Then she got busy.<br /><br />Shadow raised frequently to get more money into the pot. Between her and the non-descript card sharp, they cleaned out the swell in fairly short order. Then they were left to battle it out, with the laughing guy hanging back and studying their moves. Shadow wasn’t afraid to raise the bet even when she held a weak hand; she didn’t want to be observed never to bluff, thereby cautioning her opponents when the good cards did come her way.<br /><br />Several more hands were played out. Shadow rode out the ebb and flow, keeping even over the long run and then surging ahead. The card sharp realized that he had met his equal, and that Lady Luck had deserted him. He quit the table with a courtly bow that conveyed his respect.<br /><br />That left the other guy. Shadow wondered if his annoying laughter was done deliberately to unsettle opponents. Not that it mattered; Shadow did not want for steady nerves.<br /><br />As it turned out, her final opponent played a pretty good game. He won several hands in a row. More through luck than skill, he raked in a pretty big chunk of Shadow’s money. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the sense to quit while he was ahead. Shadow had more than enough money left to keep the game going long enough to recoup her losses. It finally ended when her Ace-high flush of hearts beat his Queen-high flush of diamonds. He finally realized that he had lost all he could afford to and then some.<br /><br />Shadow stood up, began folding money and stuffing it into the larger pouches of her utility belt. Her defeated opponent sat dumbfounded. Finally he rose unsteadily and glared at her.<br /><br />“You bitch,” he said sullenly, “You cheated.”<br /><br />Not again, Shadow thought. She snarled, “Up yours, Laughing Boy! Sorry you lost at cards to a girl. Next time stick to Old Maid.”<br /><br />She shifted into a fighting stance, waiting for him to try something. He didn’t. Shadow turned and took her leave.<br /><br />That’s it, Shadow thought as she went into the street. No more gambling! Time to go dancing.<br /><br />#<br />The Metropol was the hottest dance club in Wheeling. It was a refurbished industrial facility with new metallic décor designed to complement existing fixtures. The club boasted superior lighting and sound systems. In many rural areas of the Border Region, there was still no electricity decades after the War. The cities and larger towns were usually well supplied, however. There was plenty of juice to power Metropol’s all-night revelry.<br /><br />Throbbing techno music pulsated over the crowded dance floor. Shadow was in the center of the throng, soaking up the rhythm, letting it move her. She had been tense after sitting so long playing cards. Remaining stationary for any length of time tended to make her restless. She had to get out on the dance floor and move.<br />When she danced, Shadow typically found herself the center of much male and female attention. That was okay. This was a pretty nice crowd; no assholes so far. Plus, she had spotted some familiar friendly faces. Shadow relaxed and felt the tension seep out of her muscles.<br /><br />After awhile, she took a break. She was greeted by a blonde punkette named Phoenix, a former acquaintance. Phoenix had some interesting news.<br /><br />“They’re having an amateur contest tonight at the Go-Go Lounge. You oughta enter it. You were hot out there. You could win first prize.”<br /><br />“It’s probably too late,” Shadow replied.<br /><br />“Not if we hurry. Last I heard it was still going full blast.”<br /><br />Shadow and Phoenix left Metropol and headed straight for the Go-Go Lounge. It was an average sized strip club, a little seedy but not a total dive. They got there just in time. Shadow signed up for the contest, and was scheduled to go on last.<br />As she got ready backstage, Shadow wondered if she wasn’t cheating a little. She had worked as an exotic dancer in the past, although not in Wheeling. She doubted anyone here was aware of it. It had been awhile ago anyway.<br /><br />Moments later, Shadow went on stage. She had doffed her boots and black leather pants. She went out clad in her skimpy PVC bra and matching thong panties. The military belt, bowie knife and all, remained fastened tightly about her waist. She was greeted by scattered applause as the spotlight hit her.<br /><br />The music started, generic hard rock characterized by heavy bass and a pulsing backbeat. Dancing at the Metropol had already warmed her up and she merged easily with the rhythm. Shadow strutted up and down the runway in time to the beat, hips swaying seductively. She smiled down into a sea of lustful male faces, meeting their gazes with her own, dominating them. With a contemptuous toss of her hair, she headed back to center stage. Guys in the audience moaned at the sight of her full, firm buttocks bared by the tiny thong as she walked away from them.<br /><br />Shadow stepped back onto the main part of the stage as the music’s tempo quickened. Jumping into the air with the grace of a leaping gazelle, she deftly caught the brass stripper pole and hauled herself aloft. Her well-defined arm muscles flexed as she swung herself around the pole, long shapely legs extended. The music slowed once more. Shadow swung her legs up and caught the top of the pole between her tightly crossed ankles. Letting go with her hands, she unbent her body, slowly undulating until she hung suspended upside down, her hair just touching the stage. Shadow’s acrobatics evoked enthusiastic applause.<br /><br />The song ended and another began, one with more of a sexy disco beat. Shadow pressed her hands against the stage to brace herself as her legs released their grip on the stripper pole. In a single fluid motion she flipped back onto her feet and rose majestically to her full height. Shadow stood poised with her back to the audience. Glancing boldly over her shoulder, she transfixed spectators with a sultry bedroom look. Then, with one of her never-fail moves, she reached behind her back and unfastened her bra. As she tossed it aside, Shadow smiled at the audible intake of breath from guys near the stage. Turning about, she strutted back down the runway bare-breasted, flaunting her body like a proud young animal.<br /><br />Returning to center stage, Shadow danced, swaying hypnotically, eyes half-shut, lips softly parted. She ran her hands over her supple body, to the delight of all. As one of her hands brushed against her thong, the languorous look on her face was replaced by a strangely beautiful angry one. Unhooking the thong, she yanked it roughly from between her thighs and cast it from her. It was as though concealing her body with even a tiny scrap of clothing had suddenly become intolerable to her. Save for her belt and wrist gauntlets, Shadow was now gloriously nude. She stood poised, hands on hips, for dramatic effect, allowing her audience to drink in the sight of her. A light sheen of sweat coated her entire body, causing it to glisten as though slick with baby oil. The crowd roared its approval.<br /><br />The music stopped, then started. This was Shadow’s last number. She wanted to make her grand finale a memorable one. She shook back her sweat-dampened hair, then abruptly dropped forward. Catching herself on her hands, she stretched her body horizontally along the length of the runway. In this prone position she did several push-ups that caused the supple muscles of her arms, back, thighs, calves and buttocks to flex and tense. Then she began to glide about on all fours. Meeting the eager gaze of patrons who were now eye-level, she seemed like some young lioness scenting blood.<br /><br />Crawling back to center stage, Shadow remained on hands and knees, her nude body in profile. She began to rock back and forth in time to the music, pushing her hips and ass back as if meeting the thrusts of an invisible lover. The guys in the crowd ate it up. Shifting her position, she faced them frontally once more. Staying on her knees she reared back on her haunches. With head and shoulders flung back, exposing her white neck, she bounced up and down as though she were riding some lucky bastard. As the music ended, she wilted in a graceful bow suggestive of a post-orgasmic swoon.<br /><br />Following Shadow’s set, all the dancers came back on stage. The contest winners were determined by audience applause. Shadow took first prize. Adding it to her gambling winnings, she reflected that this had been a very profitable evening.<br /><br />A little while later, Shadow was at the bar drinking Jagermeister with Phoenix. One of her fans had bought the drinks. He offered her a cigarette.<br /><br />“Thanks,” she said, accepting one, “I don’t usually, but after that I need one.” She rewarded the guy by permitting him to light it for her.<br /><br />Shadow was clad once more in her leather pants and boots. Her bra was missing, however, having been snatched by someone as a souvenir. She stood at the bar smoking and drinking, brazenly topless. Leaning back against the bar, unconsciously picturesque, she studied the unruly crowd.<br /><br />Experience had long since taught Shadow that it was best to spot trouble before it got too close. Case in point: that guy she had beat at poker, Laughing Boy, was in the club and headed her way.<br /><br />“Hiya babe,” he said when he reached her, “No hard feelings. Can I get you a drink?”<br /><br />“Already got one,” Shadow replied coolly.<br /><br />Undaunted, Laughing Boy continued his pick-up routine, “I just got here a little bit ago. I caught the end of your act. You are one hot lady. Listen, I got a room not far from here. We could go back, do some drugs. Have some fun…”<br /><br />“I don’t think so. I’m only in town for tonight. I want to take in as much action as I can.” Shadow was trying to be nice. Instead of just telling him to eat shit, she was giving him a chance to back off and save face. Unfortunately, Laughing Boy wasn’t taking the hint.<br /><br />“Well, how `bout if I go with you and help you spend some dough?” His expression turned sour, “After all, it’s my money.”<br /><br />“Alright,” Shadow groaned, tired of this, “So you’re sore about me shooting you down, and you’re sore about losing money to me. If I were to pay you to fuck me, would that square everything?”<br /><br />Laughing Boy stood dumbfounded, mouth agape. Shadow could sense his brain trying to work. It was like he was actually trying to figure out if she was serious. Shadow wasted no time clarifying matters.<br /><br />“That was a joke,” she said harshly, “Now will you please quit bugging me?”<br /><br />“You lousy whore,” he spat back, raising a clenched fist, “I oughta punch your face in.”<br /><br />“Don’t try it, Laughing Boy,” Shadow warned as she shifted into her fighting stance, “I’ve already kicked the ass of a tougher man than you tonight.” In addition to Filipino stick and knife fighting, Shadow was well trained in Okinawan kenpo karate, judo and Muay Thai. She had nothing to fear from the likes of Laughing Boy. He was no bigger than she was, and his body language told her that he was not skilled. That meant she could put him down without busting him up too badly. She looked forward to teaching him a lesson.<br /><br />The clamor in the bar had died down and patrons stepped back to give them room. Bar fights were not an unusual occurrence at the Go-Go Lounge, but seldom had it been the setting for one like this. Shadow faced her opponent looking like some bare-breasted Amazon; a cruel smile played on her thin lips and her nipples were conspicuously erect.<br /><br />Laughing Boy rushed in aiming a left hook at Shadow’s head. So predictable. She blocked it easily, then stung his face with a couple of quick jabs to loosen him up. When he raised his guard, she snaked an uppercut into his midsection. Her tightly-clenched fist sank into his belly just under the diaphragm, knocking the wind out of him and doubling him over. As he folded, she struck the back of his neck with a well-placed karate chop. Laughing Boy hit the floor.<br /><br />“You’ll never get to Sea World that way!” Shadow smirked as she stood triumphantly over him. Laughing Boy had friends in the bar. One of them came over to help him to his feet. By the time he could stand erect, he was breathing normally.<br /><br />Shadow knew better than to take her eyes off her foe, a fact which saved her life. Standing just a few feet away, Laughing Boy abruptly reached into his shirt, drew a derringer, aimed it at the center of Shadow’s face.<br /><br />Shadow was faster. Even as Laughing Boy’s hand disappeared into his clothes, her bowie was out of its sheath. Cold steel flashed through the air as he took aim. Laughing Boy’s gun hand flew spinning from his wrist in a fountain of blood as Shadow’s razor-sharp blade sliced cleanly through flesh and bone.<br /><br />Laughing Boy howled like a damned soul in torment as he clutched at the stump of his wrist. A bartender applied a makeshift tourniquet to staunch the jetting blood. Leaning on his friend, Laughing Boy staggered towards the exit.<br /><br />Looking down, Shadow saw the severed hand twitching on the floor. She speared it through the palm with the point of her bowie. Brandishing it aloft, she called out after the departing Laughing Boy:<br /><br />“Hey dickhole, you forgot something!”<br /><br />Shadow flicked the knife with a snappy whipping motion, sending the hand sailing through the air to land at Laughing Boy’s feet. The friend picked it up, and the pair continued on their way. Shadow wiped her blade clean with a cocktail napkin as she watched them go. <br /><br /><em>Next: The Road to Westsylvania</em>Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-47815931455175928622008-06-28T22:24:00.000-07:002008-07-04T14:32:08.175-07:00Sample Chapter: Part Three, Twilight's Last Gleaming[This chapter is from the final section of the book, <em>Part Three: Twilight's Last Gleaming. </em>The last third of the book concerns the balkanization of America during the decades following World War III. The chapter is preceeded by <em>6. The Pennsylvania Uprising and its Long-Term Consequences, </em>and followed by <em>8. The Downsizing of America. </em>Copyright 2008 by Charles Hoffman.]<br /><br /><strong>7. The Southwest Rejoins Mexico</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />The Special Election and the Pennsylvania Uprising created enormous migrane headaches for the beleaguered Moulton administration. The mutiny of the Pennsylvania National Guard, which should have been foreseen as a contingency, sent shockwaves through the Federal Government. Clearly, any attempt to use the nation's armed forces to quell the uprising could have well resulted in a military <em>coup de tat. </em>It was a chilling, sobering realization. President Moulton touted his own wisdom in moving the Federal Government more-or-less permanently to Liberty's Fortress. For this, the President was pilloried in the press with charges of physical and moral cowardice.<br /><br />The nation now found itself facing fundamental questions concerning its very identity. Could the Islamic states truly be considered some sort of "country within a country"? Or had they for all intents and purposes seceded from the Union as <em>The Westsylvania Manifesto </em>had maintained? Should the sundered portions of Islamic states, such as Westsylvania, be considered new states?<br /><br />As these questions and their ramifications were being testily debated in the halls of government, in the media, and in private homes, a smattering of voices chimed in to call attention to a peripheral question; how many stars rightfully belonged on the American flag? Should stars representing Massachusetts, New York, and the other wholly Islamic states be subtracted? Should new stars be added to represent Westsylvania, Southern Ohio, and so on, or did these balance the loss of eastern Pennsylvania, etc., to a region within the country now ruled by Islamic law? This "flag controversy" for the most part elicited exasperated groans from a population long since grown jaded and cynical. There were, however, certain sentimentalists who persisted in making esoteric arguments concerning the flag's symbolic importance. Yet for the most part there was no great inclination to alter the fifty-star flag that had flown over the nation for well over a century. Syndicated columnist Donald McGrath suggested leaving the flag as-is, regardless of future developments, since it had stood for so long and represented the American nation at its zenith --a zenith, he did not add or need to add, that had passed. In this manner the issue was not so much settled as allowed to drop.<br /><br />Given subsequent events, many breathed a sigh of relief that the flag issue had been put aside. The precise status of the states in the Northeast did not remain of paramount concern for very long. The dust from the Special Election and the Pennsylvania Uprising had barely settled when the nation's attention was drawn to the Southwest. In the wake of the momentous events of World War III and its aftermath, citizens there sensed a sea change in the nation's character. For decades, the Spanish-speaking majority had overwhelmingly favored leaving the Union to join Mexico. They now clamored to do so.<br /><br />Sensing that the moment was at hand, the people there took to the streets in massive demonstrations that drew worldwide attention. Their local elected representatives could not have gone against this tide even if they had wanted to. The Congressional Chambers of Liberty's Fortress echoed with angry voices in English and Spanish throughout the rest of 2082 and into the following year. Mexico itself entered the debate, politely insisting that Southwesterners be allowed to "determine their own destiny."<br /><br />To political realists, the secession of the Southwest appeared as inevitable as death. After all, if the State Senate and Assembly of California, for example, elected to quit the Union, what could the Federal Government do about it? A new Civil War waged with 21st Century weapons was unthinkable. Moreover, the Eastern US was still bleeding from the last war. And if formidable Mexico entered the fray on the side of the Southwest, as was almost a given, the US would be at a distinct disadvantage. Indeed, there were some in Mexico City who positively relished the prospect of a second war with the United States, justifiably certain that the rematch would have a decidedly different outcome.<br /><br />Southwestern secession became the major issue of the 2084 presidential election. President Moulton had decided not to seek reelection, leaving the race wide open. Coveting the electoral votes of populous Southwestern states like California and Texas, candidates for both parties ran on pro-secession platforms. The focus of the debate gradually shifted to the manner in which the Southwest should leave the Union --"if and when the time came," politicians hastened to add in an effort to mollify secession opponents. It was of utmost importance, these politicians declared, that the Southwest and the rest of the Union "part as friends."<br /><br />There was a good deal of backroom wheeling and dealing that went on between Eastern politicians and the Southwestern governors. California was fully prepared to walk right out of the Union as South Carolina had done in December 1860, triggering a chain reaction of subsequent secessions. The candidates and their minions endeavored to persuade the governors and other important officials to postpone any such move until after the election. In this effort, the candidates were motivated by both personal ambition and the nation's welfare. On the one hand, they were keenly interested in the electoral votes up for grabs if the Southwestern states remained in the Union through the present election cycle. Yet there was also a sincere desire to see the United States spared further humiliation. If the Southwestern states were to just up and leave the Union while the Federal Government could only stand impotently by, it would entail an immeasurable loss of face for a nation that had been humbled repeatedly in recent years. High government officials in the current administration, along with those seeking to succeed it, wished to avoid this at all costs.<br /><br />To that end, it was deemed advisable to construct some sort of quasi-legal procedure for the secession of the Southwest, destined to come about in any event, so as to preserve the appearance of due process. In order to implement this plan, officials sought the aid of California's charismatic governor, Ramon Vargas (later president of Mexico). Governor Vargas was arguably the most powerful and influential political figure in all of Mexamerica. Other governors and elected officials of the region tended to follow his lead. The front-running candidates, as well as the President himself, travelled to California to meet with Governor Vargas in a series of long, confidential discussions that took place behind closed doors. Following the primaries and national conventions, each nominee, unknown to his opponent, made the same secret pact with the Governor: If the Governor forestalled California's secession until after the general election, the machinery to bring about an amicable parting of the Southwest from the rest of the Union would be put in motion in 2085.<br /><br />The winner of the election, Rep. Ian McElroy of North Dakota, made good on his word. During his first month in office, he addressed the nation concerning the matter of Southwestern secession. Belaboring the obvious, the new president emphasized how the nation had changed over the past century in regard to the wholly seperate and distinct culture that had evolved in the Southwest. The people in the region had spoken in a loud, clear voice, the President said, and it was time to decide the matter by putting it to a popular vote in the affected states. This motion was widely derided as a face-saving charade. Southwestern secession had been hovering on the horizon like a menacing storm cloud for years, if not decades. Still, the nation cringed at the prospect of another "special election."<br /><br />Pressed for an answer at a subsequent news conference, President McElroy was obliged to admit that the Special Election that had established Islamic law in much of the Northeast had indeed furnished the framework for the new election about to go forth. The President took considerable flak for this forthright admission, owing to the fact that the original Special Election had been mandated by what amounted to a surrender treaty to a victorious foreign power.<br /><br />"Special Election Dos," as it came to be called, was held on May 1, just days before the Mexican holiday of Cinco de Mayo. In Arizona and New Mexico, over 90% of the electorate voted "yes" on secession. In Nevada and California, the measure passed with a slightly smaller percentage. Northern California was still home to many Anglos, among them the moneyed aristocracy that congregated in the San Francisco area. The majority of these expressed a haughty indifference concerning which flag flew at government offices.<br /><br />Secession also passed in Texas, albeit by a slimmer margin. Only in Texas was there any public outcry reminiscent of the Pennsylvania Uprising. A movement to divide the state along ethnic line had begun even before the votes had been tabulated. Among the most prominent activists were two elderly sisters from Austin, Annabel Lee Scott and Veronica Kuykendall. Both had been active in local municipal politics for decades, and were highly esteemed matriarchs in the community. The were instrumental in coordinating protest activities in northern and eastern Texas.<br /><br />State officials in Texas were quick to hearken to angry Anglo voices, making a timely effort to avoid turmoil, rioting, and bloodshed. In due course, Texas became the only Southwestern state to split in two as Pennsylvania had. The Big Bend area of West Texas that included El Paso joined Mexico, as did all the counties south of Austin. The partitioning of Texas was marred by only a few acts of violence, but one of these was notable for its dramatic impact. Before leaving San Antonio, Anglos there dynamited the Alamo to prevent it from falling into Mexican hands.<br /><br />By mid-summer, the former American Southwest had been officially joined to Mexico. One of the first acts of the Mexican government in the new era was to secure Mexico's new northern border so as to prevent unauthorized entry from what was left of the United States.Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-30430314898760809832008-06-28T19:08:00.000-07:002008-07-04T14:32:48.397-07:00Sample Chapter: Part Two, Twilight's Last Gleaming[This chapter is from the middle section of the book, <em>Rocket's Red Glare, </em>concerning the Third World War in 2079. The chapter that appears below is preceded by <em>5. Defeat at Sea, </em>and followed by <em>7. The War in the Pacific. </em>Copyright 2008 by Charles Hoffman.]<br /><br /><strong>6. Britain Invaded</strong><br /><br />The battle for Greenland was just the beginning of a series of reversals for both the British and American navies. The Atlantic Ocean now became a vast hunting ground in which a more modern, numerically superior European fleet pursued, harried, and chipped away at Anglo-American naval forces. The US and the UK were never again able to mount an offensive naval operation against the Islamic Federation of Europe.<br /><br />From almost the second the United Kingdom first lifted a finger to aid the US, Britain found itself engaged in total war with the IFE. Within hours of Admiral Trowbridge's fleet joining forces with the United States Navy, England was reeling under the first of a series of aerial bombardments. Vital military installations were struck first, with key population centers as secondary targets. IFE bombers rained death and destruction on London, where citizens cowered in shelters as their ancestors had done during the German blitz of the previous World War.<br /><br />The British counterstrike came immediately on the heels of the first IFE attack. The airplanes, manned and drones, missiles, and cruise missiles of the Royal Air Force streaked across the English Channel, but penetrating European defenses proved no easy task. The RAF was able to strike at some important military and civilian targets in Western Europe, but only at great cost.<br /><br />Seeking to take its own fight to the enemy, the US Air Force tried to lend a hand. It was severely handicapped in doing so, however. Thanks to satellite intell, the IFE high command was aware of the American military's every move almost in advance. Hypersonic scramjet aircraft capable of striking at Europe from the western side of the Atlantic were dispatched from Air Force bases within the US. Most were intercepted by planes and missiles based in Greenland or launched from the IFE Atlantic Fleet.<br /><br />The combined Anglo-American air forces did manage to inflict damage on civilian population centers in Muslim Europe, including the capitals of Paris and Berlin. Inhabitants of European cities that came under attack endured the onslaught stoically, having been hardened by their rigorous and demanding faith. This stood in clear contrast to the populations of beleagured cities in England and the US, where angry choruses of panicked citizens demanded that the government "do something."<br /><br />As single nations went, the United Kingdom was still a fairly formidable military presence by the late 21st Century. But its power paled before that of the vast Islamic Federation. Stretching from Portugul to the Chukchi Peninsula in easternmost Siberia, the IFE was a leviathan that spanned a hemisphere. Great Britain was an island pitted against a continent.<br /><br />It did not take the European military long to neutralize Britain's ability to wage an effective counteroffensive. Hemmed in and on the defensive, the UK could only attempt to ward off further attacks. Subsequent IFE air strikes were aimed at crippling Britain's infrastructure. Vital resources such as water and power were disrupted in London and other cities. Transportation arteries were severed, preventing foodstuffs from reaching the marketplace. Electromagnetic pulse weapons wrought havoc with computer systems. Cut off from its allies by the IFE Navy, the beleaguered island nation was being softened up for the <em>coup de grace. </em>With its military decimated and its civilian population howling, Britain was ripe for invasion.<br /><br />The invasion of England, as well as the campaign that paved the way for it, was conceived, planned, and directed by General Andre Desjardineau, arguably the most remarkable figure to emerge from World War III. A Frenchman of the Elder Race, Desjardineau converted to Islam in his early teens to advance the military career he even then aspired to. France was a Muslim-majority nation by then, and to the young Desjardineau life as a civilian was all but unthinkable. Desjardineau's ancestors had served in the French army since the Middle Ages, fighting in virtually every war that France had fought against England. Desjardineau men had shed their blood for France in the Hundred Years War, the War of Spanish Succession, and the War of Austrian Succession. During the Seven Years War, they had served both in Europe and in North America, where the conflict was known as the French and Indian War. A Desjardineau had been with Montcalm when Quebec fell, leading to France's ouster from North America. Another forbear had been with Napoleon at Waterloo.<br /><br />Scion to an illustrious military family, Andre Desjardineau strove constantly to distinguish himself. As a young officer, he excelled in fencing with the epee and saber, and was for a time the savate champion of the French Army. Tall and powerfully built, Desjardineau was a dynamic, charismatic figure. He rose rapidly through the ranks, commanding the respect of both New Breed and Elder Race Europeans. When war finally appeared to be looming between the IFE and France's ancient rival, Britain, General Desjardineau looked forward to settling an old, old score.<br /><br />Desjardineau's master plan for the conquest of Britain involved, as we have seen, dismantling the UK's defensive capabilities and then pounding the nation itself until it was dazed and bloody. With these goals achieved, the invasion itself could begin.<br /><br />London was to be taken first; as London went, so went the nation. The alarm that announced that the invasion was underway came in the form a a cruise missile that smashed into Buckinghiam Palace, exploding inside it. Buckingham Palace had been carefully spared in previous bombings. Now it was gutted by fire and explosion as several more cruise missiles streaked into it. Within minutes only the blackened outer walls remained standing upright, like a giant tombstone for a city and a nation.<br /><br />The invaders came by sea, entering the mouth of the Thames and moving inexorably upstream. The IFE invasion fleet included light maneuverable hydrofoils designed for river navigation. These came racing up the Thames into the heart of London, escorted by swarms of attack helicopters that darkened the skies above. Another component of the invasion fleet consisted of amphibious assault craft of the sort Admiral Duncan had hoped to land on Greenland, only considerably more advanced. The amphibious craft drove on massive tires along the muddy bottom of the Thames, emerging from beneath the water where river embankments furnished access to the shore. Londoners could only look on in sick horror as the gleaming submersible craft climbed dripping out of the Thames and rolled into the city streets.<br /><br />From there the amphibious assault craft fanned out into London, broadcasting loud warnings for citizens to get off the streets and indoors immediately. Stragglers were mowed down like ripe grain. With the population driven indoors, the invasion fleet secured bridges and, more importantly, parks and large parking lots to serve as landing fields for the large troop transport helicopters that immediately followed. For the first time since 1066, British soil was trampled by the tread of foreign invaders.<br /><br />Even as London was being overrun, the European Navy secured the Isle of Wight and the Isle of Man for use as staging areas from which the IFE could complete it conquest of Britain. The seaport city of Liverpool was soon stormed and taken. Elsewhere, IFE hydrofoils and submersibles made their way up rivers like the Trent and the Ouse to stab into the interior of the country and pave the way for the capture of inland cities like Manchester, York, and Birmingham.<br /><br />IFE troops met with little in the way of resistance, and were even greeted as liberators by some segments of Britain's Muslim minority population. The civilian populace as a whole had long since been disarmed. Moreover, British citizens in public places had been subject to video surveillance since the close of the 20th Century. The IFE military took immediate control of the surveillance cameras, of course, finding in them a convenient and useful tool during the subsequent occupation.<br /><br />British subjects were not lacking in courage, but improvised weapons such as Molotov cocktails, or even small arms had they been available, would have availed them little. By the late 21st Century, the individual infantryman was so outfitted and equipped as to be a virtual one-man army. For elite outfits, battle armor had evolved into a complete exoskeleton that encased the soldier from head to toe. Helmets were equipped with sophisticated sensors and high-speed computers, as well as filters to screen out airborne toxins. Body armor was designed to augment strength and could therefore be equipped to carry multiple weapons systems. IFE battle armor was the most advanced in the world. A single squad of troopers outfitted in it was sufficient to capture and hold an entire town.<br /><br />As IFE forces took possession of the nation, government officials were forced to flee into outlying areas. For many, however, flight was not even an option. The King and Queen, who had bravely made their stand in London throughout the aerial bombardments, were killed when Buckingham Palace was struck. Members of Parliament residing in London were compelled to cower indoors along with the rest of the city's population as IFE troopers took control of the streets.<br /><br />Once the occupation was complete, the Prime Minister had no choice but to accept IFE terms for unconditional surrender. General Desjardineau arrived by helicopter for the signing of the surrender papers, landing before the entrance of 10 Downing Street where the ceremony was to take place. Many cameras were on hand to capture the moment, ensuring that Andre Desjardineau would be enshrined in posterity as "the Muslim Napoleon."Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-87586561828995675322008-06-28T18:28:00.000-07:002008-07-04T14:33:27.631-07:00Sample Chapter: Part One, Twilight's Last Gleaming[This chapter is from <em>Part One: O'er the Ramparts We Watched.</em> The opening third of the book concerns events transpiring from the present day up till the outbreak of World War III in 2079. This chapter is preceeded by <em>9. Religion in 21st Century America, </em>and followed by <em>11. Changes in American Society. </em>Copyright 2008 by Charles Hoffman.]<br /><br /><strong>10. Violence and Decay Plague American Cities<br /></strong><br />The relocation of most American Muslims to the major urban centers of the Northeast and Midwest was pretty much complete by 2055. Unfortunately, the more radical Islamic factions also began to make their presence felt there.<br /><br />Suicide bombings occured with mounting fequency in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Cleveland, Detroit and Chicago. Populare restaurants and nightclubs were bombed, as were various other sorts of small businesses. This had a chilling effect on the local economies.<br /><br />Sporting events and holiday celebrations were favored targets of suicide bombers, snipers, and other terrorist operatives. Major sporting events, such as playoff games and championships, came to be patrolled by small armies of security personnel. While effective, these measures caused terrorists to shift their attacks to taverns and restaurants hosting game-watching parties. A sniper attack on New York's Thanksgiving Day parade caused the event to be discontinued. Occuring at the start of the Christmas shopping season, the attack hurt holiday sales at retail businesses nationwide and caused their fourth quarter profits to evaporate. On July 4, 2062, the fireworks used in a display at a public park in Philadelphia were sabotaged so as to spread toxic agents when ignited, poisoning the crowd of several hundred spectators. Most were sickened and many died. After a similar attack in Boston two years later, fireworks displays were banned in favor of laser light shows in all parts of America where the Fourth of July was still celebrated.<br /><br />Other atrocities ensued. Outbreaks of anthrax in the Great Lakes cities of Buffalo, Cleveland, Detroit, and Chicago wreaked havoc with the shipping industry. These outbreaks also effectively ended honeymoon and other tourism to Niagra Falls. On May 10, 2063, simultaneous nerve gas attacks on the New York subway and the PATH trains linking New York and New Jersey killed over 700 people.<br /><br />The end result of this activity was a "white flight" from these urban centers so massive that it was referred to at the time as a "rout." Businesses and the middle class fled like rats from a doomed ship. The municipal tax bases were eroded, setting the stage for urban decay on a scale never before seen in America. Due to diminished revenues, police and sanitation services were for the most part reserved for such affluent areas that remained. Elsewhere, those services were spotty at best. Inner city neighborhoods became haunted no-man's-lands by night. Vicious gangs roamed the streets while citizens cowered behind locked doors and barred windows. Abandoned buildings were taken over by squatters. In time, outlaw factions formed <em>de facto </em>governments in blighted areas.<br /><br />In New York, die-hard native residents hung on despite the city's perils. Upscale sections of Manhattan such as the Upper East Side evolved into tightly controlled gated enclaves where motor traffic was limited to specially authorized vehicles. In the outer boroughs, Italian and Irish American gangs warred incessantly with Arab-American gangs who congregated in such strongholds as the Atlantic Avenue area of Brooklyn.<br /><br />Similar scenarios played out in other Northeastern and Midwestern cities. Throughout the crises of the `50s and `60s, leaders in the mainstream Muslim community worked tirelessly to rein in the radical elements and stem the tide of chaos. Their exertions did eventually help to bring that troubled era to a close, but not before many corporations and middle class taxpayers had commenced to pull up stakes and take their leave of the major metropolitan areas in the region. With the local tax bases so greatly reduced, city and state politicians felt they had no choice other than to lobby for Federal assistance.Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-71757957317728089202008-06-25T17:36:00.000-07:002008-06-26T22:24:39.878-07:00Escape From Eden: Genesis Subverted in "The Garden of Fear"[This essay was originally published in <em>The Dark Man: The Journal of Robert E. Howard Studies, </em>Issue 5, Winter 2001. Copyright 2001 by Mind's Eye HyperPublishing / Iron Harp Publications. I have revised it slightly for this appearance.]<br /><br />One of Robert E. Howard's most celebrated tales is "The Valley of the Worm." Since its original publication in 1934, it has been reprinted and anthologized many times. Its reknown is especially noteworthy since it features none of Howard's well-known series characters. "The Valley of the Worm" does, however, contain a number of common themes and motifs that Howard deals with individually in other stories: a barbarian hero, an imaginary prehistoric era, mysterious ruins, racial migration, reincarnation, the Picts, revenge, giant serpents, and an unearthly subterranean horror. For this reason, "The Valley of the Worm" has been cited as the quintessential Howard story. (See "The Valley of the Worm: A Gathering of Howard's Essential Creative Themes" by Rick McCollum in <em>The Fantastic Worlds of Robert E. Howard.</em>)<br /><br />"The Valley of the Worm" is narrated by James Allison, a dying invalid who is able to recall all of his past incarnations. The tale begins with Allison's assertion that the narrative he is about to relate is the archetypal story of the dragon-slayer, the actual basis of all the world's myths of this type from Siegfried to St. George. In a past so remote that the continents have been reshaped a score of times since, Allison was the mighty warrior, Niord of the AEsir. In a mysterious lost valley, Niord does battle with a gigantic slug-like abomination he calls "the Worm." He perishes in the battle, but manages to slay the monster. Niord is reborn both as James Allison's incarnations and as every heroic myth-figure of Western civilization.<br /><br />Niord is not a series character like Kull or Conan, but "The Valley of the Worm" is part of a loosely connected cycle linked by the common narrator James Allison. Howard wrote a handful of other tales narrated by Allison, mostly drafts and fragments unpublished in his lifetime. "Marchers of Valhalla," published posthumously, comes down to us as a complete draft, but the presentation of the reincarnation theme and James Allison himself differ markedly from that in "The Valley of the Worm." In "Marchers of Valhalla," Allison actually has something of an active role in the story's prologue and epilogue, and an explanation is offered for his visions of past lives. In "The Valley of the Worm," on the other hand, Allison remains offstage, narrating the incredible story of Niord from the shadows. This more ambiguous portrayal of Allison and his racial memory enhances the sense of wonder and awe that is so vital to the atmosphere of "The Valley of the Worm."<br /><br />The Allison story that most closely resembles "The Valley of the Worm" is "The Garden of Fear." This is the only other James Allison narrative published during Howard's lifetime. In it, the role of Allison is once again that of the shadowy off-stage narrator. His past incarnation this time is another powerful blond warrior of the AEsir, Hunwulf. To rescue his mate, Hunwulf must somehow traverse a garden of deadly, bloodsucking plants and confront a strange winged man-like being. As in "The Valley of the Worm," the narrative transpires in an almost-unthinkably remote era of the distant past, during which tribes of the northern AEsir wander the globe in centuries-long drifts. Once again, a barbaric hero from the dawn of time confronts a chilling and mysterious supernatural menace. The narrative structure of "The Garden of Fear" closely matches that of "The Valley of the Worm." Each title refers to a geographic setting fraught with terrible danger --a garden of fear, and a valley of the worm, which is a common metaphor for death.<br /><br />Given these similarities, "The Garden of Fear would seem a fitting companion piece to "The Valley of the Worm." It has not heretofore been regarded as such, however. No less than the more obscure Allison narratives, it has long been overshadowed by "The Valley of the Worm." This is not so surprising considering that the latter is regarded by many as Howard's best story. "The Garden of Fear," on the other hand, is usually viewed as a good, but not great, Howard story. One reason may be that "The Garden of Fear" ends on a quiet note that lacks the punch of the denoument of "The Valley of the Worm." "The Valley of the Worm" also opens on a high note:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">You have heard the tale before in many guises wherein the hero was named Tyr, or Perseus, or Siegfried, or Beowulf, or Saint George. But it was Niord who met the loathy demonic thing that crawled hideously up from hell...[1]</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br />Resonating with the power of the ageless myths it invokes, this opening passage is an irresistable hook that draws the reader in. But what of mythical allusions in "The Garden of Fear"?<br /><br />The links between Niord's saga and those of Tyr, Perseus, et al, are made explicit by Howard in "The Valley of the Worm." There are ties to one of the great tales of antiquity in "The Garden of Fear" as well, only here the links are not so explicit. But even though he does little in the way of direct allusion, Howard nonetheless invokes an ancient story that lies at the very heart of Western culture. By looking just a little more closely at "The Garden of Fear," we can discern a wildly distorted version of nothing less than the Biblical account of creation from the <em>Book of Genesis. </em>And if that were not enough, Howard does more than simply rework elements of <em>Genesis; </em>he turns the Biblical creation myth completely upside down!<br /><br />In comparing the story of Hunwulf with the story of Adam, we find instance after instance in which Howard stands <em>Genesis </em>on its head. We can start with the location evoked in the story's title; "the Garden of Fear" as opposed to "the Garden of Eden." In either case the garden is designated by a four-letter word, one beginning with "E" and one beginning with "F." However, Eden was a place where Man could dwell in a state of untroubled bliss, oblivious to worry or care. Fear, on the other hand, is the emotional state most fraught with turmoil and distress.<br /><br />The story itself opens as James Allison recounts his ability to recall his past incarnations:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">...I see with a clear, sure sight the grand panorama of lives that trail out behind me. I see the men who have been me, and I see the beasts who have been me.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">For my memory does not end at the coming of Man. How could it, when the Beast so shades into Man that there is no clearly divided line to mark the boundaries of bestiality?...I see a vast shaggy, shambling bulk that lumbers clumsily yet swiftly, sometimes upright, sometimes on all fours. He delves under rotten logs for grubs and insects, and his small ears twitch continually. He lifts his head and bears yellow fangs. He is primordial, bestial, anthropoid; yet I recognize his kinship with the entity now called James Allison...[2]</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br />It is worth noting that Howard makes no mention of Allison's bestial incarnations in "The Valley of the Worm." Their inclusion here stands as another contradiction to the <em>Book of Genesis </em>--evolution, not creation.<br /><br />As in "The Valley of the Worm," the dying invalid James Allison derives satisfaction from describing the brawny warrior he was in a bygone age. He speaks of Hunwulf's yellow, lion-like mane, mighty shoulders, and "thews...like woven steel cords" [3] with evident pride. In two brief paragraphs, the bedridden Allison wistfully recalls growing to "manhood," "full manhood," and "fierce, sinewy, untamed manhood." [4] The source of all this manly pride is "the love of Gudrun" [5]:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">What shall I say of Gudrun? How describe color to the blind? I can say that her skin was whiter than milk, that her hair was living gold with the flame of the sun caught in it, that the supple beauty of her body would shame the dream that shaped the Grecian goddesses. But I cannot make you realize the fire and the wonder that was Gudrun. You have no basis for comparison; you know womanhood only by the women of your epoch, who, beside her are like candles beside the glow of the full moon. Not for a millenium of milleniums have women like Gudrun walked the earth. Cleopatra, Thais, Helen of Troy, they were but pallid shadows of her beauty, frail mimicries of the blossom that blooms to full glory only in the primordial. [6]</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br />This introduction is all the more remarkable considering that Gudrun appears in one of Howard's lesser-known tales, and is given no dialogue and little action. However, solely on the basis of this description, Gudrun emerges full-blown as the ultimate Howardian uber-babe. Not even such notable temptresses as Belit, the queen of the Black Coast, and Atali, the frost giant's daughter, are praised in terms quite this lavish. Yet when we consider the parallels between "The Garden of Fear" and the story of Eden, we realize why Howard has placed her at the apex of human womanhood. Gudrun is the counterpart of Eve, the first woman. Note that, except for collective references to women of the tribe, females are absent from "The Valley of the Worm." The relationship examined in that story is the male bonding between Niord and his Pictish comrade Grom. In the present story, however, Hunwulf must have his Gudrun because Adam had his Eve. And, in keeping with Howard's reversals of <em>Genesis, </em>the two mate-women could not be more dissimilar. <em>Genesis </em>unambiguously recounts how God creates Eve from Adam's rib. In "The Garden of Fear," Gudrun's origins are mysterious; she is an orphan of some lost tribe of the AEsir. Eve is created full-grown. Gudrun is discovered as "a waif...a child wandering in a dark forest." [7] Eve is Adam's demure companion and helper; before tasting of the forbidden fruit, she is without sexuality. Gudrun, on the other hand, is a sex goddess without peer.<br /><br />Adam obtains Eve without any effort on his part, even sleeping through her arrival. Hunwulf can obtain Gudrun only by vigorously inflicting deadly physical violence. Eve is generously given to Adam as a gift from God. Gudrun is also given as a gift, only not to Hunwulf. Once Gudrun grows into "the full ripeness of her glorious young womanhood," [8] the tribal elders decree that she be presented to the tribe's mightiest hunter, Heimdul the Strong, as a reward. Since "the dream of Gudrun was a madness in my soul, a flame that burned eternally," [9] Hunwulf bashes in Heimdul's skull with a stone axe. Here the mention of a cave man's weapon suggests the prehistoric world as known to anthropologists; it therefore stands in further juxtaposition to the Biblical creation account. Even so, Hunwulf's slaughter of Heimdul during a fit of jealous rage recalls Cain's murder of Abel. Abel is favored by God over Cain; Heimdul the Strong is favored by the tribe over Hunwulf. The story of Cain and Abel occurs <em>subsequent </em>to that of Adam and Eve. The killing of Heimdul occurs <em>prior to </em>Hunwulf and Gudrun's adventure in the Garden of Fear.<br /><br />Up to this point, the story of Hunwulf and Gudrun has been told as exposition, a briefly recounted backstory. Their actual narrative begins with them in flight. Hunwulf has murdered the tribe's favorite son, and must now flee the tribe's vengeance. He recalls how he "went into the wilderness, an exile and an outcast, with blood on my hands," [10] suggesting the mark of Cain. Since Gudrun reciprocates Hunwulf's passion, she accompanies him willingly. The story of Adam and Eve ends with their expulsion from Eden. Conversely, the story of Hunwulf and Gudrun begins with their flight into exile. And, in Howard's most ironic subversion of <em>Genesis, </em>Adam and Eve of Jewish lore are recast as characters with very Germanic-sounding names.<br /><br />Hunwulf and Gudrun flee together with their angry tribesmen in hot pursuit. They escape by swimming the rapids of "a rising river," [11] a torrent so dangerous that even the bold AEsir break off their chase. The fugitive couple reaches the farther bank of the river "beaten and torn by the frenzy of the flood." [12] Given our Biblical analogy, Howard's choice of the word "flood" here does suggest the story of Noah from later chapters of <em>Genesis. </em>On the far side of the river, the couple enters unknown territory. They traverse forests and mountains where they are stalked by tigers, leopards, and giant condors. In the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve were given dominion over the animals. As Hunwulf and Gudrun approach the Garden of Fear, animals are a constant threat.<br /><br />The weary pair finds refuge in a village inhabited by a peaceful brown-skinned people. Arriving at dusk, they are treated with hospitality. At a feast held in their honor, Hunwulf indicates that he intends to press on towards the grasslands he glimpsed to the south while descending from the mountains. The villagers cry out and gesture frantically. Though Hunwulf cannot understand their language, it is clear that they are attempting to warn him away from some terrible danger that inhabits that region.<br /><br />Even as the villagers yammer their panicked warnings, Hunwulf finds himself under sudden attack. A large, dark winged shape swoops down out of the night sky, knocking him to the ground. He hears Gudrun scream as "she was torn from my side." [13] The wording here recalls how Eve was taken from Adam's side, only in the more literal sense of being molded from one of his ribs. In that episode, Adam and Eve were brought together. In Howard's version, Hunwulf and Gudrun are cruelly seperated. Looking skyward, Hunwulf watches in helpless fury as his mate is borne away into the night.<br /><br />Horrified and enraged, Hunwulf charges into the darkness, weapon in hand. He quickly realizes that his blind chase is hopeless. The friendly villagers calm him and show him a crude painting of the winged creature that abducted Gudrun; it is not one of the giant condors that inhabit the region, but something far more deadly. They try to dissaude him from pursuing this being, but Hunwulf is firm in his resolve. The villagers furnish him with a map and some provisions, and the blond warrior sets off immediately in search of his mate.<br /><br />As he travels by night, Hunwulf is aware of the proximity of cave bears and saber-toothed tigers. Again these are images we associate with cave men, rather than Adam and Eve. Hunwulf presses on fearlessly. At daybreak he enters a large valley that narrows at the convergence of two lines of cliffs. Nearing his destination, Hunwulf passes wandering herds of mammoths. Once more we are reminded of the Stone Age, not Eden.<br /><br />Emerging from a wooded area, Hunwulf enters a clearing. At its center he spies a green tower of jade-like stone standing in the midst of a field of unusual red flowers. The tower is about seventy feet high and crowned with a smaller structure surrounded by a gallery and parapet. Doors and barred windows are visible in the top portion alone; this appears to be the only point of entry.<br /><br />A tower also appear in <em>Genesis, </em>specifically the Tower of Babel in Chapter 11. The Tower of Babel is a human achievement so impressive that God himself feels jealousy. The tower in "The Garden of Fear," on the other hand, is of inhuman origin. Humans at this point in the dim distant past are not yet capable of erecting such a structure. Hunwulf himself does not even have the words to describe it; he has never seen man-made dwellings other than tents and huts. Only the modern James Allison, narrating the story, is able to identify the tower as such.<br /><br />Hunwulf feels sure that Gudrun is held captive in the tower, yet is wary in approaching it. Surrounding the tower on all sides for hundreds of yards is a field of tall, sinister looking flowers. Growing closely together, the strange plants consist of thick, four-foot stalks adorned with "poisonously green leaves...drooping on long snaky stems." [14] Each is topped with a large blossom of "livid crimson" whose "fleshy" petals are "the hue of an open wound." [15] In <em>Genesis, </em>the plants in the Garden of Eden are described as being good to eat and pleasing to look upon. Concerning the plants in the Garden of Fear, we are told that, "Their whole aspect was repellent..." [16]<br /><br />His "wild-born instincts" [17] warning him of danger, Hunwulf observes the garden from a place of concealment. Those instincts are confirmed by the "charnel-house reek of death and decay and corruption that rose from the blossoms." [18] In one of Howard's more obvious allusions to <em>Genesis, </em>Hunwulf wonders if "some great serpent" [19] is concealed in the garden. A satanic figure does indeed appear, but not in the form of a serpent.<br /><br />Noticing movement in the tower, Hunwulf watches as a strange figure emerges onto the parapet, "a man, but such a man as I had never dreamed of, even in nightmares." This man is described as tall and powerful, black as ebony, with batlike wings folded on his shoulders. He leans upon the parapet and looks out over the garden. Howard explicitly ascribes a satanic aspect to this being: "When I, as James Allison, dream again the dreams of Hunwulf, that image is etched in my mind, that gargoyle figure with elbows propped on the parapet, like a medieval devil brooding on the battlements of hell." [21]<br /><br />In a major revision of <em>Genesis, </em>the serpent of Eden is replaced with a satanic figure from a much later era. A very ancient symbol also associated with Jason and Hercules, the serpent was not even originally identified with Satan in <em>Genesis. </em>That link was established in later books of the Bible. <em>Genesis </em>was written circa 1,000 BCE, with roots in an oral tradition going back undoubtedly much further. In "The Garden of Fear," however, the winged man is explicitly likened to "a medieval devil," with the term "gargoyle" further suggesting the cathedrals of the Middle Ages --an era thousands of years after the time <em>Genesis </em>was set in writing. Howard is also explicit in describing the winged man as black, but with "no suggestion of the negroid." [22] This recalls the Black Man that appears in the writings of Nathaniel Hawthorne and elsewhere. In any case, Howard substitutes a comparatively modern satanic image in place of the serpent of ancient myth.<br /><br />It is also worth noting that the winged man operates in a manner totally at odds with that of the serpent of Eden. The serpent seduces Eve, subtly enticing her with guile. The winged man, on the other hand, abducts Gudrun in the most direct way possible, using blatant physical force to seize and carry her away.<br /><br />James Allison, recalling what he witnessed as Hunwulf, is given to wonder whether the winged man was an isolated freak of nature or the last survivor of an extinct species. He favors the latter theory: "Winged men are not uncommon in mythology...As far back as man may go in myth, chronicle, and legend, he finds tales of harpies and winged gods, <em>angels and demons.</em>" [23] (emphasis added) Allison reminds us that; "Legends are distorted shadows of pre-existent realities." [24] He concludes that "once a race of winged black men ruled a pre-Adamite world..." [25]<br /><br />Here we have an actual direct reference to the book of <em>Genesis. </em>It is unlikely that, in writing "The Garden of Fear," Howard consciously recognized the numerous reversals of <em>Genesis </em>he embodied in the tale. The mythical allusions he deliberately included concern the harpies and related legends. However, the use of the term "pre-Adamite" does seem to indicate some awareness on Howard's part of the Biblical elements that were percolating in his subconscious.<br /><br />The reflections concerning the nature of the winged man are those of the modern James Allison. The primitive Hunwulf superstitiously takes the existence of devils and monsters for granted. The bold AEsir warrior believes in demons, but does not fear them. Even so, he does not charge into the field of crimson flowers to recklessly assault the tower. The "wariness of the wild" [26] compels him to be cautious.<br /><br />Hunwulf's instincts are confirmed when the winged man re-enters the tower and emerges once more with a stuggling captive. It is not Gudrun, but one of the brown villagers. The winged man flies out over the field of crimson flowers bearing his captive, and drops him into their midst. The nearest plants latch onto the pitiful victim and drain way his blood, killing him.<br /><br />It is during this episode that we notice that serpentine imagery is by no means absent from "The Garden of Fear." As the plants await their victim, they hiss and sway like snakes. Their leaves vibrate and whir "like the singing of a rattlesnake." [27] The fleshy petals of the blossoms open "like the necks of serpents." [28] The thick stalks of the plants arch "like the necks of serpents" [29] as the blossoms latch onto their victim. Howard's personal aversion to snakes is well documented, and not atypically the inclusion of serpentine imagry enhances the horror of this sequence. The Garden of Eden was paradise on Earth, but the Garden of Fear is presumably the <em>worst </em>place in the world.<br /><br />After feeding the villager to the flowers, the winged man withdraws to within the tower. Hunwulf emerges cautiously from his hiding place and approaches one of the plants on the fringe of the garden. Its petals spread "like the hood of a roused cobra." [30] When it lunges at him, Hunwulf uses his axe to sever the stalk. Now able to examine the plant more closely, Hunwulf takes note of the clinging barbs on the leaves and the tiny sucking mouths on the petals. With the sole exception of the one he eats of to gain knowledge, Adam is permitted to eat of all the plants in the Garden of Eden. With the sole exception of the one he cuts down to gain knowledge, all of the plants in the Garden of Fear are capable of eating of Hunwulf.<br /><br />As he completes his examination of the blood-sucking plant, Hunwulf becomes aware of the winged man's return. He looks up as the winged man emerges once more from the tower, bringing the captive Gudrun. Although Gudrun possesses the "supple strength" of a "she-panther," [31] she is helpless in the winged man's powerful grasp. The evil of the winged man is evident as he indulges in deliberate cruelty, laughing at Hunwulf and mocking him in an unknown tongue. In the Tower of Babel episode of <em>Genesis, </em>God causes mankind to speak numerous languages instead of a single one in order to divide humanity. In "The Garden of Fear," several mentions are made of language barriers.<br /><br />Toying with Hunwulf, the winged man lifts Gudrun as though intending to cast her into the crimson flowers. However, he fails to goad Hunwulf into running into the field of deadly plants. Though distressed, Hunwulf is clear-headed enough to realize that perishing in such a futile act would only deprive Gudrun of any hope of rescue.<br /><br />Turning away, Hunwulf formulates a plan. He returns to where he saw the herds of mammoths grazing earlier. Setting a number of well-placed brush fires, he causes the mammoths to stampede in the direction of the tower. Hunwulf's use of fire her recalls another creation myth, that of Prometheus. The mammoths flee from the brush fires, "bulls trumpeting like the blast of Judgement Day." [32] Here is yet another direct Biblical allusion. The Day of Judgement is not mentioned in <em>Genesis, </em>however, but in the New Testament. It is described at length in <em>Revelations, </em>the <em>last </em>book of the Bible.<br /><br />The panicked mammoths stampede right over the Garden of Fear. The deadly plants might be capable of downing a single mammoth, but not a whole thundering herd. The crimson flowers are mashed to pulp. When the mammoths depart, Hunwulf is able to approach the tower in safety. Using a rawhide rope, he is able to scale the tower where Gudrun is pent. Hunwulf is just a few feet below the parapet when the winged man reappears. The winged man draws a knife and is about to cut the rope, sending Hunwulf plummeting to his death.<br /><br />It is then that Gudrun goes into action. Though not quite Valeria of the Red Brotherhood, she is still capable of breaking down a door and grappling with a monster long enough for Hunwulf to leap onto the parapet. With his trusty axe, Hunwulf caves in the head of the winged man. The winged man's skull proves no tougher than that of Heimdul the Strong. Hunwulf regains his mate in exactly the same manner he won her originally.<br /><br />The axe Hunwulf uses throughout the story is made of stone, specifically flint. In "The Valley of the Worm," the AEsir are equipped with weapons of bronze. This indicates that "The Garden of Fear" takes place in an even earlier era. We are told that the events of "The Valley of the Worm" transpired so long ago that "the surface of the earth has changed, not once but a score of times...and the very stars and constellations have altered and shifted. [33] "The Garden of Fear," therefore, occurs at the very dawn of humanity...fittingly, considering its parallels with <em>Genesis. </em><br /><em></em><br />After their devilish adversary falls dead, Hunwulf and Gudrun embrace over the grisly corpse. It is then that Hunwulf catches a glimpse into the room Gudrun had escaped from. Within the tower, he sees strange furnishings and "shelves heaped with rolls of parchment." [34] The modern James Allison expresses regret that his former incarnation did not explore the tower and examine the scrolls. To the primitive Hunwulf, however, the tower and its contents represent nothing more than a fiendish trap; he and his mate waste no time in taking their leave of the place. Adam and Eve were punished for their pursuit of forbidden knowledge. Hunwulf and Gudrun discover arcane knowledge that is theirs for the taking, but want no part of it. They flee the tower and continue on their way into the wilderness. Their story ends with Hunwulf and Gudrun, like Adam and Eve, alone in a newborn world.<br /><br /><div align="center"></div><div align="left">"The Garden of Fear" was originally published in the July-August, 1934, issue of <em>Marvel Tales. </em>"The Valley of the Worm" had beaten it into print, but only by a few months, debuting in the February, 1934, issue of <em>Weird Tales. Weird Tales, </em>where the bulk of Robert E. Howard's fantasy first appeare, is well remembered today. <em>Marvel Tales, </em>on the other hand, was an obscure publication, and "The Garden of Fear" marked Howard's only appearance in its pages. Arriving like a kind of stillborn twin, "The Garden of Fear" never achieved the recognition of "The Valley of the Worm."</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">It is not hard to understand why "The Garden of Fear" has been so over-shadowed. At the heart of "The Valley of the Worm" lies one of the Western world's great mythic tales, that of the dragon-slayer. Howard was fully conscious of this theme, and embodied it in the story with a sure hand. In writing "The Garden of Fear," however, Howard was most likely not consciously aware of the parallels with <em>Genesis. </em>But even if he had been, he could never have been explicit in citing them in the body of the tale. Such a thing would be controversial even today. Even if most Christians don't take the story of Adam and Eve as literal history, it is still an esteemed part of a text widely held as sacred. Therefore Howard could hardly have included a pronouncement like, "Here, then, is the ghastly truth that lies, garbled and distorted, behind that quaint Sunday School fable." The only legend he could explicitly point to was the less-compelling one of the harpies.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">However, with recognition of its parallels with <em>Genesis, </em>"The Garden of Fear" does take on additional dimensions. We now see that the past incarnations of a single man, James Allison, include both the prototype of the dragon slayer and the prototype of the Biblical Adam. This raises the intriguing question of whether Allison might simply be insane. As an embittered cripple driven to madness by his affliction, Allison savors delusions of ultimate grandeur that place him at the very center of the collective consciousness of Western civilization.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">That's one interpretation, but not one that the author himself would have embraced. Among Howard's most consistent themes is the preeminent importance of the individual and individual effort. In Robert E. Howard's vision, the deeds of one man can become the archetypal basis for myths and legends the world over. Not coincidentally, Howard is very vocal in celebrating the individual in the opening paragraph of "The Garden of Fear."</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">...I tell you the individual is never lost, neither in the black pit from which we once crawled, blind, squalling and noisome, or in that eventual Nirvana in which we shall one day sink --which I have glimpsed afar off, shining as a blue twilight lake among the mountains of the stars...[35]</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div align="left">This passage is interesting in several different respects. First there is the womb imagry of the black pit, in which humanity's origins are likened to the physical birth of an individual. Then Howard mentions Nirvana, a concept from a religious tradition altogether different form that which concerns him in the bulk of the story. Finally, there is the image of the blue lake and the mountains. He repeats this image in the last line of the story, after Hunwulf and Gudrun make their escape:</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;">...we went hand and hand along the path made by the mammoths, now seen vanishing in the distance, toward the blue lake at the southern end of the valley and the notch in cliffs beyond it. [36]</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div align="left">A blue lake, seen from afar, was used earlier as an explicit metaphor for Nirvana. Now the protagonists are linked to the blue lake by a path made by mammoths seen "vanishing in the distance." In this context, the path of the vanishing mammoths suggests itself as a metaphor for extinction. Again, there is a juxtaposition of religion and paleontology. Nirvana and extinction are intertwined in the author's imagination.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Another of Robert E. Howard's most prevalent themes is the inevitable passing of all things. Empires rise and fall. Races fade away. Seas change their beds and rivers their courses. Glaciers wax and wane. Birth itself is but the beginning os a journey that ends in death. And so it is that Hunwulf and Gudrun, Howard's own Adam and Eve, join hands and start their journey down the path of the mammoths, towards the Nirvana in which humanity shall one day sink.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">NOTES</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[1] Robert E. Howard, "The Valley of the Worm," Weird Tales Vol. 23, No. 2 (February 1934), p. 193.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[2] Robert E. Howard, "The Garden of Fear," Marvel Tales Vol. 1, No. 2 (July-August 1934), pp. 11-12.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[3] Ibid., p. 13.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[4] Ibid.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[5] Ibid.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[6] Ibid., pp. 13-14.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[7] Ibid., p. 14.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[8] Ibid.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[9] Ibid.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[10] Ibid.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[11] Ibid.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[12] Ibid.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[13] Ibid., p. 16.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[14] Ibid., p. 20</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[15] Ibid.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[16] Ibid.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[17] Ibid.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[18] Ibid.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[19] Ibid.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[20] Ibid., p. 21.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[21] Ibid., pp. 25-26.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[22] Ibid., p. 27.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[23] Ibid., p. 21.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[24] Ibid.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[25] Ibid.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[26] Ibid., p. 22.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[27] Ibid., p. 23.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[28] Ibid.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[29] Ibid.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[30] Ibid., pp. 23-24.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[31] Ibid., p. 24.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[32] Ibid., p. 26.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[33] "The Valley of the Worm," Op cit. p. 195.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[34] "The Garden of Fear," Op cit. p. 29.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[35] Ibid., p. 12.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">[36] Ibid., p. 29.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Special thanks to David Gentzel for furnishing me with the original publication of "The Garden of Fear." </div>Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-64544931095515176512008-06-23T01:17:00.000-07:002008-06-25T14:02:35.437-07:00Robert E. Howard vs. the Desert of the Real[Last year I was asked to provide an afterword for <em>The Best of Robert E. Howard, Volume I </em>from Del Rey Books (available at Borders, Barnes & Noble, and all better bookstores; no home should be without one.) My humble contribution is entitled "Robert E. Howard: Twentieth Century Mythmaker." I knew that more people would be reading this essay than all my other Robert E. Howard stuff put together, so I wanted to repeat the most important points I made elsewhere. I drew on a variety of my other writings, but the main template is the essay that follows. The opening section is very similar to "Mythmaker," but it later goes off in different directions. This appeared in <em>Spectrum Super Special #2. </em>Copyright 2004 by Charles Hoffman.]<br /><br />Robert E. Howard's most famould creation, the indomitable barbarian warrior Conan, was introduced in the December 1932 issue of the pulp magazine <em>Weird Tales. </em>For the first story in the series, Howard provided a brief preface that served to set the stage for Conan's debut:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Know, oh prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars -- Nemedia, Ophir, Brythunia, Hyperborea, Zamora with its dark-haired women and towers of spider-haunted mystery, Zingara with its chivalry, Koth that bordered on the pastoral lands of Shem, Stygia with its shadow-guarded tombs, Hyrkania whose riders wore steel and silk and gold. But the proudest kingdom of the world was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming west. Hither came Conan, the Cimmerian, black-haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under his sandalled feet. [1]</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br />Earlier, the editor of <em>Weird Tales </em>had requested some biographical information about the young author himself. Howard's response painted a very different picture:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Like the average man, the tale of my life would merely be a dull narration of drab monotony and toil, a grinding struggle against poverty. I have spent most of my time in the hard, barren semi-waste lands of Western Texas, and since infancy my memory holds a continuous grinding round of crop failures -- sandstorms -- drouths -- floods -- hot winds that withered the corn -- hailstorms that ripped the grain to pieces -- late blizzards that froze the fruit in the bud -- plagues of grasshoppers and boll weevils...</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">I've picked cotton, helped brand a few yearlings, hauled a little garbage, worked in a grocery store, ditto a dry-goods store, worked in a law office, jerked soda, worked up in a gas office, tried to be a public stenographer, packed a surveyor's rod, worked up oil field news for some Texas and Oklahoma papers, etc., etc., and also etc...[2]</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br />Finally, Howard was moved to conclude, "And there I believe is about all the information I can give about a very humdrum and commonplace life." [3]<br /><br />As Morpheus said to Neo in <em>The Matrix, </em>"Welcome to the desert of the real."<br /><br />Many years later Mark Schultz, illustrator of a collection of the Conan tales, recalled:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I discovered Robert E. Howard's Conan in 1969. when I was 13 years old. I read the stories then for their incomparable high adventure and mind-blasting horror. It wasn't unitl much later that I realized they hit so hard and stayed so timeless because Howard's feverish, passionate writing was a crystal clear reflection of a young mind in turmoil, fighting to be free of the limitations of his physical surroundings. [4]</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br />Howard often discussed his writing with a young school-teacher named Novalyne Price, who had literary ambitions of her own. Late in life, Price wrote a memoir of Howard entitled <em>One Who Walked Alone. </em>Her book was subsequently adapted into a touching motion picture, <em>The Whole Wide World </em>starring Vincent D'Onofrio and Renee Zellweger. In <em>One Who Walked Alone, </em>Price recalls mentioning to Howard that she wanted to write about "real people with real problems." [5] Howard's reaction is revealing:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Not me. I don't want to write about men struggling along on a sandy farm, getting drunk, coming in the house at night and beating up a small, frail woman who can't fight back." [6]</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br />In his view, Novalyne was a "dreamer" who had lived a "sheltered life" [7] and who assumed that her own background represented a kind of universal norm:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"You come from a good home. You don't know these people out here. I do. You think they're nice and sweet and loving. That's not true... Trying to dig out a living on the farm in spite of the hail, and the dust is hard...That fills men with hate." [8]</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br />Defending his own fiction, Howard asserted:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"The people who read my stuff want to get away from this modern, complicated world world with it hypocrisy, it cruelty, its dog-eat-dog life...The civilization we live in is a lot more sinister than the time I write about. In those days, girl, men were men and women were women. They struggled to stay alive, but the struggle was worth it." [9]</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br />H. P. Lovecraft, with whom Howard corresponded regularly, once noted a curious paradox. Lovecraft observed that a great deal of fiction that purports to be about real everyday life is actually quite often rife with sentimental distortions. Howard himself expressed a similar view: "Nobody really writes realistic realism, and if they did, nobody would read it. The writers who thing they write it just give their own ideas about things they think they see. The sort of man who could write realism is the fellow who never reads or writes anything." [10]<br /><br />By way of contrast, Lovecraft defined fantasy as "an art based on the imaginary life of the human mind, <em>frankly recognized as such; </em>& in its way as natural & scientific --as truly related to natural (even if uncommon & delicate) psychological processes as the starkest of photographic realism." [11] In other words, fantasy fiction makes no pretense of representing the physical world as it actually is. However, in the right hands it can vividly the most intensely felt yearnings of the human heart and soul, from the deepest longings and most dreadful anxieties to the loftiest aspirations. Therefore, it could be said that fantasy need have little to do with <em>reality, </em>yet have a great deal to do with <em>truth, </em>since these are not precisely the same thing.<br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br />This is, of course, not to say that realistic fiction cannot portray weighty abstractions such as spiritual damnation and redemption, just that fantasy can often do so more excitingly and entertainingly. The <em>Star Wars </em>saga of Anakin Skywalker / Darth Vader is a perfect example. For better or worse, more people have seen the <em>Star Wars </em>movies than have read <em>Crime and Punishment. </em>Also, interestingly enough, most people are more familiar with the story of <em>Faust </em>than of <em>Crime and Punishment. </em>Fantasy is an uncannily suitable vehicle for conveying powerful themes to a mass audience.<br /><br />Novalyne Price Ellis recalled a subsequent conversation with Howard: "Bob began to talk about good and evil in life. He said that life was always a struggle between good and evil, and people like to read about that struggle...He wrote for readers who wanted evil to be something big, horrible, but still something a barbarian like Conan could overcome." [12]<br /><br />Howard's remarks to Novalyne strongly suggest that he felt that his readers benefited in some way from seeing their struggles reflected on a higher level. To that end, Robert E. Howard took the oldest type of story --the tale of heroes, gods, and monsters-- and reinvented it as jolting pulp fiction. His prose, not unlike that of Raymond Chandler, was direct and hard-edged, yet lyrical. Howard's modern brand of fantasy has often been characterized as "sword and sorcery," but Lovecraft may have been more insightful when he deemed it "artificial legendry."<br /><br />Howard wrote for the American working class of the early twentieth century. His readers were widely seperated by time, distance, and upheaval from the myths and legends that had enthralled their ancestors in the Old World. They lived in an era rocked by cataclysm, no less than the fictional Hyborian Age of Conan had been. In 1906, the year Howard was born, the world was ruled by kings, dukes, emperors, sultans, kaisers, and czars. Twenty years later, they were all gone. The slaughter of the First World War and the lawlessness of the Roaring Twenties were followed by the malaise of the Great Depression. The Depression was a humiliating ordeal for many Americans, and Howard's rousing tales of Conan helped to empower readers with flagging spirits. In a larger sense, however, Howard sought to resurrect the heroic saga where it had long been lost.<br /><br />When America declared its independence from the Mother Country, it was also bidding farewell to Saint George and King Arthur. No comparable myths grew up to take their places. The new folk legends that appeared in the wake of the Industrial Revolution celebrated laborers and producers of goods. Today everyone has heard of Paul Bunyan, John Henry, and Casey Jones, and yet no one really cares about them. One needn't marvel at the fact that no nineteenth century publisher ever attempted to use such characters to sell dime novels. Instead, stories of gunfighters and bank robbers were dime novel mainstays. "Tall tales" of how hard some guy worked were presumably less inspiring. After all, how popular would Horatio Alger's novels have been, had his protagonists simply worked but remained poor?<br /><br />The dime novel was followed in the early twentieth century by the pulp magazines. At this time, radio and motion pictures were in their infancies, television yet unborn. As astonishing as it may seem today, print was the primary entertainment medium for the masses. Publishing empires were built on pulp fiction magazines that usually sold for ten cents. By the late twenties, scores of different titles were on sale at any given time. The pulp jungle proved fertile ground for a new crop of homegrown heroes: cowboys, sailors, detectives, aviators, and soldiers of fortune. Interestingly, however, such pre-eminent pulp heroes as The Shadow and Doc Savage were essentially supercops, maintainers of the status quo.<br /><br />Robert E. Howard had something different in mind when he conceived of Conan. His giant barbarian is an outlaw, a sword-for-hire, basically out for himself, yet still retaining a certain knack for doing the right thing. Conan is not a preserver of order; he is a mover and shaker, the whirlwind at the center of momentous events. And though his author endowed him with a very modern hardboiled edge, Conan remains that most immemorial of heroes, the warrior. Writing before Carl Jung was well-known in America, before Joseph Campbell's work had appeared, Howard possessed an instinctive grasp of mythic, archetypal figures-- king, warrior, magician, femme fatale. He knew that the ancient figure of the warrior would resonate with readers on a deeper subconscious level than, for example, the detective, a hero figure in some ways emblematic of the Age of Reason.<br /><br />Howard's vivid "artificial legendry" has often sadly been dismissed as "escapism." Yet if the lot of the average man is truly one of "drab monotony and toil," as Howard believed, it falls to the skald and the storyteller to furnish needed refreshment for tired minds. And in truth, the average working adult does endure his or her fair share of drudgery. The majority of people earn a living by means of tedious jobs, not rewarding careers.<br /><br />Herein lies a clue to Howard's well-known resentment of "civilization," for which the author has taken so much flak. Youngsters are told they can become anything they want if they try hard enough; they are never told how many waiters the world needs for every archeologist it can support. The former notion is wishful thinking, the latter a dismal truth Howard knew only too well. Viewed this way, civilized society is like a big lottery in which most people have to lose. As one example, consider the monkey-suited doorman standing in front of a luxury hotel. To Howard, such an individual would be better off, spiritually if not materially, wearing a loincloth and carrying a spear, battling openly against man and nature.<br /><br />Decades after Howard's death, the lot of the working class changed, but in an important sense it was not for the better. Previously, the laborer could at least derive some satisfaction from accomplishing enormous tasks and producing tangible goods. In the last quarter of the twentieth century, however, the workplace underwent a transformation. Countless American manufacturing jobs were sold overseas to the lowest bidder. America became a "service economy," a glib euphemism for a nation of flunkies.<br /><br />The plight of the American working man at the turn of the twenty-first century is explored in Chuck Palahniuk's 1996 novel <em>Fight Club. </em>The novel and its subsequent film adaptation look at a generation of men who are increasingly marginalized. Most are relegated to menial jobs and inane tasks. Alienated from society, they begin to form underground "fight clubs" in the basements of bars and similar places. Here they engage in greuling fistfights, finding a renewed sense of meaning in raw physical strife. At one point a character remarks, "I see the strongest and the smartest men who have ever lived...and these men are pumping gas and waiting tables." [14] It is a statement with which Robert E. Howard would have nodded in somber agreement.<br /><br />In 1928, before his professional writing career took off, Howard wrote a novel entitled <em>Post Oaks and Sand Roughs. </em>It is actually a thinly-veiled autobiography of Howard (herein called "Steve Costigan") between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two. While crossing the threshold of adulthood, Howard at one point toiled at a tedious job in his town's drug store. At this time, Cross Plains, Texas, was in the midst of an oil boom. Oil workers swelled the town's population, and Howard had to work long hours for weeks on end. However, he was able to vent some of his frustration by taking part in amateur boxing matches held in an empty building at a local ice plant. One such episode is recounted in Chapter 9 of the novel. It is <em>Fight Club </em>seven decades early.<br /><br />The chapter begins with Howard, or "Steve," humbled by his serf-like position:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A man who works all day or all night swinging heavy sledges, clambering about on an eighty foot rig, and in general doing work suitable for a giant, has scant respect for one who makes his living by doling out soft drinks.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Steve hated his job worse than he had ever hated any task, and the contempt and apprehension which he felt toward the mass of oil field workers grew to a fear and venomous hatred of dangerous and abnormal size. It grew to be an obsession with him to hate the blustering, powerful roughnecks who swaggered up to the fountain and domineeringly demanded attention. He served them in silence and with an immobile face, but all hell seethed in his brain. [15]</span><br /><br />Reliving the experience as Steve, Howard recalls the physical toll the job took:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He did not read or write, scarcely had time to answer his correspondence. He had absolutely no time for recreation or even rest. All during the day he would dash back and forth behind the fountain which he had grown to hate, serving drinks and waiting on customers, doing many things he was not paid to do. At night he staggered home to fall into his bed and sleep the sodden sleep of utter exhaustion. He went to bed fatigued and he awoke fatigued. [16]</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br />Emotionally drained by a job that's sucking the life out of him, Howard/Steve reaches the brink of despair:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Steve sighed as he walked beneath the cold silver moonlight and the gems of the stars. God, how clean and clear and high -- how far from all this sordid muck of living. Was there, anywhere in the world, such purity, such beauty? No --life was shoving Coca Colas and ice creams across the fountain top to unshaven roughnecks who swore at you --life was sordid and muck. Better that a man would never look at the stars, for they made him realize the terrible hopelessness and filth of his own existence. [17]</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br />Redemption is found in a 1920s version of fight club. In Howard's recollections, the days and nights of toil at the drug store blend and blur together. However, when he recounts his alter ego's first battle, every detail stands out in remarkable clarity:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Steve reeled, the blood gushing from his mouth to mingle with the sweat on his chest. And in the fleeting instant before the fighting commenced again, Steve knew Life, fierce, red, and vibrant. God, but this was his element! To fight, to kill or be killed, here in this hell-hot, smoke-laden atmosphere, with a gang of roughnecks screaming oaths and shouting for his slaughter...</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Steve plunged in without waiting for Bill's attack, expecting to be knocked cold, revelling in the fact that he was carrying the fight to his antagonist...They were fighting rough-house style now, with no attempt at science. Blow followed blow as fast as four frantic arms could drive them in, and the gloves, heavy with sweat and blood, flashed past each other in a never ending stream...</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Bill was beginning to weaken. Forced into a corner, he gathered his waning strength and leaped forward with the ferocity of an attacking tiger. And Steve met him with a left-handed smash which struck Bill squarely in the mouth; something cracked like a twig. Bill went down. [18]</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br />Howard/Steve comes away from the bout having experienced a kind of epiphany:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Steve felt jubilant in a strange manner. His mind was clear now, and the blood raced through his veins...He sighed deeply and with relish and glanced up at the stars which somehow seemed less cold and more friendly. [19]</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br />Howard initially asserts that "life was shoving Coca Colas and ice creams across the fountain top to unshaven roughnecks who swore at you," but changes his tune once the fight is underway: "Steve knew Life, fierce, red, and vibrant." To put that capital "L" on "Life," one must seek out extreme experiences seldom encountered in the normal course of everyday living. Restless within the folds of a safe, comfortable civilization, adventurous spirits search for ways to test and challenge themselves. Examples can be found at every level of society, from the mountaineer scaling a peak "because it is there" to the teenage street racer.<br /><br />Howard once told Lovecraft, "Despite the tinsel and show, the artificial adjuncts, and the sometimes disgusting advertisements, ballyhoo and exploitation attendant upon such sports as boxing and football, there is, in the actual contexts, something vital and real and deep-rooted in the very life-springs of the race...Football, for instance, is nothing less than war in miniature, and provides an excellent way of working off pugnacious and combative instincts, without bloodshed." [20] One can experience a fleeting taste of glory through some form of athletic striving, either first-hand or vicariously as a spectator. One can also experience a heightened sense of meaning, purpose, and fulfillment vicariously through art.<br /><br />Whatever the case, a transcendental experience is sought. There is a yearning to transcend the coarseness and banality of everyday life. Championship football and soccer games are often followed by racous partying and even rioting, owing to the fact that most of the spectators lead exceedingly humdrum lives. Howard deemed his autobiographical a failure because it was "too vague, too disconnected, too full of unexplained and trivial incidents -- too much like life in a word." [21]<br /><br />Ordinary everyday life consists of slogging through a morass of stifling worries and squabbles. A week's worth of listings for a courtroom television program like <em>Judge Judy </em>reads like a series of postcards from the desert of the real: "A dispute involving a VCR, a TV, and clothing. / A woman sues her beautician after her hair extensions fall out. / A woman sues her ex over unpaid bills. / A case involving a damaged TV set; an alleged break-in. / A dispute over an unpaid loan. / A dispute over a TV. Also: a fight is sparked by damaged bicycles." [22] The sheer pettiness of it all seems almost suffocating. Even so, there are people who watch such programs religiously, presumably for the dubious satisfaction of seeing others chided and punished. It is a peculiar form of spiritual tunnel vision.<br /><br />Howard endeavored to offer his readers a wider vista. He knew that working at the counter of a drug store, or pumping gas, or selling shoes, or digging holes, was not enough to fill a man's heart. That is one reason he so excelled at depicting struggles that were epic, against evils that were truly horrific. Such is the essence of adventure, and Howard has been widely lauded as a great adventure writer. The path of the adventurer leads either to glory or doom, but it skirts commonplace tedium and transcends the gradual grinding down of the human spirit by the weight of the world. In its way, the adventure story is a subversive art form in the sense that it carries within it the implicit suggestion that <em>everyday life is inadequate</em>. No author has been more militant in conveying this message than Robert E. Howard.<br /><br />There is little of adventure or glory to be found in the desert of the real, save in the form of a mirage. To invest common events like holidays, weddings, and graduations with an atmosphere of pomp and grandeur involves the use of the creative imagination in a manner not unlike the way the storyteller weaves his tales. "[T]here was pagentry and high illusion and vanity, and the beloved tinsel of glory without which life is not worth living," wrote Howard to a correspondent concerning times gone by, "All empty show and the smoke of conceit and arrogance, but what a drab thing life would be without them." [23] For him, there is no meaning or beauty in life other than what we dream into it. In this respect, and in other respects, Howard could be considered as early existential writer.<br /><br /><br /><strong>2. Serving Time in Disillusionment</strong><br /><br />Conan's world is one of exotic kingdoms, gleaming citadels, desolate wastelands, and mysterious ruins haunted by nightmarish spectres. Fabulous wealth in the form of gold and precious gemstones lies in heaps for the taking, if one is bold enough to dare the terrors that lurk in the nearby shadows. Monstrous fifty-foot serpents rear up, fangs dripping venom. Giant slavering apes snarl and lurch forward with taloned hands extended. Yet even these horrors can be overcome by the craft, sinew, and fighting prowess of a fierce barbarian warrior. And gold is not his only reward. Alluring women await; some are slave girls, some are princesses, some are warriors in their own right, but all are almost agonizing in their physical perfection.<br /><br />For daring to conjure such fever dreams, Howard has at times been labelled an "arrested adolescent" by his harsher critics. However, such critics tend to be familiar with only a small portion of Howard's work. Howard lavished whatever exhuberance and love of life he possessed upon his most famous creation, leaving precious little for himself and his other characters. Thus Solomon Kane is driven by fanaticism, and Bran Mak Morn by wrath. King Kull broods on his throne, grappling with philosophical abstactions. The crusaders of Howard's historical tales are not knights in shining armor, but brutal men in dirty chain male vying for power over small medieval fiefdoms. Howard himself was buffeted by severe manic-depressive mood swings. He took his own life at the youthful age of thirty. While only in his early twenties he was writing poetry redolent of world-weariness, loss, and ennui. Far from being an "arrested adolescent," Robert E. Howard was, if anything, a premature middle-aged burnout.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">For I rode the moon-mare's horses in the glory of my youth,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Wrestled with the hills at sunset --till I met brass-tinctured Truth.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Till I saw the temples topple, till I saw the idols reel,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Till my brain had turned to iron, and my heart had turned to steel. [24]</span><br /><br />So wrote Howard in "Always Comes Evening," in which he concludes:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">...my road runs out in thistles and my dreams have turned to dust,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">And my pinions fade and falter to the raven-wings of rust. [25]</span><br /><br />Verse in a similar vein includes "Shadows on the Road," "Lines Written in the Realization That I Must Die," "The Years Are as a Knife," "Futility," and "Illusion." Howard wrote not one, but two poems called "Surrender." In the less somber of the two, the poet speaks of dropping out of society and drinking himself to death. The other lacks any sort of narrative and consists solely of a "let me die" wail:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My heart is hollow with endless pain, my temples are growing white,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Open the window against the rain and let me go into the night. [26]</span><br /><br />More than once Howard speaks of the bone-crushing weight of age pressing upon him, even as he admits he is young in actual years: "I fling aside the cloak of Youth and limp / A withered man upon a broken staff." [27] In "Always Comes Evening" he exhorts the devil to "Feed with hearts of rose-white women ashes of my dead desire." [28] Surely a lament for one's "dead desire" is more appropriate for a man in late middle life than for a young poet of, perhaps, twenty-two years.<br /><br />Howard gave considerable credence to the doctrine of reincarnation, and this undoubtedly contributed to his view of himself as an "old soul":<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I cannot well recall what shapes I bore,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">What spears have pierced me, or what axes have gashed, </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Yet through my dreams there runs the endless roar</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Of nameless battles where lost armies crashed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Shape upon shape returning, land on land,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Loosed by the ripping axe, the arrow's tooth,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Through endless incarnations, till I stand,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">A scarred old man, masked in the guise of youth. [29]</span><br /><br />Possible former incarnations notwithstanding, however, Howard did not live out even a single normal life span. Even so, he experienced his share of strife and conflict. This was not in the form of physical combat, but rather resulting from his struggle with his surroundings.<br /><br />"It seems to me that many writers, by virtue of environments of culture, art, and education, slip into writing because of their environments," he told Lovecraft:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I became a writer in spite of my environments. Understand I am not criticizing those environments. They were good, solid, and worthy. The fact that they were not inducive to literature and art is nothing in their disfavor. Nevertheless, it is no light thing to enter into a profession absolutely foreign and alien to the people among which one's lot is cast. [30]</span><br /><br />As a child, Howard was introverted and the prey of bullies. This led him to undertake a rigorous bodybuilding program that gained him a powerful physique as an adult. He informed his father that "I entered in to build my body until when a scoundrel crosses me up, I can with my bare hands tear him to pieces, double him up, and break his back with my hands alone." [31] Growing up, he became increasingly resentful of authority: "I hated school as I hate the memory of school. It wasn't the work I minded...what I hated was the confinement --the clock-like regularity of everything; the regulation of my speech and actions; most of all the idea that someone considered himself or herself in authority over me, with the right to question my actions and interfere with my thoughts." [32] Howard took up writing as a profession in large part because it enabled him to be his own boss: "I worked a while in a gas office, but lost the job because I wouldn't kow-tow to my employer and 'yes' him from morning to night. That's one reason I was never very successful working for people. So many men think an employee is a kind of servant." [33]<br /><br />All these things contributed to Howard's premature burnout. Possessed of a dominant personality, he was given to butting heads with people and situations with which he felt himself at odds. Essentially, he was fighting the whole damn world, and over time this took its toll. Hence his feelings of world-weariness and futility.<br /><br />In a larger sense, however, Howard's disillusionment differs from that of the average person only in degree. Everyone experiences some form of unrequited longing or thwarted ambition. Disappointment is a fact of life, an inevitability known to all. For the more sensitive, disappointment is shadowed by disillusionment. There is a vague sense that life has somehow played one false. Often this is simply dismissed with the commonplace observation that things aren't always what they're cracked up to be. But in Howard's prose, as well as his poetry, disillusionment has a way of becoming magnified.<br /><br />From time to time, Howard writes of some glorious dream that only serves to conceal a hideous underlying reality. In such passages, he feels moved to portray disillusionment on a grand, even cosmic, scale. All pervasive, it enfolds humanity like some form of original sin. Not even Conan can escape it. For Howard's heroes, disillusionment is a dragon no less formidable than a literal monster with fangs and claws. Typically it is the result of a sudden horrifying revelation, rather than the accumulation of minor disappointments. Portrayed in this manner, it is another example of Howard's penchant for depicting ordinary human struggle on a mythical level.<br /><br />By way of illustration, we might consider a tawdry form of disillusionment common enough in the desert of the real, contrasted with a soul-searing encounter undergone by Conan. In a pair of poems, Howard recounts a youth's depressing visits to a seamy brothel:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My heart was the heart of a broken louse,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">The jackal fired my eyes,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">When I sought for peace in the bawdyhouse,</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">And the rest in a harlot's thighs. [34]</span><br /><br />Youthful lust and frustration mingle with guilt and shame, and the poet is moved to conclude:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The girl I dreamed she might have been</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Fades before she that is--</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">But I'll forget as do all men</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">In passion's barren bliss.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">For she runs with Life a parallel --</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">The dream and its rotten core --</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">For Life's a harlot out of hell</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">With a red light over her door. [35]</span><br /><br />A simple visit to a common prostitute proves so distasteful to Howard that all of life seems somehow tainted. In the saga of Conan, this experience is echoed in an episode in which the mighty Cimmerian confronts an immortal femme fatale. Chapter 18 of <em>The Hour of the Dragon </em>finds Conan deep within the underground tombs of Stygia. There he meets the Princess Akivasha, who lived ten thousand years earlier and is celebrated in myth the world over. According to her legend, she communed with dark forces to remain young and beautiful forever. When she attempts to seduce him, Conan learns that Akivasha is a vampire, an unclean thing. As he escapes her lair, he is nearly overwhelmed with despair:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The legend of Akivasha was so old, and among the evil tales told of her ran a thread of beauty and idealism, of everlasting youth. To so many dreamers and poets and lovers she was not alone the evil princess of Stygian legend, but the symbol of eternal youth and beauty, shining forever in some far realm of the gods. And this was the hideous reality. This foul perversion was the truth of that everlasting life. Through his physical revulsion ran the sense of a shattered dream of man's idolatry, it glittering gold proved slime and cosmic filth. A wave of futility swept over him, a dim fear of the falseness of all men's dreams and idolatries. [36]</span><br /><br />Howard may or may not have known a loose woman or two, but he leaves it to Conan to confront the true harlot out of hell. Frequently Conan encounters beings whose capacity for evil or depravity exceeds that of mere mortals. It's all part of a heroic saga of ordeals and triumphs surpassing those to be found in the course of ordinary everyday life. And if there is no escaping disillusionment, Conan must experience disillusionment on an epic scale.<br /><br />The fantasy of Robert E. Howard encompasses both high adventure and blood-chilling horror. In both prose and poetry, Howard sends the reader soaring to exhilerating summits or plummeting to the very depths of his despair. But in either case, he endeavors to avoid the tedium of what T. S. Eliot described as a life measured out in coffee spoons. This aspect of the storyteller's art is of no small importance.<br /><br />Critics like Robert McKee have theorized that it is the structure of "the story" that enables us to see our own lives as something other than a chaotic jumble of trivial incidents. We learn to focus on what is important and edit out the mundane. Our lives center on our goals and loved ones, rather than being measured out in coffee spoons, or frozen dinners, or toothbrushes, or flea powder, or parking meters, or crossword puzzles. Bruce Lee once quoted a Zen aphorism about a finger pointing to the moon: concentrate on the finger, and you miss all that heavenly glory. We define our reality by determining what is important to us.<br /><br />The true "desert of the real" is perhaps nothing more than the desert of the trivial. Narrowness and pettiness are withering wastelands to which we must not succumb. Consider Conan as depicted in the opening of "Xuthal of the Dusk." These are the passages that provided the basis for Frank Frazetta's iconic portrait of the barbarian:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The desert shimmered in the heat waves. Conan the Cimmerian stared out over the aching desolation and involuntarily drew the back of his powerful hand over his blackened lips. He stood like a bronze statue in the sand, apparently impervious to the murderous sun, though his only garment was a silk loin-cloth, girdled by a wide gold buckled belt from which hung a saber and a broad-bladed poniard. On his clean-cut limbs were evidences of scarcely healed wounds.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">At his feet rested a girl, one white arm clasping his knee, against which her blond head drooped. Her white skin contrasted with his hard bronzed limbs; her short silken tunic, low-necked and sleeveless, girdled at the waist, emphasized rather than concealed her lithe figure...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">The Cimmerian growled wordlessly, glaring truculently at the surrounding waste, with outthrust jaw, and blue eyes smoldering savagely from under his black tousled mane, as if the desert were a tangible enemy. [37]</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">NOTES</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span >[1] Robert E. Howard (hereafter REH), "The Phoenix on the Sword," <em>The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian </em>(New York: Ballantine Books, 2003), p. 7.</span><br /><br />[2] REH to Farnsworth Wright in Glenn Lord, ed., <em>The Last Celt </em>(West Warwick, RI: Donald M. Grant, 1976), pp. 37-38.<br /><br />[3] Ibid., p. 39<br /><br />[4] Mark Schultz, <em>Robert E. Howard's Conan of Cimmeria: A Sketchbook </em>(Wandering Star, 2001), p. 2.<br /><br />[5] Novalyne Price Ellis, <em>One Who Walked Alone </em>(West Kingston, RI: Donald M. Grant, 1986), p. 62.<br /><br />[6] Ibid., p. 63.<br /><br />[7] Ibid.<br /><br />[8] Ibid.<br /><br />[9] Ibid.<br /><br />[10] REH, <em>Post Oaks and Sand Roughs </em>(Hampton Falls, NH: Donald M. Grant, 1990), p. 157.<br /><br />[11] H. P. Lovecraft to Clark Ashton Smith, November 16, 1926, in <em>Selected Letters II </em>(Sauk City, WI: Arkham House, 1968), p. 90.<br /><br />[12] Ellis, p. 151.<br /><br />[13] H. P. Lovecraft to Donald A. Wollheim, 1936.<br /><br />[14] Chuck Palahniuk, <em>Fight Club </em>(New York: Owl Books, 1997), p. 149.<br /><br />[15] REH, <em>Post Oaks and Sand Roughs, </em>p. 141.<br /><br />[16] Ibid., p. 95.<br /><br />[17] Ibid., pp. 101-102.<br /><br />[18] Ibid., pp. 104-105.<br /><br />[19] Ibid., p. 106.<br /><br />[20] REH to Lovecraft, January 1932.<br /><br />[21] REH, <em>Post Oaks and Sand Roughs, </em>p. 141.<br /><br />[22] All from <em>TV Guide </em>for the week of December 8, 2001: Vol. 49, No. 49, Issue #2541.<br /><br />[23] REH to Harold Preece, received October 20, 1978.<br /><br />[24] REH, "Always Comes Evening," <em>Always Comes Evening </em>(San Francisco: Underwood-Miller, 1977), p. 73.<br /><br />[25] Ibid.<br /><br />[26] REH, "Surrender," <em>Shadows of Dreams </em>(Hampton Falls, NH: Donald M. Grant, 1989), p. 92.<br /><br />[27] REH, "The Sands of Time," <em>Echoes From an Iron Harp </em>(West Kingston, RI: Donald M. Grant, 1972), p. 65.<br /><br />[28] REH, "Always Comes Evening," p. 73.<br /><br />[29] REH, "The Guise of Youth," <em>The Second Book of Robert E. Howard </em>(New York: Berkley Books, 1980), pp. 211-212.<br /><br />[30] REH to Lovecraft, circa May/June 1933.<br /><br />[31] Dr. I. M. Howard to E. Hoffman Price, June 21, 1944.<br /><br />[32] REH to Lovecraft, March 6, 1933.<br /><br />[33] REH to Wilfred B. Talman, September 1931.<br /><br />[34] REH, "Song From an Ebony Heart," <em>Shadows of Dreams, </em>p. 85.<br /><br />[35] REH, "Love's Young Dream," <em>Shadows of Dreams, </em>p. 88.<br /><br />[36] REH, <em>The Hour of the Dragon </em>(New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1977), pp. 220-221.<br /><br />[37] REH, "Xuthal of the Dusk," <em>The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian, </em>p. 219.Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273317289668707416.post-4107795372798571432008-06-18T18:53:00.000-07:002008-06-20T03:57:04.701-07:00Why "The Dunwich Horror" Is So Great[This essay originally appeared in <em>Crypt of Cthulhu </em># 102, Lammas 1999. Copyright 1999.]<br /><br /><br />William Shakespeare: <em>Romeo and Juliet. </em>Fyodor Dostoevsky: <em>Crime and Punishment. </em>Herman Melville: <em>Moby-Dick. </em>Jack London: <em>The Call of the Wild. </em>H. P. Lovecraft: "The Dunwich Horror."<br /><br />In the above list, some notable authors are paired with their single best known work. And I'm sure most would agree that "The Dunwich Horror" <em>is </em>arguably Lovecraft's most celebrated tale, the title evoking nods of recognition among casual readers at times when mention of "The Colour out of Space" and <em>At the Mountains of Madness </em>would be greeted with blank stares. It is no coincidence that, in the standard edition of Lovecraft's work, the volume containing his "best" short fiction is titled <em>The Dunwich Horror and Others.</em><br /><em></em><br />However, in the list of authors and works cited above, HPL and "The Dunwich Horror" stand out in a very curious way: Shakespeare scholars don't hate <em>Romeo and Juliet, </em>Melville scholars don't hate <em>Moby-Dick, </em>and so on. Okay, maybe Lovecraft scholars don't actually hate "The Dunwich Horror" either. They do, however, have serious problems with it.<br /><br />S. T. Joshi and Donald Burleson are both known far and wide as leading Lovecraft scholars. Joshi states, ["The Dunwich Horror"] is, certainly, one of Lovecraft's most popular tales, but I cannot help finding serious flaws of conception, execution, and style in it."[1] He adds that "many points of plotting and characterization in the story are painfully inept."[2] Burleson concurs that "The Dunwich Horror" is "oddly flawed by certain crudities of characterization and plot."[3] I'll address specific criticisms concerning plot and character as I proceed. For now, however, it is worth noting that both Joshi's and Burleson's <em>primary </em>objections to the story have to do, not with individual stylistic lapses, but with the basic premise of Lovecraft's story.<br /><br />To understand this, we must look briefly at the plot of "The Dunwich Horror." In the dreary New England backwater of Dunwich, the freakish Wilber Whateley is born, the spawn of a hapless human female and the demonic entity Yog-Sothoth. Wilbur reaches maturity in little more than a decade, becoming a misshapen eight-foot giant. As he grows, he is groomed by his grandfather, Old Whateley, to be an acolyte of the inhuman Old Ones. Wilbur must obtain the dreaded <em>Necronomicon </em>in order to "clear off" the earth so the Old Ones may take possession of it. Both the inhuman Wilbur Whateley and the related monstrosity known as the Dunwich Horror are opposed by the wise old scholar, Henry Armitage.<br /><br />Anyone familiar with Lovecraft's basic themes and motifs can grasp the problems critics have here. Donald Burleson sums it up neatly:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">[O]ne wonders that the tale can fit at all into a Lovecraft Mythos in which such human concepts as "good" and "evil" are meaningless, and the cosmos is portrayed as awesomely indifferent to human interests, for in "The Dunwich Horror" there appears to be a sort of `stock' struggle between good and evil, between Armitage and the blasphemous monstrosity which he rushes in like a movie hero to quell.</span> [4]<br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:0;">Burleson charitably attempts to get around this by interpreting the story in mythic terms, or even as a parody. To this, S. T. Joshi comments, "An interesting case has been made that the tale is in fact a parody, but my feeling is that `The Dunwich Horror' is simply an aesthetic mistake on Lovecraft's part."[5]</span><br /><br />It may seem a bit harsh for Joshi and Burleson to knock "The Dunwich Horror" because it doesn't jibe perfectly with some critical theory, but it must be remembered that the theory is Lovecraft's and not theirs. Throughout his career, in essays and letters, Lovecraft detailed his criteria for successful weird fiction in no uncertain terms. This well-known statement to Farnsworth Wright is representative:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">...Now all my tales are based on the fundamental premise that common human laws and interests and emotions have no validity or significance in the vast cosmos-at-large...To achieve the essence of real externality, whether of time or space or dimension, one must forget that such things as organic life, good and evil, love and hate, and all such local attributes of a negligible and temporary race called mankind have any existence at all.[6]</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:0;">Thus Joshi is moved to conclude , "`The Dunwich Horror' seems to defy Lovecraft's own strictures against a stock good-versus-evil scenario with humans as the self-evident `heroes' and extraterrestrials as self-evident `villains.'"[7]</span><br /><br />However, Lovecraft did make allowances for a certain amount of flexibility in regards to his aesthetic criteria. After detailing some of them in "Supernatural Horror in Literature," he adds, "[W]e cannot expect all weird tales to conform absolutely to any theoretical model."[8] In creating his own fiction, Lovecraft's critical theory served him well, but <em>it </em>served <em>him. He didn't serve it.</em><br /><em></em><br />Some tales do have a life of their own in the sense that they transcend their authors' designs in various ways. In writing "The Dunwich Horror," Lovecraft was guided by his muse more than his critical theory. With so memorable a tale, the only true "aesthetic mistake" HPL could have made would have been to hold himself back.<br /><br />All that aside, however, is "The Dunwich Horror" really so totally incompatible with the recurrent themes and ideas of Lovecraft's other major works? Did HPL actually succeed in bending his own rules without breaking them? Is it possible, even, that "The Dunwich Horror" might in some way <em>enhance, </em>rather than undermine, the basic philosophical thrust of Lovecraft's bleak "anti-mythology"? To answer these questions, we must look at the story more closely.<br /><br />In "The Dunwich Horror," one of the most important characters in the Dunwich region itself. Lovecraft regarded a story's setting as the key to establishing the appropriate mood. In this case, an entire opening segment is devoted to setting the stage with a detailed description of the isolated and decaying rural hamlet of Dunwich. Even critics who are cold to the story as a whole give Lovecraft high marks for his vivid portrayal of this setting.<br /><br />At a farm on the outskirts of Dunwich, Wilber Whateley is born to the deformed albino, Lavinia. By the now-well-known climax of the story, both Wilbur and his even-more-monstrous twin are revealed as the spawn of the nightmarish entity Yog-Sothoth. It took a woman, Joyce Carol Oates, to point out to me what I would have realized in a minute if I had bothered to think about it--that Lavinia must have been brutally coerced by her crazed father for her to mate with a demon and give birth to monsters.<br /><br />This must surely stand as the most monumental case of domestic abuse in man's sordid history. I can't help feeling a little ashamed that I never gave much thought to Lavinia, and what life with her father must have been like. To those who say that "The Dunwich Horror" is too lurid and blatant, I would point out that Lovecraft leaves much to the imagination that is better unsaid. Writing in the twenties, HPL could only state so much directly, but I'm sure his taste and restraint would have prevailed in any event. A modern author would almost certainly milk Lavinia's ordeal for all it was worth in a novel-length version of the tale.<br /><br />So what sort of man violates his own daughter in such an appalling manner? Probably the same sort that dabbles in black magic to clear off the earth of its indigenous life so it can be dragged to some nameless place for some nameless purpose. Old Whateley's personal motives here are rather hard to grasp. Perhaps he is deluded enough to think he might benefit in some way, but its more likely he's so craven a soul as to kowtow to the most powerful faction regardless of <em>any </em>other consideration. To do him justice, I have to go out on a limb and use the E-word.<br /><br />Okay, he's <em>evil. </em>One of those critically-problematic no-no's. Before anyone gets carried away, it might be worth noting that while such terms as "good" and "evil" are meaningless on Yuggoth, they still presumably have meaning in Massachusetts. While Lovecraft regarded love, hate, good, evil, etc. as meaningless in a cosmic sense, he still recognized them as "local attributes of a negligible and temporary race called mankind."[9] Thus Wilbur, Yog-Sothoth, and the Dunwich horror can't really be considered evil, but Old Whateley can. Without question he's the worst traitor in history, selling out not just his nation, or race, or even humanity itself, but all terrestrial life.<br /><br />Earthly life is portrayed as possessing a certain solidarity in "The Dunwich Horror." Wilbur Whately is abhorred by dogs, so much so that this hulking creature is obliged to carry a gun to defend against their attacks. The dog was the first animal to be domesticated by man, perhaps originally to bark warnings of human and animal marauders. In this story, the dog again proves its worth as man's ally. People regard Wilbur with bewilderment, but the primative instincts of the canine are more sound.<br /><br />Also woven into this motif is the folk tale of the whippoorwills that lie in wait to catch the souls of the dying. Lovecraft uses this legend to startling effect in the course of the story, but how did the materialist Lovecraft come to ponder the immaterial soul? Critics could point to this as another vexing instance in which HPL seems to ignore his own strictures. But must we take the notion of the "soul" so literally here? As early as "From Beyond" (1920) Lovecraft postulated that reality extends beyond our perception of it. Perhaps the whippoorwills are merely responding to some psychic disturbance or discharge, nature unknown, that coincides with the moment of death. As Blake wrote, "How do you know but ev'ry Bird that cuts the airy way, / is an immense world of delight, clos'd by your senses five?"<br /><br />None of this is to suggest any sort of mystical bent on Lovecraft's part. The notion that dogs and birds may possess important attributes lacking in humans only serves to undermine humanity's central importance. Lovecraft was well aware of the Darwinian struggle of life. He knew that everything that moves must kill something else to live, and that even plants are nourished by the decay of other organisms. The suggestion of a sort of solidarity among earthly lifeforms, despite this, is present to magnify the alien nature of the Old Ones.<br /><br />Back to the story. Old Whateley boasts to the Dunwich natives that, "some day yew folks'll hear a child o' Lavinny's acallin its father's name on the top of Sentinel Hill!" Wilbur is being tutored in the religion of the Old Ones, and this includes rites performed among the ancient monoliths on Sentinel Hill. Presumably, Wilbur will invoke Yog-Sothoth there as Old Whateley himself had done, so Old Whateley's pronouncement is not just inept foreshadowing, as has been suggested.<br /><br />In the meantime, the Whateleys are kept busy feeding and housing the future Dunwich horror. Wilbur and the horror mature at an unnaturally rapid rate. Old Whateley passes away, but not before giving Wilbur his final instructions. Wilbur must consult the complete edition of the <em>Necronomicon. </em>The text is available at the library of Miskatonic University in Arkham. Wilbur travels there, but is thwarted in his attempt to borrow the book by the aged librarian, Dr. Henry Armitage.<br /><br />Henry Armitage is a character who deserves some special attention, as he has been much maligned by critics. Both Donald R. Burleson and S. T. Joshi really have it in for Armitage. Burleson informs us that, "Armitage sounds like a buffoon because...he <em>is </em>a buffoon."[10] Joshi goes even further, "Armitage is, indeed, the prize buffoon in all Lovecraft."[11]<br /><br />Excuse me? <em>Dennis Rodman </em>is a "buffoon." Henry Armitage is an esteemed scholar with advanced degrees from Princeton and Johns Hopkins who has devoted his life to the pursuit of knowledge. Yet Joshi and Burleson belittle him mercilessly, referring to him variously as pompous, hokey, and "essentially a cipher."[12] Nevertheless, Joshi admits that "Lovecraft intends us to take him seriously."[13]<br /><br />It seems clear that Lovecraft intended that we not only take Armitage seriously, but hold him in fairly high esteem. This should come as no surprise. When Lovecraft was a boy, his primary male role model was his grandfather. Throughout his adult life, he affected the dignified mannerisms of an elder gentleman. Lovecraft was barely out of his twenties when he began referring to himself as "Grandpa" when addressing younger colleagues. Little wonder that he told August Derleth that he found himself "psychologically identifying" with Henry Armitage.[14] Lovecraft would <em>never </em>portray an elderly scholar as a joke.<br /><br />The significance of Armitage as a character lies in his erudition. Armitage's studies for the most part involve such things as ancient writings and dead languages --not the sort of thing with any readily-perceivable application. Yet it is Armitage's pursuit of esoteric knowledge that enables him to put down the Dunwich horror. This is Lovecraft's way of saying that you just never know what sort of knowledge may one day turn out to be valuable. In "The Dunwich Horror," HPL emerges as a staunch advocate of the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake.<br /><br />Dr. Henry Armitage wisely prohibits Wilbur Whateley from borrowing the <em>Necronomicon, </em>so Wilbur is driven to try to steal it. Wilbur breaks into the library at night, only to be killed by a guard dog. Armitage and some colleagues discover Wilbur as he lies dying. The dog has torn Wilbur's clothing asunder in its attack, and Wilbur's true form is now revealed in one of the most horrific passages in Lovecraft's fiction. Some have felt that Lovecraft's description of Wilbur is too lengthy and precise, but I hold that Lovecraft's technique here is sound. The reader has already guessed that Wilbur is not wholly human, but the revelation of just <em>how </em>inhuman Wilbur actually is comes as a shock.<br /><br />After Wilbur's death, Armitage studies a secret manuscript found at the Whateley farmhouse. It is Wilbur's diary, kept in code, and Dr. Armitage undertakes the laborious task of deciphering it. Gradually, he learns of the Whateley's plans to surrender the earth to the Old Ones, and of the existence of the Dunwich horror. Mental fatigue and slowly-growing panic cause the elderly scholar to suffer a nervous collapse. In bed, he mutters over and over, <em>"But what, in God's name can we do?"</em><br /><em></em><br />According to Joshi, this bit of dialogue makes for "painful reading,"[15] and Burleson isn't crazy about it either. Both critics use such terms as hokey, corny, and melodramatic in reference to<br />Armitage's dialogue. It's worth noting that the most frequently heard last words on black box flight recorders are "Uh oh" and "Oh shit." People can be forgiven inarticulate or trite utterances during moments of extreme stress.<br /><br />While Armitage learns the truth in Arkham, things come to a head in Dunwich. Without Wilbur to tend to it, his monstrous twin breaks free and begins to blindly ravage the countryside. I consider the destruction of the Elmer Frye family another of the most horrific moments in Lovecraft's work. Learning of these events, Armitage rallies. With his colleagues Rice and Morgan, he heads to Dunwich to deal with the menace.<br /><br />In Dunwich, Armitage and company join a local posse that is tracking the unknown terror. When the courage of the locals begins to falter, Armitage takes charge. Burleson objects to what he considers the mawkish, moralizing tone of such dialogue as "We have no business calling in such things from outside, and only very wicked people and very wicked cults ever try to." It's important to remember that Armitage is addressing an inbred community of semi-morons. In choosing his words, he must be clear, unwavering, and convincing. "We must follow it, boys," he tells them, "I believe there's a chance of putting it out of business...this thing is a thing of wizardry, and must be put down by the same means." I've worked with guys not much smarter than the Dunwich inhabitants. Armitage's background has not prepared him for such a task, but I personally think he does a splendid job.<br /><br />The Dunwich horror is finally located atop Sentinel Hill. While the villagers watch from below, Armitage, Rice, and Morgan ascend the hill to deal with it. For this task, they are prepared. Since the horror is invisible to human eyes, they employ a spray of chemical powder to make it visible. Joshi questions the purpose of this action, other than to allow Lovecraft to write a lurid description. Bear in mind, however, that Armitage and company had no idea under what circumstances they would be confronting the horror and, in any event, it is always advisable to know as much as possible about a foe. And besides, no matter how terrifying the Dunwich horror might look, what intellectually-curious person would not wish to behold such a wonder?<br /><br />Armitage, Rice, and Morgan now use incantations to banish the Dunwich horror. Joshi thinks that they look ridiculous shouting spells and waving their arms. Possibly Lovecraft thought so too. Why else is this scene viewed through a telescope? Perhaps HPL wanted some distance from his protagonists because he was embarrassed for them. In the movie <em>Count Yorga, Vampire, </em>a character complains that, in the atomic age, he has to use pointed sticks for weapons. In "The Dunwich Horror," modern men of reason are reduced to employing methods more appropriate for primitive societies. If Lovecraft's Mythos is intended to take humanity down a peg, it surely does so here.<br /><br />The story concludes with Armitage's revelation that the Dunwich horror was actually Wilbur Whateley's twin. After the quibbling I've done with Donald Burleson, it seems only fair to acknowledge his fascinating thesis that the Whateley twins, viewed as parts of a single entity, conform to an archetypal pattern present in heroic mythology known as the monomyth. The stages of the monomyth include miraculous conception or birth, initiation, preparation, trial and quest, death of the hero, descent to the underworld, resurrection or rebirth, and ascension. Burleson explains how Wilbur fulfills the early stages of the monomyth, and the Dunwich horror the latter stages. I cannot do justice to his thesis here; it appears in full in Burleson's book, <em>H. P. Lovecraft: A Critical Study </em>and his article, "The Mythic Hero Archetype in `The Dunwich Horror.'" The thesis forms the basis of Burleson's assertion that the Whateley twins, not Armitage, are the hero of "The Dunwich Horror."<br /><br />While acknowledging that Burleson's well-supported thesis holds water, I'm still not comfortable regarding Wilbur Whateley as the hero. I have my own ideas concerning the hero's identity. Like any really rich literary work, "The Dunwich Horror" yields a variety of possible interpretations. In a brief aside, Burleson mentions the guard dog tha kills Wilbur Whateley, noting, "[I]t is really this dog that saves the world from unthinkable horrors, for in Wilbur's absence, the twin, though capable of much local mischief, is ineffectual in cosmic terms. The dog has saved the world..."[16]<br /><br />So the dog is the hero of "The Dunwich Horror." I am not being facetious; I mean this in all seriousness. Jack London has demonstrated that a sympathetic protagonist need not be human. Also, consider that from Yog-Sothoth's point of view, one warm-blooded, land-dwelling vertebrate looks pretty much the same as another. Lovecraft was fond of pointing out that the human race is nothing special. That's why he depicted super-intelligent, super-powerful entities as resembling mollusks and crinoids. He wanted to challenge the notion that only the primate order could produce a sapient species. Thus, various species of Old Ones are depicted as resembling creatures from the opposite end of the evolutionary spectrum.<br /><br />Lovecraft was well-read in the sciences and the literary classics, but it is not known if he ever undertook a systematic study of folklore and mythology. This, of course, does not mean that he couldn't have instinctively tapped into the monomyth. However, in regard to the mythic elements he might <em>consciously </em>have intended to embody in "The Dunwich Horror," we need look no further than the New Testament gospels. In Lovecraft's variation, we see Yog-Sothoth as the Father, Wilbur Whateley as the Son, and the Dunwich horror as the Holy Ghost.<br /><br />Commentators have also observed that the demise of the Dunwich horror on Sentinel Hill makes for an exquisite parody of the crucifixion. This is the only element of the story that can legitimately be considered parodic. And yet, it may be more accurate to view this as a <em>reinterpretation </em>of the Gospels rather than outright parody.<br /><br />"The Dunwich Horror" was written after "The Call of Cthulhu" and <em>The Case of Charles Dexter Ward. </em>Lovecraft was well on his way in the systematic development of his anti-mythology. At this point, he may have realized that he needed a demi-god tale to make his mythos more complete. From his reading of the classics, HPL was familiar with stories of the offspring of gods and mortals. He was, of course, aware that Jesus Christ is viewed as an incarnate god by the faithful. Perhaps he wondered what might actually happen if some entity capable of passing as a god should somehow produce offspring with a human female. Surely, the result would more closely resemble "The Dunwich Horror" than the charming legends of antiquity.<br /><br />"The Dunwich Horror" is so great because in it we find the most emphatic placement of <em>myth</em> in the Lovecraft <em>mythos. </em>It belies the notion that HPL was actually a science fiction writer slumming in the horror genre. Yes, it is true that humans in his stories refer to the Old Ones as "gods" because they don't know what else to call them. In pointing out their error, S. T. Joshi repeatedly uses the phrase "mere extraterrestrials" to explain the Old Ones true nature. However, downgrading these entities to space invaders leads to critical problems no less than the more conventional view.<br /><br />The Old Ones are meant to inspire awe and dread. But if they're really just a bunch of crummy aliens, then let's kill `em. The counter-argument would assert that there's nothing "mere" about <em>these </em>extraterrestrials. Still, we find ourselves wondering "Would the atom bomb work on Cthulhu?" and I don't think this is a path Lovecraft meant for us to take.<br /><br />And just how accurate is the "extraterrestrial" label anyway? In some cases, of course, it is apt. However, Robert M. Price has pointed out that certain Old Ones are worshipped by other ones.[17] If not gods, they are in some sense god<em>like. </em>When in doubt, check the <em>Necronomicon</em>:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Nor is it to be thought that man is either the oldest or the last of earth's masters, or that the common bulk of life and substance walks alone. The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but <em>between </em>them. They walk serene and primal, undimensioned and to us unseen...</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:+0;">To me, this sounds like the Old Ones are, in some unfathomable manner, already here and always have been. Price has also suggested that the star-headed Old Ones in <em>At the Mountains of Madness </em>may not have come from space but were the product of an earlier, seperate cycle of evolution.[18] If so, both the star-heads ond the Old Ones cited in the <em>Necronomicon </em>above are as terrestrial as we are, and possibly even more so.</span><br /><br />Cultists in the stories call the Old Ones "gods" because they don't know what else to call them. We call the Old Ones "extraterrestrials" because <em>we </em>don't know what else to call them. Centuries from now they may be known by some term not yet invented. The likes of the Old Ones are not so easily pigeon-holed by our puny human intellects. They both are and are not gods, demons, monsters, and/or extraterrestrials.<br /><br />Lovecraft knew that effective horror fiction must contain an element of ambiguity. An unknown horror becomes an absurdity if you explain it too much. Conversely, Lovecraft also knew that a certain amount of detailed information is needed to enhance realism, and asserted that in this the writer must be as crafty as an actual hoaxer. A prime example in his own fiction is the "autopsy" of the star-headed Old Ones in <em>At the Mountains of Madness. </em>Still, HPL always knew what to keep concealed. Lovecraft has been criticized as a writer lacking in technical skill, yet his instincts concerning when to convey information and when to withhold it are extremely sound.<br /><br />Lovecraft's later work is customarily viewed as a kind of linear progression from "The Call of Cthulhu" through "The Colour out of Space" to <em>At the Mountains of Madness. </em>In this view, "The Dunwich Horror" fits the pattern only awkwardly. But perhaps Lovecraft saw his fictional cosmology as a central destination to be approached from different directions. Thus the Old Ones are depicted as gods one time, extraterrestrials another, lake Platonic ideals casting their shadows. Eventually, however, the "extraterrestrial" image does tend to predominate. "The Dunwich Horror" is so great because it's a wild card in Lovecraft's fiction that prevents us from too easily dismissing the Old Ones as aliens.<br /><br />The notion that Lovecraft may have intentionally differed his approach from story to story would also account for stylistic variations. Joyce Carol Oates wonders that "the subtly modulated `The Colour out of Space' [is] followed by the overwrought sensationalism of `The Dunwich Horror.'"[19] Scholars have puzzled over why Lovecraft devoured reams of dime novels and pulp fiction in his youth and beyond, when from a very early age he was also immersed in literary classics. Lovecraft was only too aware of the shortcomings of such fiction, but continued to read it anyway. My guess is that he was attracted to the vital energy of such work, a quality he found so redeeming that he was willing to overlook various flaws. As an author, he attempted to impart this energy to what he considered a more aesthetic mode of literary expression --sort of a "marriage of heaven and hell."<br /><br />This is a matter of no small importance. It is why H. P. Lovecraft is not a museum piece, but someone acid rockers name their band after. HPL has taken his share of flak from critics like Edmund Wilson, who see stylistic crudities in the bulk of Lovecraft's work, not just "The Dunwich Horror." Lovecraft himself may have opined that writing for <em>Weird Tales </em>corrupted his style, but I think on some level he was aware that subtlety, restraint and suggestion would only get him so far.<br /><br />Colin Wilson contributed what I consider a key insight into Lovecraft and his work: Lovecraft became a horror writer instead of a science fiction writer because horror expresses aggression and science fiction doesn't. At times Lovecraft was consent to unsettle the reader, insidiously undermining his sense of "at-homeness" in the universe. But sometimes HPL was out to rock the reader's world and leave him lolling in the muck. That's why he wrote "The Dunwich <em>Horror" </em>and not "The Dunwich Malign Suspension of Natural Law." Lovecraft knew when to whisper and when to shout.<br /><br />This brings me to another reason why "The Dunwich Horror" is so great. The proof of the pudding is in the eating. Lovecraft astounded the readers of <em>Weird Tales, </em>as he astounds new readers today, simply because he makes most other horror writers look like they're asleep. Nowhere is this more evident than in "The Dunwich Horror." I was startled to see the story dismissed by some as an Arthur Machen pastiche. What Lovecraft borrowed from Machen, he altered and improved dramatically. Or to put it bluntly, "The Dunwich Horror" makes "The Great God Pan" look like a joke.<br /><br />A good part of the value of "The Dunwich Horror" to the Lovecraft canon as a whole lies in its tremendous popular appeal and, more precisely, its <em>accessibility. </em>Lovecraft maintained that a convincing weird story must be grounded in conventional reality and proceed in a gradual, step-by-step manner into the realm of the fantastic. In a similar process, Lovecraft first situates the reader amid the traditional Gothic trappings of horror and leads him step-by-step towards a more complete vista of his, Lovecraft's, own cosmic vision. In this sense, "The Dunwich Horror" may be considered and "entry level" story in terms of Lovecraft's mythos.<br /><br />Far from being a mistake or an embarrassment, "The Dunwich Horror" is a vital component of Lovecraft's fictional work as a whole. A first-time reader, completing "The Dunwich Horror," is likely want to read more Lovecraft. The same cannot be said with confidence about <em>At the Mountains of Madness. </em>"The Dunwich Horror" has been bringing new readers to Lovecraft for decades. Who can say what Lovecraft's present-day stature would be without it? Were we to go back in time and expunge "The Dunwich Horror," we might well come back to a world without <em>Lovecraft Studies, Selected Letters, </em>and so on.<br /><br />In conclusion, Lovecraft wouldn't be Lovecraft without "The Dunwich Horror."<br /><br />And as a postscript, I hope my observations haven't proved too irritating to S. T. Joshi and Donald R. Burleson. My goal has simply been to find some common ground over which fans and critics can join hands. That, and to restore a little of the lost luster to H. P. Lovecraft's great story, "The Dunwich Horror."<br /><br />NOTES<br /><br />[1] S. T. Joshi, <em>H. P. Lovecraft: A Life </em>(West Warwick RI: Necronomicon Press, 1996), p. 448.<br /><br />[2] Ibid., p. 449.<br /><br />[3] Donald R. Burleson, <em>H. P. Lovecraft: A Critical Study </em>(Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1983), p. 141.<br /><br />[4] Ibid.<br /><br />[5] S. T. Joshi, ed., <em>The Annotated H. P. Lovecraft </em>(New York: Dell Trade Paperbacks, 1997), pp.16-17.<br /><br />[6] H. P. Lovecraft, <em>Selected Letters II </em>(Sauk City, WI: Arkham House, 1968), p. 150.<br /><br />[7] Joshi, <em>Annotated HPL, </em>p. 16.<br /><br />[8] H. P. Lovecraft, <em>Supernatural Horror in Literature </em>(New York: Dover Publications, Inc. 1973), p. 15.<br /><br />[9] Lovecraft, <em>Selected Letters II, </em>p. 150.<br /><br />[10] Burleson, p. 141.<br /><br />[11] Joshi, <em>HPL: A Life, </em>p. 450.<br /><br />[12] Burleson, p. 148.<br /><br />[13] Joshi, <em>Annotated HPL, </em>p. 16.<br /><br />[14] Joshi, <em>HPL: A Life, </em>p. 450.<br /><br />[15] Ibid.<br /><br />[16] Burleson, p. 148.<br /><br />[17] Robert M. Price, "The Mythology of the Old Ones," in <em>H. P. Lovecraft Centennial Conference Proceedings, </em>ed. S. T. Joshi (West Warwick, RI: Necronomicon Press, 1991) pp. 72-73.<br /><br />[18] Robert M. Price, "Patterns in the Snow: A New Reading of <em>At the Mountains of Madness,</em>" <em>Crypt of Cthulhu </em>No. 81 (St. John's Eve, 1992), pp. 48-51.<br /><br />[19] Joyce Carol Oates, <em>Tales of H. P. Lovecraft </em>(Hopewell, NJ: Ecco Press, 1997), p. xiv.Charles Hoffmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03465623287702558974noreply@blogger.com2