Celtic Adventures: Of Conan, a chasm, and “People of the Dark”

This cover makes me want to drink Guinness and fight.

When I read I don’t go looking for symbols … but sometimes they just hit me in the face. Or in the case of Robert E. Howard’s “People of the Dark,” plunge me into their depths.

DMR’s Celtic Adventures has been a good read so far. I’m a poem and a few stories in, having finished the poem “The Druids” by Kenneth Morris, “The Devil’s Dagger” by Farnham Bishop and Arthur Gilchrist Brodeur, and Fiona MacLeod’s “The Harping of Cravetheen” … plus a long overdue re-read of Howard’s story.

Howard wrote “People of the Dark” in 1931 and it was published in the June 1932 Strange Tales. It’s been reprinted a few times since, including in DMR Books’ new anthology, which collects six old-school short stories and two poems (all published between 1895-1948) about swashbuckling tales of adventure and magic set in old Ireland.

So far all of have been good but it’s hard to top REH. Here’s the major beats of the story: A modern man, John O’Brien, enters Dagon’s Cave (portentous name) where he plans to kill Richard Brent. Brent has won the heart of O’Brien’s love, Eleanor; O’Brien, jilted, learns Brent is en route to the cave and pursues with a revolver in his pocket and vengeance in his heart. But this is no ordinary cave; it was once known as the Cavern of the Children of the Night, reportedly once home to the (now extinct?) ancient race of Little People that lived in the underworld of Ireland and Britain, preceding the Celts.

The story takes a major twist when O’Brien falls down a flight of ancient stairs, strikes his head heavily on the stone floor, and awakes to find himself… Conan. Not Conan of Cimmeria, but Conan of Eireann, the Irish Reaver. Deuce Richardson, who contributes a colorful introduction to the anthology, places the tale at roughly 100 BC—millennia after The Hyborian Age. Conan of Eireann however is not very far removed in mien from Howard’s greatest creation—muscular, black-haired mane, wields a sword, swears by Crom. Even more strange, O’Brien remembers being Conan, so has apparently awakened some ancestral memory.

Nearly 2000 years before Conan of Eireann entered this very cave in pursuit of his lost love, Tamera, who has fallen in love with the blonde Gael warrior Vertorix. Vertorix and Conan bury their quarrel as they find themselves confronted by a blood-mad horde of the Little People.  A great combat ensues, and Conan is separated from Vertorix/Tamera. And here’s where it gets heavy.

Conan is pursuing something he cannot grasp, in darkness. So far beneath the earth he passes underneath a river, water dipping overhead. Then back up the stairs and out, into daylight. And finds himself standing on a precipice, staring down into an impassible chasm.

On the other side, Vertorix and Tamera, confronted by horror.

The contrast is striking. The chasm is positioned in the story immediately after Conan emerges from labyrinthine, shadowed tunnels. Below is Howard’s subconscious thinking; above in the light an insurmountable barrier, a clear vision of his own life. He describes it as both a cleft and a gorge; a narrow valley of sheer rock walls, at the bottom of which is a rapid river, the source of the great carving.

A chasm is a primordial image, literally and figuratively. Deep time because water has carved it out, over millennia. But a chasm can also represent spiritual and moral divides, an insurmountable gap in relationship or experience. This chasm is both a gulf between modernity and the past, time that we cannot bridge, and the relationships we cannot consummate. “Howard” on one side, unrequited love on the other. 

Read that as you will; characters aren’t always the author, and of course Howard wrote “People of the Dark” three years before he’d meet Novalyne Price Ellis (and lose her to Truett Vinson). But of his own admission he was a man born out of his time.

This thought exercise and striking (to me at least) literary symbol prompted me to dig a little deeper. At reh.world I found a link to an essay by Ståle Gismervik noting that Howard composed two drafts of “People of the Dark.” In the revision Howard added a depth and richness not in the first draft, which was a barer bones, straightforward, and incomplete adventure. 

Perhaps he sensed something more profound lay in its stark outlines.

“People of the Dark” was adapted by Roy Thomas and Alex Nino in Savage Sword of Conan #6 (April 1975) … which I happen to have. Images follow. Pretty awesome … but the story has been “freely adapted” (aka., heavily modified) from Howard’s original. Instead of Conan the Irish reaver, the narrator John O’Brien wakes to find himself transformed into the real deal, Conan of Cimmeria. The change is drastic but I suppose reasonable given that this is Savage Sword of Conan, although the mag did do faithful non-Conan adaptations. The ending (which I won’t spoil here) is also quite different than the prose story, with a different outcome for our narrator.

Maybe Howard himself would have anticipated Thomas had he written the character prior to 1932. At the time of “People” Conan was a nascent figure, almost ready to evolve from Kull and Conan of Eireann, and whatever other combination of prize fighters, gunmen, bootleggers, oil field bullies, gamblers and honest workmen with which he had come in contact. Conan of Cimmeria eventually stalked fully formed into the Dec. 1932 Weird Tales, in “The Phoenix on the Sword.” But his ghost is here in “People.” Conan the Irish Reiver separated from his full becoming by a chasm, ready to be bridged.

TL;DR, read Celtic Adventures for wild Irish adventure and more.

The chasm...

Revisiting H.P. Lovecraft's "The Silver Key"

I don’t expend a lot of digital ink on H.P. Lovecraft, but everything I do is related in one way or other to the old gent from Providence (b. August 20, 1890). So I figured in recognition of his birthday I’d return to the story that inspired the name of my blog—and a lot more.

I began to give serious thought of starting a blog some eighteen years ago. I had plenty of grist for the mill: I was reading a shit-ton of fantasy, playing RPGs, and listening to heavy metal, and wanted to share my thoughts on it all. Blogging was a thing; I did some research, settled on blogspot as my platform of choice, and was eager to begin. 

But I paused: I was lacking a name, and didn’t want to rush the decision. I wanted something that aligned with what I planned to write about—all things fantastic, with an S&S and horror and heavy metal bent. But I also wanted something which revealed something personal about me, and my beliefs.

And so was born “The Silver Key,” after the Lovecraft story set in his Dreamlands cycle. A somewhat obscure entry,  but one of which I’m inordinately fond. The quote I’ve borne on the masthead remains as true today as the day he wrote it:

"Wonder had gone away, and he had forgotten that all life is only a set of pictures in the brain, among which there is no difference betwixt those born of real things and those born of inward dreamings, and no cause to value the one above the other." 

The quote describes the plight of Randolph Carter, who once wandered his illimitable imagination until age 30, when some combination of obligation and science and the cowed insistence of the masses begin to harden him, fossilizing his ability to dream. The story is loaded with great quotes about Carter’s plight, here’s one I like, because I recognize myself in Carter’s reaction:

“He did not dissent when they told him that the animal pain of a stuck pig or dyspeptic plowman in real life is a greater thing than the peerless beauty of Narath with its hundred carven gates and domes of chalcedony, which he dimly remembered from his dreams; and under their guidance he cultivated a painstaking sense of pity and tragedy.

Once in a while, though, he could not help seeing how shallow, fickle, and meaningless all human aspirations are, and how emptily our real impulses contrast with those pompous ideals we profess to hold. Then he would have recourse to the polite laughter they had taught him to use against the extravagance and artificiality of dreams; for he saw that the daily life of our world is every inch as extravagant and artificial, and far less worthy of respect because of its poverty in beauty and its silly reluctance to admit its own lack of reason and purpose.”

I too recoil at the “logic bros” who think life can be reduced to the movement of atoms or chemical reactions in the brain … yet never think to question why they place such high value on their own opinion and proving everyone else wrong. Isn’t it all meaningless, logic bros? And what of our curious need to dream?

Feeling the hollowness at the center of life, Carter seeks out the occult and strange books of lore (here the story tips into the Lovecraftian). Finding these empty too he briefly contemplates suicide, but presses on. And eventually begins to dream again, though not as deeply as he did during his youth. During one of these dreams, his long-dead grandfather tells him of a strange and mysteriously engraved silver key in his attic. Carter finds the key and takes it on a trip to his boyhood home in the backwoods of northeastern Massachusetts, enters a mysterious cave, and is never seen again. 

His story remains for us to ponder, back here on earth.

My focus here has changed over the years, in conjunction with changes in my own life. It’s broadened. I’ve gotten more personal, biographical, sentimental with the passing of years and some momentous, life-changing events. 

But I’m recommitting to the work of exploring the fantastic, guided by the principle that there is no cause to value real things over that which we imagine.

Yes, there is firm ground under out feet. We need to perform work, however ordinary and prosaic it may be. We still need to farm and build, code and heal, teach and serve. The material world is a real, impersonal thing, and likes to remind us of this. Full retreat is not an option, at least for me.

But we also need to dream. We need fantasy. I need it like the very air or water. "The Silver Key" reminds us of that.

Others on my wavelength seem to respond to this story with similar enthusiasm. James at Grognardia recently wrote about The Silver Key as part of his Pulp Fantasy Library series, stating “When I was younger, I didn't hold this particular story in very high esteem. However, as I trudge toward old age, I judge it much more favorably. I suspect that those attuned to the imaginative currents that run between early fantasy fiction and tabletop roleplaying games will likewise find that “The Silver Key” offers a potent metaphor.”

A couple other interesting notes.

Weird Tales editor Farnsworth Wright initially rejected the story in 1927 but later asked to see it again and it eventually ran in the January 1929 issue. Wright later stated it was “violently disliked” by readers. Why, I wonder? Probably because it has no action, no external conflict. Not a lot happens … and yet everything happens. Might it be readers hated it because it revealed some void in their own lives? People hate having mirrors turned upon them.

I live in Northeastern Massachusetts, and have encountered odd spaces in the woods. Who knows, perhaps I too shall disappear into dream as Carter once did, and meet him, and if I do:

I shall ask him when I see him, for I expect to meet him shortly in a certain dream-city we both used to haunt. It is rumored in Ulthar, beyond the River Skai, that a new king reigns on the opal throne of Ilek-Vad, that fabulous town of turrets atop the hollow cliffs of glass overlooking the twilight sea wherein the bearded and finny Gnorri build their singular labyrinths, and I believe I know how to interpret this rumor. Certainly, I look forward impatiently to the sight of that great silver key, for in its cryptical arabesques there may stand symbolized all the aims and mysteries of a blindly impersonal cosmos.

Read "The Silver Key" on Gutenberg.

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No, you’re not seeing things. That widget is there. I’m starting an email newsletter.

Why? 

• Third party platforms are ephemeral. Google might nuke Blogger from orbit… and all my readership would vanish in an instant.

• I need a better way to keep in touch with readers. I get a lot of flyby traffic that comes, reads an article and sometimes more, and then vanishes. I suspect because there’s no easy mechanism for getting back to this static blog. A quick signup form keeps people connected.

• I like what I’ve done here and don’t want to migrate over to something like Substack. Yes, it’s more modern, has better publishing architecture, and it has email distribution. But I’d lose the backlinks, the domain authority, etc.

What might I do with the NL? I don’t have a firm plan yet, nor even a name. I’m sort of building an aircraft in flight, but some ideas include:

• Brief summaries of posts with links to read the rest

• Bonus content you won’t get on the blog

• Updates about my new heavy metal memoir WIP and other projects

• Giveaways

It’s free, if you like what I do here please sign up. No spam; I'm thinking a monthly email. Just expect the unexpected… wizardry, arcana, that sort of thing.

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"Mystification," Manilla Road

Dialing up a bit of Manilla Road this Metal Friday, one of the most swordly-and-sorcerous metal bands ever. 

I love the atmosphere of "Mystification." Mark Shelton sounds like an evil sorcerer out of a Clark Ashton Smith story here.

Through the winds of time

A poet found The Key

To The Elder Rhyme

Some call the song mystic

With tales of gore

And terror in the night

His words, no more,

Have kept me mystified

Someone in an online group posted that they fail to see the aesthetic connection between metal and S&S (?) Sarcasm doesn't always come across well on the internet so I hope this was a case of crossed wires ...  otherwise this is a really bad take.

Mystification is basically Weird Tales with guitars.

Manilla Road also has a song called ... Queen of the Black Coast.

Manowar exists.

I've got nothing else.

White Noise by Don DeLillo, a review

At the time Don DeLillo wrote White Noise (1985) computers were still a discrete object and something that you engaged with on an occasional basis. We had PCs but they were chained to desks and their applications limited.  Today we’ve got a device 100x more powerful with a bottomless scroll and an insatiable appetite for our attention. ChatGPT and other AI applications spit out answers that flatter you and may or may not be correct, with the only certainty that you haven’t learned a damned thing. And here comes a new bright shiny and it's time to stare at the next thing!

We have WAY too much information at our disposal and most of it is noise, not signal. 

This is the low hum of DeLillo’s novel.

You don’t need a plot summary; as with a book like Stoner the plot is entirely secondary and almost irrelevant. Remarried suburban well-to-do husband and wife raising a family are outwardly OK but inwardly unhappy, living a life of mindless consumption. The husband is a college professor who has built his entire career teaching an undergraduate seminar on Hitler. Weird, but he’s the king of his odd fiefdom of hyper-specialized knowledge.

The family is awoken from its torpor by a chemical spill which briefly threatens to tip the novel into postapocalyptic territory. It does not, but exposure to the chemical lends an apocalyptic air to the rest of the book. The husband is poisoned, likely fatally. His wife is caught taking experimental pills to remove her fear of death. This leads to some late novel drama that I won’t spoil here.

Is it worth your time?

Qualified yes. You need to read outside your genre; White Noise won a National Book Award and DeLillo is a wonderful stylist.

We are drowning in white noise more than never. Even though the technology of the book is dated the underlying message is even more relevant today than 1985.

I recognize myself in the novel’s protagonist. My head is stuffed with useless information; I have become an “expert” on things like sword-and-sorcery and heavy metal, but I could not fix a car engine or build a house. I suspect many of you will identify.

Now the qualifications.

It’s a postmodern novel and rather enervating. I’m much more aware of what I consume (even if I still eat too much junk food and drink too much beer); I know that you are impacted by that with which you choose to spend your time. And this book doesn’t have a particularly uplifting message ... though neither does A Song of Ice and Fire and people seem to like that well enough.

I would not recommend reading too many postmodern novels without a strong foundation of other works. Balance this stuff with heroics or fantasy or the spiritual because there is none of that here. It offers no answers to life, just an (admittedly beautiful) depiction of our powerlessness, and helplessness in the face of death.

It’s the usual stuff: God doesn’t exist, we’re just chemical reactions, even a gorgeous evening sunset is just natural phenomena—and quite likely the result of toxic fumes from the spill. 

None of this is presented as a Good Thing by DeLillo; the protagonist goes from complacency to ennui, to unnerved, and finally disappointed by the state of the world. He refuses to engage with it, the hard cold data of it, and remains in a state of denial. And when he does attempt action the book steers into something of the pathetic and comic.

But if you want to learn how to incorporate theme into your work, or what heroic fantasy/S&S pushes back against, or how to create believable characters, I’d recommend White Noise.

Sword of the Gael by Andrew J. Offutt, a review

Sword-and-sorcery typically works better in the short form than the novel, and I think I know why. It’s a lot harder to sustain breakneck action over 250-300 pages. I was reminded not for the first time of this maxim while reading Andrew J. Offutt’s Sword of the Gael (1975, Zebra Books), which I found to be a bit of a mixed bag.

Sword of the Gael is the first in a series of six books from Offutt (and later co-writer Keith Taylor) of Cormac Mac Art, a quasi-historical/mythic High King of Ireland out of medieval Irish legend. Robert E. Howard wrote a handful of stories about the character collected posthumously in Tigers of the Sea, two of which were completed by S&S author Richard Tierney. It is from REH’s interpretation of Mac Art that we get Offutt’s series. 

Got all that? If you want to learn more about Taylor's participation in the series check out this Q&A I did with him over on DMR Books.

Sword of the Gael opens with a couple fantastic chapters that hooked me out of the gate. A dragon-prowed ship bearing Cormac and his crew capsizes in a storm; many men drown but about a dozen or so including the mighty Dane Wulfhere the Skull-splitter cling to the wreckage and survive after they wash ashore on a rocky isle. Combing the barren spit for any signs of life or life-giving water they happen across a temple of anachronistic construction. Something not of Roman construction, nor even ancient Celtic, but of Atlantis. And it’s occupied by a hostile Viking crew.

Had Offutt ended there it would have made for an excellent short story. But after this well-done piece of Howardian world-building and weirdness we never see nor hear of Atlantis nor the temple again. A classic unused Chekov’s gun. Maybe we will in the second book, The Undying Wizard (1976) however this is not pitched as a series nor a book one. And after the great opening sequence the story begins to flag.

But hold your judgement for a moment. 

Though it fails to live up to its opening promise there are many interesting elements in the reminder of the book that carried me through to the end. Offutt says in the introduction he read millions of words and took thousands of words of notes researching ancient Ireland, aka., Eirrin, and in the process fell in love with its history and legends. This is evident. The story feels historical and interesting in a way a lot of generic fantasy does not, clothing and food and Irish culture faithfully depicted. We get so little of Ireland/Eirrin as the setting of fantasy novels (Taylor’s Bard is a notable exception) that this was welcome, and moreover well-rendered. Here’s a bit of that rendering, from a monologue delivered from Cormac’s love interest, the Irish princess Samaire:

There are no former sons of Eirrin, Cormac of Connacht! It’s a spell there is on the fens and the bogs, and the cairn-topped hills of green Eirrin called Inisfail, and it envelops us all at birth like a cloak about the mind. We are forever under it—even those who so long and long ago moved across Magh Rian to Dalriada in Alba. Eirrin-born is Eirrin-bound, as if by stout cords and golden chains.”

This stirs my Irish blood. What do you expect with a last name like Murphy? More than a bit of Eirrin is in me (as well as Danish blood from my mother’s side). 

Speaking of stirred/spilled blood, we also get a desperate pitched battle against Picts, and a fun battle against a pool dwelling giant squid. We get a reasonably well done and familiar story of a hero’s homecoming, back to the land that once declared him an exile. Cormac is the son of a murdered high king but cannot return to Eirrin because of a killing he committed years before at a great assembly, a sort of great fair and friendly gathering of competitive clan rivals where no quarrels are permitted (not unlike a Danish Thing). But the young and hot-headed Cormac is goaded to violence and flees his homeland for a dozen years.

Offutt isn't Howard but he’s a good storyteller in his own right. Sword of the Gael is earnest (Offutt even includes bits of his own verse); you cannot fake its enthusiasm. As a standalone novel it’s not entirely successful. But it’s an interesting failure, entertaining enough, and moreover instructive for writers working in the field. I’d give it a tentative recommendation to S&S fans.

Metal, and the Ozzman, on my mind

For many reasons I have metal on my mind these days. I mean, it’s never far—I’m a confirmed metalhead, lifelong—but my enthusiasm waxes and wanes. 

Right now we’re waxing full.

I can’t shake Ozzy’s death. I suspect it might be at least partly due to the algorithms that shape our online existence. It’s everywhere I go, from Youtube to Instagram to Reddit. I’ve been listening to a lot of OG Sabbath and Ozzy solo material.

More on Ozzy in just a moment.

I also have had three people close to me read my heavy metal memoir WIP and am processing their feedback. I’ve submitted proposals to a few specialty publishers and will continue to do so.

I suspect I will self-publish via KDP but who knows… I just know I have to do the thing. I believe in the story. I hit a bit of a lull and the 10th or 20th or 50th crisis of self-confidence but now am coming out on the other side.

Onwards.

***

Back to Ozzy. He’s everywhere right now.

As I write this the live stream of his public funeral in Birmingham is set to begin. 

If you haven’t read this fine remembrance by Geezer Butler, please do so: “Ozzy Osbourne was the Prince of Laughter.” It confirms everything I said above.

Darkness? Hell no, he was a beacon of light.

We are perceived a certain way, but that doesn’t mean we are that way.

We make mistakes, even grave ones. We do dumb shit, harmful shit. But that doesn’t define us. 

We get a second chance, because we get to decide.

You can change your life (you must). You have tendencies and biases and weaknesses and strengths, but you are a (semi) rational being. You’re born with a personality archetype that leads to introversion or extroversion, anxiousness or confidence, reflective or active postures to life.

But these fall along a spectrum. None of these traits are immutable. 

I reject biological determinism and materialism. I believe in free will. I believe there is an immortal soul in every human, bound to our houses of flesh but also something apart, malleable, full of potential (for good or ill). We can deduce the presence of a soul by its absence.

Life is not fixed. And that is a miracle.

Where’s my proof?

Ozzy. 

How unique was this dude? There will never be another like him. No AI, no algorithm, can replicate his contradictions—his wild acts and occasional descents into darkness, juxtaposed with his jubilant, caring spirit.

We all must wear masks and adopt personas. Ozzy wore one for the stage. But you could see the real person underneath.

Go back and read Butler’s remembrance, but in particular this bit:

People always thought Ozzy was a feral wild man, but he had a heart of pure gold. Most of his infamous antics — the bat saga, biting the head off a dove, pissing on the Alamo, snorting lines of ants, and the rest — came in his solo years, away from the restraints of the Sabbath crew. But if you were a friend in need, Ozzy was always there for you. When my son was born with a heart defect, Ozzy called me every day to see how I was coping, even though we hadn’t spoken for a year.

His wife Sharon forgave his transgressions. We can forgive too.

His friends loved him because he was full of humor and hope. He came from nowhere Birmingham and changed the world.

Not a bad legacy for a Prince of Darkness.