Fantasy Adventures had achieved its objective when I ended it after thirteen issues. Quite a number of its stories have since been anthologized or included in single author collections.
Now my current publisher has suggested that I might edit a generous selection of its best stories for the latest fast-developing new market—that of the e-book. In this way it is hoped that these fine stories and their writers might be brought to the attention to a new generation of readers who are unaware of their existence.
I hope that these new readers might enjoy work by authors who may not be familiar to them—and to want to seek out their many other works which are now available both as paperbacks and e-books!
—Philip Harbottle, 27 August 2013
THE CALL OF THE GRAVE, by Brian Ball
The Celts believe that if you call on a man’s soul long enough, strongly enough, the call will be answered. I am a Celt, a Welshwoman. Part of my difficulty in deciding just what happened at the time of the Bryn Cynon disaster is that I knew no English until I was well into my teens. As a child, I knew nothing of that harsh tongue.
I was eight years old when my father and two older brothers, along with a hundred and seven other men, were caught by the raging explosions in the deep galleries. Coal was won with blood then.
My mother wept at the pithead with the other white-faced women. I suppose I wept too, but I can’t remember too well. I was interested in everything I saw. I watched it all, even when the sturdy rescue teams carne up with a few of the bodies. They did weep. There was no hope for any of the miners.
The minister spoke of souls released from this life’s cares, but we children thought of fire and water, smoke and stunning blast. The shaft was abandoned and sealed up after a week. Nearly a hundred men still lay in the choking darkness, quietly swayed by black waters. The disaster numbed the village. Even though the pithead buildings were no longer in use, the old men and the widows, the grandmothers and sweethearts, still came there. They spoke to their dead menfolk, little everyday Welsh phrases that the dead would know well. They comforted the dead and relieved their own grief. We came too, the children of the village, but we were driven away. My mother was bitterly angry with me when I persisted.
“Your father is dead, and your brothers too! Dead! The minister spoke the words. Don’t disturb them now. Don’t trouble the dead!”
She had never looked so angry.
I learned the reason for that anger from the other children. She did not believe in the old ways. But, child-like, I was fascinated by the idea that you could call on the dead. I suppose I thought of it as a form of macabre telephoning. How I wanted to communicate with my dead father and brothers!
So strong was my morbid wish that I disobeyed my mother. It was of no use hanging about the pithead. My mother would soon hear of it if I began calling down the blocked-up shaft. Instead, I went to one of the many ventilation outlets that dotted the upper reaches of the valley. On the day of the disaster, they had spumed black smoke and red flame for hours.
No one saw me. I would slip away after school before my younger brothers realized I was gone. I talked, often for an hour, of the day’s trivial happenings:
‘Dad!’ I would whisper. ‘Can you hear? I’ve done well at arithmetic today! We had dripping toast for breakfast again, and Gareth has a black eye!’
How simple and innocent it was! I kept up my one-sided conversations for nearly two weeks. I tried to pretend that Dad or David or Rhys answered, but there was nothing but a thin whistling sound from the deep, black hole. I was careful not to get ay dress soiled on the smoke-encrusted brick when I peered down. Nothing! Only the iron ladder and a distant, cold whistling.
One afternoon I arrived later than usual, for I was losing interest in my macabre game. It was to be given fresh interest, for a most unusual thing occurred.
Mr. Jackson, the English under-manager of the colliery, was there” I almost called out to him, but I remembered that he spoke little Welsh. In his bowler hat and dark suit, he was an imposing figure to a young girl. I said nothing.
He peered into the depths. And then he began to speak in his guttural English. Of course, I did not understand him, as I have said, but I was fascinated. Here was another who conversed with the dead! I almost called out, but my shyness stopped me. I was sure he did not wish for company.
To my delight kind Mr. Jackson came the next day. And the next. He would call down lengthy, impassioned messages for up to half-an-hour. I listened, but for several days I could make no sense of his words. I caught one word, then two, with much difficulty. And I knew them! ‘Morgan’ and ‘Lewis’!
Morgan Lewis! Mr. Jackson was trying to call on the soul of one of the young colliers who had died three weeks before! I knew Morgan well.
Poor Mr. Jackson, I thought, poor Mr. Jackson to be so sad now that his friend was dead! I almost called to him that Morgan would hear and come. I had no need.
Mr. Jackson had just finished his conversation when it happened. He turned and I hid. He was grinning. I am sure that he did not see the long thin arms that rested on the brickwork behind him, nor the long emaciated and blackened fingers. I saw them. To this day I swear that I saw them. A child’s vision is more than twice as acute as an adult’s. I did see the arms.
They drew him back. Mr. Jackson’s hat fell off. He made an effort to reach the skeletal arms and hands, but he was already off-balance.
I got up, not afraid since I had been expecting some response. At eight you can forget to fear, so interested are you in your own thoughts. But I saw that Mr. Jackson experienced fear.
He went to join his hundred men. I rushed to pick up his bowler hat. There was no Mr. Jackson to give it to. I looked down. I listened. Nothing.
I almost returned Mr. Jackson’s hat to him, thinking he might need it in the empty darkness, but I was pleased that I carried it with me as I ran back to the village. The sight of the hat convinced my Uncle Thomas that I had not invented the whole episode. My mother said nothing, nor did the neighbors. They all stared at me as if I were some strange new animal. They sent the younger children away, and I began to cry. I thought I would be punished.
“He was calling you say?” my Uncle asked.
“Yes, calling!”
“Calling who?”
“Why, calling the dead soul!”
They began to understand. Uncle Thomas frowned.
“This calling, girl! Mr. Jackson had no relatives in the pit—he had no one to call on!”
I had not mentioned Morgan Lewis. Proudly I said:
“He had! His friend!”
“How do you know, girl? You don’t speak English!”
“I know, Uncle, but I did hear him say the name.”
“What name?”
“Why, Morgan Lewis’s! Very loud! Always Morgan Lewis!”
I was afraid then. I saw the horror in my mother’s eyes. They had not believed my story of the terrible arms and the blackened, emaciated fingers. Not until that moment.
“I knew Morgan Lewis would come.” I babbled on. “Mr. Jackson called him so strongly!”
Uncle Thomas grasped me by the shoulders. Very fiercely he said:
“You saw nothing, girl, nothing!”
Girls obeyed their elders in Wales then.
“Nothing, Uncle,” I repeated.
I learned the rest of the story years later. Mr. Jackson had come to Bryn Cynon with a pretty young wife, and Morgan Lewis of the black eyes and white teeth had a way with the women. Cunning and vindictive, that was Mr. Jackson’s reputation. He had ready access to explosives. How better to conceal a murder than in a massacre?
My Uncle Thomas threw the hat down the ventilation shaft. That was something else I did not learn for many years. I have often thought of that deep hole and the empty whistling sound.
Could Morgan Lewis have survived for three weeks in some safe pocket of the mine, perhaps blinded and terribly wounded, until he heard someone calling his name? Could a dying man have cl
imbed the shaft to listen to the under-manager? Certainly Morgan knew some English. He had learned it from Mrs. Jackson. Had he heard Jackson’s cruel voice?
I thought about Celtic legend too.
Had some awful specter heard the taunts and come to answer on behalf of all those dead Celts?
I don’t know.
I have never called on the dead since. I never will.
THE WARLORD OF KUL SATU, by Brian Ball
Archaeologists can forget that the past is still with us. Its ghosts still linger. We forgot at Kul Satu.
The Warlord had been buried after the manner of the Scythian kings who were also battle-leaders. His horses had been pole-axed and placed around the central circular tomb. Fourteen men and eight women, one of them his queen or chief concubine, had contributed their deaths to his monument. Most had been strangled, a few poisoned. Food and weapons, cauldrons and armor, had been supplied on a lavish scale. The Warlord could ride with a full retinue through the eternal plains.
Al, my fiancé, saw him first.
“This is one big-time operator!” he called.
We were delighted. Finding a Scythian Warlord so far West meant that we knew the extent of the warrior-herdsmen’s penetration of Europe. Did I feel a chill of apprehension when I looked into the juniper coffin? Or was it that a chill wind had sprung up across the Hungarian plain? I remember feeling proud of Al.
It was one of the workmen the Hungarian government had supplied who made me feel a little uneasy.
“Grave-robbers!” he muttered.
The locals had never dared go near the Warlord’s grave. Even after twenty-five centuries, his grim reputation had survived. It was a place of evil spirits, we were assured. The workman made the sign of the cross and edged away. Al was peeved by his remark.
I was a little annoyed too. We had never thought of ourselves as robbers. The Hungarians had been glad to give us permits to excavate the mound at Kul Satu. We were financially independent, we were reputable archaeologists, and they knew we wouldn’t steal the gold and silver from the tomb. How could we be robbers?
I looked at the mummified corpse. The Warlord had been a big man by Scythian standards. He was heavy-boned, and he had been well-fleshed. I could distinguish his features even after the passing of over two thousand years.
“He was some guy!” Al exulted. I thought he looked cruel and I said so.
“You know the Scythians, honey! They ate babies for breakfast!”
Sometimes I wish Al would not make macabre jokes. But he was right about the Scythians. Not that they ate babies, of course. War was their way of life, war and all its grisly rituals. They took their young women into battle with them. The Warlord’s chief woman had gone to her grave with a beautifully-made sword in her hands. Al’s remark troubled me. So did the Warlord’s menacing features. I think it was then that I first sensed the brooding spirit of that barbaric splendidly-costumed and bejeweled warrior-king.
That night I dreamt of the gold-hilted sword, the electrum amulets, the bracelets and the magnificent silver bowls. I awoke shivering, with the pale moonlight dusting the nylon of the tent. I did not want to dream of the Scythians, but sleep took me once more and I saw the horses sweeping over the huge Hungarian steppes as they had done those long centuries ago. The ghosts of the mound at Kul Satu were stirring. I began to understand that the past is still with us.
It was the first time I had felt fear—actual and acute fear—on a dig. I awoke once more, this time hot and sweaty. Some impulse made me put on a gown and walk, through the silent camp towards the mound we had opened up. The plastic sheets covering the tomb flapped in the slight wind. Even though I was filled with an overwhelming sense of dread, I was impelled to look at that cruel long-dead face.
The Warlord’s presence seemed to hover about the night like some unseen but powerful miasma. In the cold moonlight, I felt the anguish of the strangled and the griping terrors of the poisoned. Blood and dread filled the night. I ran, whimpering.
Why I did not go to Al for comfort and reassurance I shall never understand. Perhaps I thought he would consider me foolish. I was. All I can say is that a scientist isn’t supposed to be afraid of his field of research. I was a fool. I told Al nothing.
We worked hard for the next few days photographing, classifying, packing, exploring, cataloging. It should have been pleasant and rewarding work, but I was too tired to share Al’s enthusiasm. Each night I dreamt of the terrible Scythians. There was always violence and, somewhere hovering just outside the edges of the dreams, the grim spirit of the Warlord of Kul Satu. I think more of the work force was affected by that brooding presence, but they were being well paid and said nothing. The workman who had called us robbers occasionally glared at Al or me, but he too kept his opinions to himself. Work was scarce in that part of Hungary.
My dreams were clearer now. The horses were strong, short-necked beasts. It did not seem strange that I should be riding with the men. Armed and armored, we flew over the vast green plain like some storm from the East. And the Warlord was somewhere close, very close.
I was desperately afraid now of the terrible presence. I knew that his ghost was abroad, that our disturbance of his tomb had given some kind of unholy sense of outrage to his terrible spirit. I was too young, too much in love to risk my fiancé’s peace of mind; I think too that I was afraid of his macabre jokes. The thought of Al’s laughter would be too much. What a fool I was!
The fifth night after we had opened the juniper coffin, I saw the Warlord’s face. Flat, Mongol, slant-eyed, ferocious, it was the living counterpart of that withered face in the gold-decked cloak. His eyes were wild, his mouth a bitter line. We wheeled our horses to hear him. Commands flowed.
The reason for our wild, surging charge across the steppes became clear. Softer, richer, more civilized peoples held the Hungarian plains. They had rich soil, cattle, docile children and gold. Land, wealth, cows and slaves were the prize. In that dreadful dream I saw the Warlord look at me with contempt. The insults rang in my ears the whole of the night and the next day.
I trembled as I helped Al with the last of the packing away. As we handled the still-sharp swords and the exquisitely-chased cauldrons I heard the warlord’s taunting voice. How had I offended that terrible man! Why had I to endure his bitter denunciations! How was it that he could reach out across the long centuries and send his terrible spectre into my dreams!
Al noticed my tiredness. I allowed him to send me to bed early when all I wanted was to remain conscious. Would it have changed matters if I had confided in him?
I think not.
The warlord of Kul Satu had eaten into my soul. When I slept, I dreamt, and when I dreamt I was his. I fought sleep, of course, but it came. With it came the thundering charge, the screams of dying men and the wild, exulted bellowing of the Scythians.
The Warlord glared red-eyed at me. He pointed to the gold-hilted sword in my hand, a woman’s weapon, slim and deadly. I was deeply ashamed. No Scythian woman could marry until she had killed a man, I wept. He pointed again, this time to a whimpering peasant who was trying to outrun our superb mounts. The man looked round, too exhausted to scream. He fell at my horse’s feet.
The Warlord bawled a command. I dismounted. The dread, the blood, the fury, filled my whole being. And all the time, the Warlord watched, his flat face alight with malice and triumph. I struck. I turned and saw that the Warlord’s face had withered and dried; but his eyes were filled with grim delight.
That night I slept deeply.
I heard the shouting as if through a fog. Al’s voice was raised, but others were yelling louder. I remembered my dream and shuddered, but I saw the red light of dawn and felt the night’s terror ebbing away. I knew I was free of the Warlord. We were to leave Kul Satu that day. I wondered what the hubbub was about. Pay? Or a new find!
Al called to me. I was to dress at once. Puzzled, but not yet alarmed, I pushed the sheet back. It was then that my eyes fell on the widespread red-rust
blotches. I refused to ask myself their cause. I looked at my right hand. Blood had congealed on the hand and wrist. Al called once more, this time sharply.
I washed quickly. Something made me thrust the sheets into a specimen bag.
The workman who had been afraid lay transfixed by the slim, gold-hilted sword. He lay at the feet of the Warlord. My tears and shrieks were acceptable as feminine weakness. I don’t think anyone connected me with the death, not at the time. The police were anxious to keep publicity at a minimal level. Perhaps the man was trying to steal, they suggested. A slip in the dark, an unlucky fall.… I made no comment.
I buried the sheets. Perhaps Al saw me, I don’t know. He made no more jokes. I believe he married a girl from Maine.
What I do know is that the Warlord called more than one to his tomb, for the face of the dead workman was the face of the exhausted peasant. He had reason to fear the grim spirit of the Warlord of Kul Satu.
And so had I.
THE BROKEN SEQUENCE, by Antonio Bellomi
“Thank you for coming.”
Commissioner Kim Sukyung welcomed Uriel Qeta and signaled to the agent on the threshold to let him in. The Chief Commissioner of Luna City Laboratories had a grim face, betraying someone heavily pressured and wrestling with insoluble problems. The so-called oriental deadpan face was absolutely missing.
Uriel Qeta passed through the door of the Astronomy Lab and shook hands with the commissioner. When he had been called half an hour ago on the videophone the commissioner had been very frank with him.
“I urgently need your help,” the Chief Commissioner of the Luna City Police Force had said. Such a statement from him meant that the trouble that had arisen was real trouble.
It was not the first time that Uriel Qeta was asked to give his expert help to Commissioner Sukyung, and each time it had happened it was for a very good reason: it meant the commissioner had no idea whatsoever what to do.
The Science-Fantasy Megapack: 25 Classic Tales From Fantasy Adventures Page 2
