The Night Land, a Story Retold

by James Stoddard

  THE NIGHT LAND

  A Story Retold

  BY

  JAMES STODDARD

  and

  WILLIAM HOPE HODGSON

  This is a work of fiction. All events

  portrayed in this book are fictitious,

  and any resemblance to real people

  or events is purely coincidental.

  THE NIGHT LAND, A STORY RETOLD

  Copyright © 2005 by James Stoddard

  All rights reserved, including the right

  to reproduce this book, or portions thereof,

  in any form.

  A Ransom House Book

  First Edition 2010

  A map of the Night Land can be found at: http://tinyurl.com/thenightland

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This version of The Night Land would not have been possible without the help of a number of people. I would like to thank Howard Fisher, Marquel White, and the other members of the Write Right Writers' Group for their thoughtful critiques. I am especially indebted to Lon Mirll, Kreg Robertson, Scott Faris, and Joe Justice for their advice and friendship, and to Jamie Herring, whose enthusiasm for the book meant more than she could possibly know. Andy Robertson was especially kind, reading the entire manuscript and clearing up several key points. I am also grateful to Jason Mills, who I contacted out of the blue with the insane proposal of doing an audio recording of a rewrite of a relatively obscure novel with little hope of compensation. That he was willing to lend his considerable vocal talents to such a lengthy and dubious enterprise bespeaks a generous heart and a love of Art for its own sake.

  This book can only be

  dedicated to those who have brought

  The Night Land

  to the public eye over the years:

  To H. C. Koenig,

  who championed its cause

  To August Derleth and Arkham House,

  who published the first American hardback edition

  To Lin Carter and Betty Ballantine,

  who introduced the first mass market paperback

  To Andy Robertson,

  who created

  The Night Land website and

  publishes original

  anthologies based on the book

  FROM THE PREFACE TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION OF

  THE NIGHT LAND

  THE DREAMS THAT ARE ONLY DREAMS

  "This to be Love, that your spirit to live in a natural holiness with the Beloved, and your bodies to be a sweet and natural delight that shall be never lost of a lovely mystery . . . And shame to be unborn, and all things to go wholesome and proper, out of an utter greatness of understanding; and the Man to be an Hero and a Child before the Woman; and the Woman to be an Holy Light of the Spirit and an Utter Companion . . . unto the Man . . . And this doth be Human Love . . ."

  ". . . for this to be the especial glory of Love, that it doth make unto all Sweetness and Greatness, and doth be a fire burning up all Littleness; so that did all in this world to have met The Beloved, then did Wantonness be dead, and there to grow Gladness and Charity, dancing in the years."

  THE NIGHT LAND

  A Story Retold

  INTRODUCTION

  The book you hold in your hand is a masterpiece. At least, I hope it is still a masterpiece. It is a tale of adventure, a novel of both fantasy and science fiction, and more than anything else, a love story. William Hope Hodgson (1875-1918) wrote professionally for only eleven years before a German shell ended his life during World War I. In that time he produced numerous short stories and four extremely imaginative novels. Of the four, The Night Land is surely the most ingenious. The book was praised by such diverse sources as C.S. Lewis and H.P. Lovecraft. Lovecraft commended its ". . . sense of cosmic alienage, breathless mystery, and terrified expectancy unrivaled in the whole range of literature." The Bookman, a leading journal of its day, said, "Mr. Hodgson gives us the most touching, exquisite . . . romance that has ever been written."

  Unfortunately, a book that should be considered a classic is mostly unread and forgotten, for Hodgson chose to write it in a difficult, archaic style. Editor Lin Carter, while praising the book when he oversaw its paperback publication in 1972, said, "The Night Land is a work of sustained imaginative vision without equal in literature, but it is dreadfully overwritten, overlong, and verbose and repetitive to the point of shameful self-indulgence."

  That this novel should survive, despite its many faults, is an indication of the power of the narrative.

  I first got the idea to rewrite The Night Land more than ten years ago. I began by rewriting the book, paragraph by paragraph, but soon discovered that Hodgson's prose did not hold up in a direct "translation." I grew bolder and began adding dialogue (Hodgson had none), character motivation, and even brief scenes not in the original volume, but necessary to support the logic of the story line. I was forced to name the main character, who Hodgson left nameless. I have divided the book into more chapters than in the original, breaking the action at various points to slow the relentless pace, and have renamed several chapters to avoid giving away the plot. Despite the many changes, I have striven to use Hodgson's thoughts (sometimes only bare hints) to recreate his world. Everything I have done has been for a purpose. Although I have served as second scribe, most of the words, and all of the genius, belongs to William Hope Hodgson.

  James Stoddard

  Ransom Canyon 2010

  The charred fragments of the story we now call "The Night Land" were discovered in an iron box in the burned ruins of an ancient country residence in the County of Kent. Nothing else survived, nor does anything remain around the manor except a stand of ancient oaks and a small, family cemetery.

  I

  MIRDATH THE BEAUTIFUL

  "And I cannot touch her face

  And I cannot touch her hair,

  And I kneel to empty shadows—

  Just memories of her grace;

  And her voice sings in the wind . . .

  And I answer with vain callings . . ."

  It was the joy of sunset that brought us together, as I walked alone, far from home with my oak staff in hand, pausing often to view with wonder the clouds forming, row upon row, the battlements of evening in the sweet, gathering dusk of the year 1827.

  The last time I paused, lost in solemn glory of the coming twilight, I heard to my right, beyond a gap in the hedge bounding the country road, the din of strident voices, some low and coarse, but one higher, as of a person in distress. I stepped through the hedge gap to find three men confronting a woman so lovely I knew her at once as the maiden acclaimed throughout the County of Kent as Lady Mirdath the Beautiful. Until that time, I had heard of her only by reputation, for though the estates of her guardian lay next to my own, I had often been abroad, and when at home had immersed myself in studies, riding, and physical training, the last of these such a constant passion I do not boast to say I have never met my equal in strength or speed.

  Because of my conditioning, I did not hesitate to place myself between Lady Mirdath and her assailants, and with my oak staff raised, warned them to withdraw. I am not a small man, and at first my unexpected appearance and sheer physical size must have startled them, but after a moment, they recovered their courage and ran at me without a word, knives gleaming in the dusk.

  I stepped briskly forward, eager for the attack, while behind me sounded the shrill call of a silver whistle, as Mirdath summoned her dogs and household servants. Even as she did so, I drove the end of my staff into the stomach of one of the attackers, dropping him to the ground. Without pausing, I gave another a sharp rap on the head, surely cracking his skull, for he toppled instantly to the earth. The third, who was nearly upon me, I met with my
fist, nor did he require a second blow, but went down to join his companions. Seeing my enemies defeated, proud of my easy victory, I turned to the lady and laughed at her look of astonishment.

  My mirth died in my throat, however, as she said, "You are either Hercules reborn or a strongman escaped from the circus. Do you thrash villains as a regular practice, or is it a natural gift?"

  Her question deflated me somewhat, and before I could find anything close to a response, three enormous boar hounds, drawn by Mirdath’s whistle, bounded up and encircled me, fangs bared, and the lady spent several uneasy moments keeping them off me, while I, in turn, prevented them from mauling the unconscious thieves. Just when the dogs had settled, shouts arose and lantern lights came bobbing through the woods, marking the arrival of the footmen of the house, who came armed with cudgels. They too were as baffled as the dogs by my presence, and if Mirdath had not stepped between them and me, I would have been mobbed.

  "Who are you?" their leader demanded in a Northumbrian accent, his gaze taking in my face and the men upon the ground. "What are you doing out in the woods?"

  "Why, John, don't you recognize him?" Mirdath asked. "It's Andrew Eddins. He has saved my life."

  The servant's tone immediately softened. "My pardon, sir. Sir Alfred has told the Lady not to wander alone, but she's a stubborn one. When we heard her whistle, we were terrified for her safety. What would you like done with these rogues?"

  The assailants were gradually groaning their way back to life, and I ordered them taken into custody to be presented next morning to the magistrate. As the servants secured the thieves, I removed my hat. "Would the lady care to be escorted to the safety of her door by a circus strongman?"

  Despite the danger she had faced, Mirdath blushed and gave a brave smile. "I fear I have embarrassed myself in my excitement. When I saw you leap from the hedge like an ancient hero, you seemed more dream than reality, and I hope you remember that I called you Hercules at first. Please forgive me and say we shall be friends."

  "How did you know my name? We have never been formally introduced."

  "Some of us do not spend our days locked away in our manors or traveling abroad. We snoop instead."

  "Is everyone in the county watching me, or is it just you?"

  She smiled. "The rest of the spies are busy elsewhere, so you do not receive the attention you deserve, but I have often seen you riding your horse past our manor and have inquired concerning you. What a beautiful stallion you have! You and I are actually third cousins, you know; Great-grandmother Agnes was Lord Charles Eddins’ sister, and you must call me Mirdath, since we are related and you have just saved my life."

  She grinned mischievously. "For shame, sir, in not visiting us before. You must present yourself to my guardian tonight to make amends for your neglect."

  "I will do so," I replied, keeping my voice steady, for though I had defied the assailants without a quaver, the face of Mirdath, seen so near, took my breath away. She was tall and slender, though I was a head taller, and the rumors could not begin to match her beauty. More than this, it impressed me that she could face danger one moment and stand joking the next.

  She led me back through the breach in the hedges and we walked together down the road. "This gap is my own special secret," she said, giving me a sidewise glance. "You must promise to tell no one, for my maid and I, disguised as village lasses, sometimes slip through it to attend country dances."

  Not being a man for flattering words, I said nothing, though I thought it unlikely that any disguise could hide that lovely face. But in that I was wrong, as I would eventually discover.

  At her manor, she presented me to her guardian, Sir Alfred Jarles, an old and respected man I knew in passing because of our adjoining estates. There, she praised me to my face, and Sir Alfred thanked me profusely, proclaiming me an eternal friend of the house. I dined with them that evening and afterward walked again on the grounds with Lady Mirdath, who seemed more familiar to me than any woman had ever been, as if we had always known one another. It became our constant delight to discover how much we had in common. But that night, I soon perceived she was most fascinated by how easily I had overcome the three assailants.

  "Are you truly as strong as you seem?" she asked me.

  When I laughed in pride and embarrassment, she clutched my arm to discover my strength for herself, then released it with a gasp.

  "A circus strongman, indeed," she said. "You must spend little time in reflection."

  I chuckled. "A polite way of calling me empty-headed. I study more than you might suppose. I do enjoy physical activity and rambling outdoors, but have done extensive reading in the sciences, especially biology. I love learning about nature."

  "Then we share that passion as well. It seems you are not only a protector of women, but a scholar, too."

  But if she took pleasure in my strength, her beauty, glimpsed between the shadows of the candlelight at dinner, likewise amazed me. Were it only that, I would have been amply infatuated, but our shared interests and her cleverness and easy laughter left me twice enchanted.

  We wandered through the woodlands all that evening, lost in conversation, unaware of the passing of time, until there arose the shouts of men’s voices, the baying of dogs, and the gleam of the lanterns. I stood perplexed, until Mirdath gave a sweet laugh, perceiving that we had stayed so long Sir Jarles had feared once more for our safety.

  Such was the way of our meeting, the flowering of our acquaintance, and the beginning of my love for Mirdath the Beautiful.

  ***

  The following days passed in a delightful haze, for from then on I wandered every evening along the quiet country road leading from my estate to Sir Alfred's. Entering through the hedge gap, I often found Lady Mirdath already walking there, accompanied, at my request for her safety, by her boar-hounds. Strolling together, we shared the things that have always fascinated me—the mystery of twilight, the glory of ancient woods, and the splendor of night. She seemed to enjoy my company, though she had a mischievous streak and sometimes teased me relentlessly, as if to see how much I would bear.

  One night I came to the gap in the hedges just as two country maids were leaving Sir Alfred’s estate. I nodded a greeting, intending to continue through the gap, but as they passed they curtseyed with unusual grace for provincial girls. On a sudden intuition, I drew near enough to peer at them through the fading light. Though I could not be certain in the dimness, I thought the taller might be Mirdath.

  "Who are you?" I demanded.

  In answer, she only simpered and curtseyed again, keeping her head down, leaving me in doubt. Knowing Mirdath's impish nature, I decided to follow them. They hurried away, as if fearful of my intentions, and I pursued at a distance to the village green, where a great dance was being held. Torches, plunged in the ground in a circle, lit the night for miles around, sending the shadows of the trees bobbing in imitation of the scores of dancers. Barrels of ale were set out on long benches, and a fiddler stood upon a low hill, playing a tune. Half the county must have been there. Since I was the only one dressed as a gentleman, I felt the eyes of many upon me, and the crowd parted as I advanced.

  Though the two joined the dance, they avoided the torchlight, keeping only one another for a partner. By these signs I was convinced this must be Lady Mirdath and her maid. I approached the taller woman, bowed, and said, "May I have this dance?"

  "I am promised, sir," she said, in a voice similar to but somewhat unlike Mirdath's. I caught a glimpse of a grin beneath her bonnet, but before I could get a closer look she gave her hand to a hulking farm lad, who danced her round the green. She was abundantly punished for her deception; it took all her skill to save her feet from his clumsiness, and when the dance finally ended she excused herself as quickly as she could.

  Despite the darkness and her disguise, I was convinced of her identity. I strode across to her and whispered, "Mirdath, this is scarcely proper. What would Sir Alfred think? Quit this nonsense and l
et me take you home."

  Her eyes flashed in the torchlight in response, and if I had doubted her identity before, I did so no longer. She stamped her foot in fury, turned from me, and hurried back to the farm lad. After suffering another dance with him, she bid him escort her and her maid part of the way home. Another young lout, his comrade, accompanied them as well, while I trailed a discreet distance behind. No sooner had they left the light of the torches than the lads, ignorant of the true rank of their companions, tried to put their arms about the ladies' waists.

  Lady Mirdath cried out in alarm and slapped her escort so violently he recoiled, but then, cursing loudly, came at her again. He seized her by the shoulders, trying to kiss her while she screamed my name and beat at his face with her fists. Her struggles would have been useless, had I not been close, but I caught the poor lad and struck him once, less to hurt him than to teach him an unforgettable lesson. He folded and I cast him to the side of the road. The second boy, hearing my name and probably knowing my reputation for strength, released the other woman and ran for his life.

  In my anger, I caught Mirdath by her shoulders and shook her soundly. "What were you thinking?"

  I was breathing hard and my expression must have looked dreadful, for she appeared terrified. My temper is one of my worse faults, but her fear shamed me into regaining my composure.

  "Walk down the road ahead of us," I ordered the maid, my voice trembling with rage.

  After the woman complied, I said more softly, "Mirdath, why do you do things like this?"

  She spoke so quietly I barely caught her words. "Perhaps because I want someone to stop me."