Good Readings: "In the Forest of Villefére" by Robert E. Howard (in English)

The sun had set. The great shadows came striding over the forest. In the weird twilight of a late summer day, I saw the path ahead glide on among the mighty trees and disappear. And I shuddered and glanced fearfully over my shoulder. Miles behind lay the nearest village--miles ahead the next.

                I looked to left and to right as I strode on, and anon I looked behind me. And anon I stopped short, grasping my rapier, as a breaking twig betokened the going of some small beast. Or was it a beast?

                But the path led on and I followed, because, forsooth, I had naught else to do.

                As I went I bethought me, "My own thoughts will route me, if I be not aware. What is there in this forest, except perhaps the creatures that roam it, deer and the like? Tush, the foolish legends of those villagers!"

                And so I went and the twilight faded into dusk. Stars began to blink and the leaves of the trees murmured in the faint breeze. And then I stopped short, my sword leaping to my hand, for just ahead, around a curve of the path, someone was singing. The words I could not distinguish, but the accent was strange, almost barbaric.

                I stepped behind a great tree, and the cold sweat beaded my forehead. Then the singer came in sight, a tall, thin man, vague in the twilight. I shrugged my shoulders. A man I did not fear. I sprang out, my point raised.

                "Stand!"

                He showed no surprise. "I prithee, handle thy blade with care, friend," he said.

                Somewhat ashamed, I lowered my sword.

                "I am new to this forest," I quoth, apologetically. "I heard talk of bandits. I crave pardon. Where lies the road to Villefére?"

                "Corbleu, you've missed it," he answered. "You should have branched off to the right some distance back. I am going there myself. If you may abide my company, I will direct you."

                I hesitated. Yet why should I hesitate?

                "Why, certainly. My name is de Montour, of Normandy."

                "And I am Carolus le Loup."

                "No!" I started back.

                He looked at me in astonishment.

                "Pardon," said I; "the name is strange. Does not loup mean wolf?"

                "My family were always great hunters," he answered. He did not offer his hand.

                "You will pardon my staring," said I as we walked down the path, "but I can hardly see your face in the dusk."

                I sensed that he was laughing, though he made no sound.

                "It is little to look upon," he answered.

                I stepped closer and then leaped away, my hair bristling.

                "A mask!" I exclaimed. "Why do you wear a mask, m'sieu?"

                "It is a vow," he exclaimed. "In fleeing a pack of hounds I vowed that if I escaped I would wear a mask for a certain time."

                "Hounds, m'sieu?"

                "Wolves," he answered quickly; "I said wolves."

                We walked in silence for awhile and then my companion said, "I am surprised that you walk these woods by night. Few people come these ways even in the day."

                "I am in haste to reach the border," I answered. "A treaty has been signed with the English, and the Duke of Burgundy should know of it. The people at the village sought to dissuade me. They spoke of--a wolf that was purported to roam these woods."

                "Here the path branches to Villefére," said he, and I saw a narrow, crooked path that I had not seen when I passed it before. It led in amid the darkness of the trees. I shuddered.

                "You wish to return to the village?"

                "No!" I exclaimed. "No, no! Lead on."

                So narrow was the path that we walked single file, he leading. I looked well at him. He was taller, much taller than I, and thin, wiry. He was dressed in a costume that smacked of Spain. A long rapier swung at his hip. He walked with long easy strides, noiselessly.

                Then he began to talk of travel and adventure. He spoke of many lands and seas he had seen and many strange things. So we talked and went farther and farther into the forest.

                I presumed that he was French, and yet he had a very strange accent, that was neither French nor Spanish nor English, not like any language I had ever heard. Some words he slurred strangely and some he could not pronounce at all.

                "This path is often used, is it?" I asked.

                "Not by many," he answered and laughed silently. I shuddered. It was very dark and the leaves whispered together among the branches.

                "A fiend haunts this forest," I said.

                "So the peasants say," he answered, "but I have roamed it oft and have never seen his face."

                Then he began to speak of strange creatures of darkness, and the moon rose and shadows glided among the trees. He looked up at the moon.

                "Haste!" said he. "We must reach our destination before the moon reaches her zenith."

                We hurried along the trail.

                "They say," said I, "that a werewolf haunts these woodlands."

                "It might be," said he, and we argued much upon the subject.

                "The old women say," said he, "that if a werewolf is slain while a wolf, then he is slain, but if he is slain as a man, then his half-soul will haunt his slayer forever. But haste thee, the moon nears her zenith."

                We came into a small moonlit glade and the stranger stopped.

                "Let us pause a while," said he.

                "Nay, let us be gone," I urged; "I like not this place."

                He laughed without sound. "Why," said he, "This is a fair glade. As good as a banquet hall it is, and many times have I feasted here. Ha, ha, ha! Look ye, I will show you a dance." And he began bounding here and there, anon flinging back his head and laughing silently. Thought I, the man is mad.

                As he danced his weird dance I looked about me. The trail went not on but stopped in the glade.

                "Come," said I "we must on. Do you not smell the rank, hairy scent that hovers about the glade? Wolves den here. Perhaps they are about us and are gliding upon us even now."

                He dropped upon all fours, bounded higher than my head, and came toward me with a strange slinking motion.

                "That dance is called the Dance of the Wolf," said he, and my hair bristled.

                "Keep off!" I stepped back, and with a screech that set the echoes shuddering he leaped for me, and though a sword hung at his belt he did not draw it. My rapier was half out when he grasped my arm and flung me headlong. I dragged him with me and we struck the ground together. Wrenching a hand free I jerked off the mask. A shriek of horror broke from my lips. Beast eyes glittered beneath that mask, white fangs flashed in the moonlight. The face was that of a wolf.

                In an instant those fangs were at my throat. Taloned hands tore the sword from my grasp. I beat at that horrible face with my clenched fists, but his jaws were fastened on my shoulders, his talons tore at my throat. Then I was on my back. The world was fading. Blindly I struck out. My hand dropped, then closed automatically about the hilt of my dagger, which I had been unable to get at. I drew and stabbed. A terrible, half-bestial bellowing screech. Then I reeled to my feet, free. At my feet lay the werewolf.

                I stooped, raised the dagger, then paused, looked up. The moon hovered close to her zenith. If I slew the thing as a man its frightful spirit would haunt me forever. I sat down waiting. The thing watched me with flaming wolf eyes. The long wiry limbs seemed to shrink, to crook; hair seemed to grow upon them. Fearing madness, I snatched up the thing's own sword and hacked it to pieces. Then I flung the sword away and fled.

Friday's Sung Word: "Babo... zeira" by Lamartine Babo (in Portuguese)

Vou cantar a noite inteira

Rancheira, rancheira

Vou dançar pela fonética

Estética, frenética

Eu pra cá, você pra lá

Rancheira é dança hoje da moda

Dos chás dançantes de alta roda

Pra cantar me sinto mal

O esforço é sobrenatural

Rancheira é uma espécie de mazurka

Mais velha que o Morro da Urca

Me faz lembrar o meu avô

Nos tempos de noivado ao lado de vovó-ó.

Rancheira o nome está dizendo

É rã que cheira a noite inteira

Faz a gente até suar

Nos faz pular pra lá e pra cá

No tempo em que não havia samba

Meu pai dançou na corda bamba

Por isso viva a tal rancheira

Viva o meu avô, marido de vovó-ó.

You can hear "Babo... zeira..." sung by Lamartine Babo here.

Thursday's Serial: "The House on the Borderland" by William Hope Hodgson (in English) - the end

XXVI - THE LUMINOUS SPECK

            I awake suddenly. It is still dark. I turn over, once or twice, in my endeavors to sleep again; but I cannot sleep. My head is aching, slightly; and, by turns I am hot and cold. In a little, I give up the attempt, and stretch out my hand, for the matches. I will light my candle, and read, awhile; perhaps, I shall be able to sleep, after a time. For a few moments, I grope; then my hand touches the box; but, as I open it, I am startled, to see a phosphorescent speck of fire, shining amid the darkness. I put out my other hand, and touch it. It is on my wrist. With a feeling of vague alarm, I strike a light, hurriedly, and look; but can see nothing, save a tiny scratch.

            'Fancy!' I mutter, with a half sigh of relief. Then the match burns my finger, and I drop it, quickly. As I fumble for another, the thing shines out again. I know, now, that it is no fancy. This time, I light the candle, and examine the place, more closely. There is a slight, greenish discoloration 'round the scratch. I am puzzled and worried. Then a thought comes to me. I remember the morning after the Thing appeared. I remember that the dog licked my hand. It was this one, with the scratch on it; though I have not been even conscious of the abasement, until now. A horrible fear has come to me. It creeps into my brain - the dog's wound, shines at night. With a dazed feeling, I sit down on the side of the bed, and try to think; but cannot. My brain seems numbed with the sheer horror of this new fear.

            Time moves on, unheeded. Once, I rouse up, and try to persuade myself that I am mistaken; but it is no use. In my heart, I have no doubt.

            Hour after hour, I sit in the darkness and silence, and shiver, hopelessly...

            The day has come and gone, and it is night again.

            This morning, early, I shot the dog, and buried it, away among the bushes. My sister is startled and frightened; but I am desperate. Besides, it is better so. The foul growth had almost hidden its left side. And I - the place on my wrist has enlarged, perceptibly. Several times, I have caught myself muttering prayers - little things learnt as a child. God, Almighty God, help me! I shall go mad.

            Six days, and I have eaten nothing. It is night. I am sitting in my chair. Ah, God! I wonder have any ever felt the horror of life that I have come to know? I am swathed in terror. I feel ever the burning of this dread growth. It has covered all my right arm and side, and is beginning to creep up my neck. Tomorrow, it will eat into my face. I shall become a terrible mass of living corruption. There is no escape. Yet, a thought has come to me, born of a sight of the gun-rack, on the other side of the room. I have looked again - with the strangest of feelings. The thought grows upon me. God, Thou knowest, Thou must know, that death is better, aye, better a thousand times than This. This! Jesus, forgive me, but I cannot live, cannot, cannot! I dare not! I am beyond all help - there is nothing else left. It will, at least, spare me that final horror...

            I think I must have been dozing. I am very weak, and oh! so miserable, so miserable and tired - tired. The rustle of the paper, tries my brain. My hearing seems preternaturally sharp. I will sit awhile and think...

            "Hush! I hear something, down - down in the cellars. It is a creaking sound. My God, it is the opening of the great, oak trap. What can be doing that? The scratching of my pen deafens me ... I must listen...  There are steps on the stairs; strange padding steps, that come up and nearer...  Jesus, be merciful to me, an old man. There is something fumbling at the door-handle. O God, help me now! Jesus - The door is opening - slowly. Somethi - "

            That is all(16)

XXVII - CONCLUSION

            I put down the Manuscript, and glanced across at Tonnison: he was sitting, staring out into the dark. I waited a minute; then I spoke.

            "Well?" I said.

            He turned, slowly, and looked at me. His thoughts seemed to have gone out of him into a great distance.

            "Was he mad?" I asked, and indicated the MS., with a half nod.

            Tonnison stared at me, unseeingly, a moment; then, his wits came back to him, and, suddenly, he comprehended my question.

            "No!" he said.

            I opened my lips, to offer a contradictory opinion; for my sense of the saneness of things, would not allow me to take the story literally; then I shut them again, without saying anything. Somehow, the certainty in Tonnison's voice affected my doubts. I felt, all at once, less assured; though I was by no means convinced as yet.

            After a few moments' silence, Tonnison rose, stiffly, and began to undress. He seemed disinclined to talk; so I said nothing; but followed his example. I was weary; though still full of the story I had just read.

            Somehow, as I rolled into my blankets, there crept into my mind a memory of the old gardens, as we had seen them. I remembered the odd fear that the place had conjured up in our hearts; and it grew upon me, with conviction, that Tonnison was right.

            It was very late when we rose - nearly midday; for the greater part of the night had been spent in reading the MS.

            Tonnison was grumpy, and I felt out of sorts. It was a somewhat dismal day, and there was a touch of chilliness in the air. There was no mention of going out fishing on either of our parts. We got dinner, and, after that, just sat and smoked in silence.

            Presently, Tonnison asked for the Manuscript: I handed it to him, and he spent most of the afternoon in reading it through by himself.

            It was while he was thus employed, that a thought came to me: -

            "What do you say to having another look at - ?" I nodded my head down stream.

            Tonnison looked up. "Nothing!" he said, abruptly; and, somehow, I was less annoyed, than relieved, at his answer.

            After that, I left him alone.

            A little before teatime, he looked up at me, curiously.

            "Sorry, old chap, if I was a bit short with you just now;" (just now, indeed! he had not spoken for the last three hours) "but I would not go there again," and he indicated with his head, "for anything that you could offer me. Ugh!" and he put down that history of a man's terror and hope and despair.

            The next morning, we rose early, and went for our accustomed swim: we had partly shaken off the depression of the previous day; and so, took our rods when we had finished breakfast, and spent the day at our favorite sport.

            After that day, we enjoyed our holiday to the utmost; though both of us looked forward to the time when our driver should come; for we were tremendously anxious to inquire of him, and through him among the people of the tiny hamlet, whether any of them could give us information about that strange garden, lying away by itself in the heart of an almost unknown tract of country.

            At last, the day came, on which we expected the driver to come across for us. He arrived early, while we were still abed; and, the first thing we knew, he was at the opening of the tent, inquiring whether we had had good sport. We replied in the affirmative; and then, both together, almost in the same breath, we asked the question that was uppermost in our minds: - Did he know anything about an old garden, and a great pit, and a lake, situated some miles away, down the river; also, had he ever heard of a great house thereabouts?

            No, he did not, and had not; yet, stay, he had heard a rumor, once upon a time, of a great, old house standing alone out in the wilderness; but, if he remembered rightly it was a place given over to the fairies; or, if that had not been so, he was certain that there had been something "quare" about it; and, anyway, he had heard nothing of it for a very long while - not since he was quite a gossoon. No, he could not remember anything particular about it; indeed, he did not know he remembered anything "at all, at all" until we questioned him.

            "Look here," said Tonnison, finding that this was about all that he could tell us, "just take a walk 'round the village, while we dress, and find out something, if you can."

            With a nondescript salute, the man departed on his errand; while we made haste to get into our clothes; after which, we began to prepare breakfast.

            We were just sitting down to it, when he returned.

            "It's all in bed the lazy divvils is, sor," he said, with a repetition of the salute, and an appreciative eye to the good things spread out on our provision chest, which we utilized as a table.

            "Oh, well, sit down," replied my friend, "and have something to eat with us." Which the man did without delay.

            After breakfast, Tonnison sent him off again on the same errand, while we sat and smoked. He was away some three-quarters of an hour, and, when he returned, it was evident that he had found out something. It appeared that he had got into conversation with an ancient man of the village, who, probably, knew more - though it was little enough - of the strange house, than any other person living.

            The substance of this knowledge was, that, in the "ancient man's" youth - and goodness knows how long back that was - there had stood a great house in the center of the gardens, where now was left only that fragment of ruin. This house had been empty for a great while; years before his - the ancient man's - birth. It was a place shunned by the people of the village, as it had been shunned by their fathers before them. There were many things said about it, and all were of evil. No one ever went near it, either by day or night. In the village it was a synonym of all that is unholy and dreadful.

            And then, one day, a man, a stranger, had ridden through the village, and turned off down the river, in the direction of the House, as it was always termed by the villagers. Some hours afterward, he had ridden back, taking the track by which he had come, toward Ardrahan. Then, for three months or so, nothing was heard. At the end of that time, he reappeared; but now, he was accompanied by an elderly woman, and a large number of donkeys, laden with various articles. They had passed through the village without stopping, and gone straight down the bank of the river, in the direction of the House.

            Since that time, no one, save the man whom they had chartered to bring over monthly supplies of necessaries from Ardrahan, had ever seen either of them: and him, none had ever induced to talk; evidently, he had been well paid for his trouble.

            The years had moved onward, uneventfully enough, in that little hamlet; the man making his monthly journeys, regularly.

            One day, he had appeared as usual on his customary errand. He had passed through the village without exchanging more than a surly nod with the inhabitants and gone on toward the House. Usually, it was evening before he made the return journey. On this occasion, however, he had reappeared in the village, a few hours later, in an extraordinary state of excitement, and with the astounding information, that the House had disappeared bodily, and that a stupendous pit now yawned in the place where it had stood.

            This news, it appears, so excited the curiosity of the villagers, that they overcame their fears, and marched en masse to the place. There, they found everything, just as described by the carrier.

            This was all that we could learn. Of the author of the MS., who he was, and whence he came, we shall never know.

            His identity is, as he seems to have desired, buried forever.

            That same day, we left the lonely village of Kraighten. We have never been there since.

            Sometimes, in my dreams, I see that enormous pit, surrounded, as it is, on all sides by wild trees and bushes. And the noise of the water rises upward, and blends - in my sleep - with other and lower noises; while, over all, hangs the eternal shroud of spray.

Grief(17)

Fierce hunger reigns within my breast, I had not dreamt that this whole world,

Crushed in the hand of God, could yield

Such bitter essence of unrest, Such pain as Sorrow now hath hurled

Out of its dreadful heart, unsealed!

Each sobbing breath is but a cry, My heart-strokes knells of agony,

And my whole brain has but one thought

That nevermore through life shall I (Save in the ache of memory)

Touch hands with thee, who now art naught!

Through the whole void of night I search, So dumbly crying out to thee;

But thou are not; and night's vast throne

Becomes an all stupendous church With star-bells knelling unto me

Who in all space am most alone!

An hungered, to the shore I creep, Perchance some comfort waits on me

From the old Sea's eternal heart;

But lo! from all the solemn deep, Far voices out of mystery

Seem questioning why we are apart!

"Where'er I go I am alone Who once, through thee, had all the world.

My breast is one whole raging pain

For that which was, and now is flown Into the Blank where life is hurled

Where all is not, nor is again!"

FOOTNOTES:

(1) An apparently unmeaning interpolation. I can find no previous reference in the MS. to this matter. It becomes clearer, however, in the light of succeeding incidents. - Ed.

(2) Here, the writing becomes undecipherable, owing to the damaged condition of this part of the MS. Below I print such fragments as are legible. - Ed.

(3) NOTE. - The severest scrutiny has not enabled me to decipher more of the damaged portion of the MS. It commences to be legible again with the chapter entitled "The Noise in the Night." - Ed.

(4) The Recluse uses this as an illustration, evidently in the sense of the popular conception of a comet. - Ed.

(5) Evidently referring to something set forth in the missing and mutilated pages. See Fragments, Chapter 14 - Ed.

(6) No further mention is made of the moon. From what is said here, it is evident that our satellite had greatly increased its distance from the earth. Possibly, at a later age it may even have broken loose from our attraction. I cannot but regret that no light is shed on this point. - Ed.

(7) Conceivably, frozen air. - Ed.

(8) See previous footnote. This would explain the snow (?) within the room. - Ed.

(9) I am confounded that neither here, nor later on, does the Recluse make any further mention of the continued north and south movement (apparent, of course,) of the sun from solstice to solstice. - Ed.

(10) At this time the sound-carrying atmosphere must have been either incredibly attenuated, or - more probably - nonexistent. In the light of this, it cannot be supposed that these, or any other, noises would have been apparent to living ears - to hearing, as we, in the material body, understand that sense. - Ed.

(11) I can only suppose that the time of the earth's yearly journey had ceased to bear its present relative proportion to the period of the sun's rotation. - Ed.

(12) A careful reading of the MS. suggests that, either the sun is traveling on an orbit of great eccentricity, or else that it was approaching the green star on a lessening orbit. And at this moment, I conceive it to be finally torn directly from its oblique course, by the gravitational pull of the immense star. - Ed.

(13) It will be noticed here that the earth was "slowly traversing the tremendous face of the dead sun." No explanation is given of this, and we must conclude, either that the speed of time had slowed, or else that the earth was actually progressing on its orbit at a rate, slow, when measured by existing standards. A careful study of the MS. however, leads me to conclude that the speed of time had been steadily decreasing for a very considerable period. - Ed.

(14) See first footnote, Chapter 18.

(15) Without doubt, the flame-edged mass of the Dead Central Sun, seen from another dimension. - Ed.

(16) NOTE. - From the unfinished word, it is possible, on the MS., to trace a faint line of ink, which suggests that the pen has trailed away over the paper; possibly, through fright and weakness. - Ed.

(17) These stanzas I found, in pencil, upon a piece of foolscap gummed in behind the fly-leaf of the MS. They have all the appearance of having been written at an earlier date than the Manuscript.--Ed.