by James Gunn
From A True Story
BY LUCIAN OF SAMOSATA TRANSLATED BY LIONEL CASSON
No athlete or body-building enthusiast thinks only of exercising and being in condition. He thinks also of relaxing when the occasion calls for it and, as a matter of fact, he considers this the most important part of training. In my opinion the same holds for book enthusiasts: after poring over a lot of serious works, they ought give the mind a rest to get it into even better shape for the next workout. The most suitable way for them to spend the interval is with light, pleasant reading which, instead of merely entertaining, furnishes some intellectual fare as well—and this I think they’ll agree is true of the present work.
It is a work that will appeal to them not only because of the exotic subject matter, the amusing plot, and the way I’ve told all sorts of lies with an absolutely straight face, but because I’ve included comic allusions to all our noted poets, historians, and philosophers of old who have written so many fabulous tall stories. I don’t need to name names: you’ll recognize them yourselves as you read along. Ctesias of Cnidus, the son of Ctesiochus, has written things about India and the Indians that he neither saw himself nor heard from anyone who had any respect for the truth. Iambulus has written a lot of unbelievable stuff about the ocean; everyone knows he made it all up, yet, for all that, he has put together an amusing account. Lots of other writers have shown a preference for the same technique: under the guise of reporting their travels abroad they spin yarns of huge monsters, savage tribes, and strange ways of life. The arch-exponent of, and model for, this sort of tomfoolery is Homer’s Odysseus telling the court of Alcinous about a bag with the winds in it, one-eyed giants, cannibals, savages, even many-headed monsters and magic drugs that change shipmates into swine—with one such story after another he had those simple-minded Phaeacians goggle-eyed.
Now, I’ve read all the practitioners of this art and I’ve never been very hard on them for not telling the truth—not when I see how common this failing is even among those who profess to be writing philosophy. What I have wondered at, though, is the way they’re convinced they can write pure fable and get away with it. Since I’m vain enough myself to want to leave something behind to posterity and since I have nothing true to record—I never had any experiences worth talking about—in order not to be the only writer without a stake in the right to make up tall tales, I, too, have turned to lying—but a much more honest lying than all the others. The one and only truth you’ll hear from me is that I am lying; by frankly admitting that there isn’t a word of truth in what I say, I feel I’m avoiding the possibility of attack from any quarter.
Well, then, I’m writing about things I neither saw nor heard of from another soul, things which don’t exist and couldn’t possibly exist. So all readers beware: don’t believe any of it.
Some time ago I set out on a voyage from the Straits of Gibraltar. A favorable breeze carried me into the Atlantic Ocean, and I was on my way. The basic reasons for the trip were my intellectual curiosity, my thirst for novelty, and the desire to find out what formed the farther border of the ocean and what peoples lived there. I had consequently put aboard a large stock of provisions and plenty of water and had taken on as crew fifty acquaintances who shared my interests; I had also laid in a good supply of weapons, induced—by the offer of a handsome salary—the best navigator available to go along, and had our vessel, a fast brig, made shipshape for a long and hard stay at sea
For a day and a night we sailed before a wind that was favorable but not strong enough to carry us out of sight of land. At dawn of the following day, however, the wind made up, the sea began to run, and the sky grew dark. There wasn’t even time to take in sail; we gave up and let the ship scud before the gale. For the next seventy-nine days we were driven along by a furious storm. Suddenly, on the eightieth, the sun broke through and we saw, fairly near, a hilly island covered with forest. The sound of the surf was not too loud; by now the storm had mostly subsided. We made for the shore, disembarked, and for hours just lay on the ground, a natural thing to do after such a long ordeal.
Finally we got up and decided that thirty of us would stand by to guard the ship while I took the other twenty to reconnoiter the island. We had advanced about a third of a mile through thick forest when we came upon a bronze shaft. It was inscribed in Greek, and the legend, dim and worn, read: “This marks the spot reached by Heracles and Dionysus.” And, pressed in the rock nearby, were two sets of footprints, one a hundred feet long, the other somewhat less. I figured the smaller were Dionysus’ and the larger Heracles’. We paid our respects and pushed on.
We hadn’t proceeded very far when we came upon a river, not of water, but of wine, which had the very same taste as our vintage Chian. The stream was so wide and deep that in places it was actually navigable. In view of such tangible evidence of a visit from Dionysus I was now much more inclined to believe the inscription on the shaft. I decided to track down the source of the river and walked upstream. Here I found no signs of any spring but, instead, a large number of enormous vines full of grapes. The roots of each were oozing drops of clear white wine, and these formed the river. Under the surface we could see a good many wine-colored fish which, it turned out, also tasted like wine; in fact, we got drunk on some that we caught and ate. (Naturally, when we cut them open we found them full of dregs.) Later, having given the matter some thought, we mixed them with fresh-water fish and thus made our sea-food cocktails less potent.
After fording the river at a narrow point, we came upon vines of a fabulous type. The part growing out of the ground, the stalk proper, was well set up and thick. But the part above that was a perfect replica of a female body from hips to head, looking somewhat like Daphne in those paintings where she’s shown turning into a tree as Apollo lays his hands on her. The women had branches bearing clusters of grapes growing out of the tips of their fingers and, instead of hair, actual shoots with leaves and grapes. They called out to welcome us as we came up, some in Lydian, some in Indian, but most in Greek. They also started kissing us on the lips, and everyone they did this to immediately became drunk and began to reel. We weren’t able to pick the grapes because, as we pulled them off, the women would cry out in pain. They were burning with desire to have intercourse with us. Two of my men tried it—and couldn’t be pried loose: they were held fast by the penis; it had grown into, become grafted onto, the vines. Soon the pair became entwined in a network of tendrils, sprouted shoots from their fingers, and looked as if even they were ready to bear fruit. We abandoned them and fled back to the ship, where we gave the men who had stayed behind a report of everything, including the vinous intercourse of their two shipmates.
We then broke out the water jars, watered up—and also wined up from the river—and, after spending the night on the beach, sailed off at dawn before a moderate wind. Around noon, when the island had dropped out of sight, a typhoon suddenly hit us. It spun the ship around and lifted it about thirty miles high in the air. But, before it could let us drop back into the water, as we hung suspended in the sky, a wind filled our sails and carried us along. For seven days and nights we sailed the air. On the eighth we sighted a large land mass like an island in the sky. It was round and, illuminated by some immense light, shone brightly. We put in there, anchored, and disembarked, and, upon reconnoitering the countryside, found it was inhabited and under cultivation. During the day we could see no other land about but, when night came on, we saw a good many other islands the color of fire, some bigger than ours and some smaller. Below was another land mass with cities, rivers, seas, forests, and mountains; we guessed it was our own earth.
I decided to push farther inland. En route we ran into what is called locally the Buzzard Cavalry and were taken captive. Now the Buzzard Cavalry is made up of men who ride on buzzard back; they use birds the way we do horses. Their buzzards, you see, are enormous creatures, mostly three-headed; to give you an idea of their size I need only point out that any one of their wing feathers is
longer and thicker than the mast on a big cargo vessel. This Buzzard Cavalry has orders to run patrol flights over the countryside and bring before the king any aliens they find. So we were arrested and brought before him. He looked us over and, guessing from the way we were dressed, said, “You are Greek, gentlemen?” We nodded. Then he said, “How did you get here with all that air to cross?” We told him our whole story and he, in turn, told us all about himself. His name was Endymion and he, too, had come from earth: some time in the past he had been snatched up in his sleep, brought here, and made king of the place.
He explained to us that the land we were in was what appeared to people on earth as the moon. He told us, however, not to worry or be apprehensive, that we were in no danger, and that we would be given everything we needed. “Once I win this war I’m involved in against the people living on the sun,” he added, “you can stay here with me and live happily ever after.” We asked him who his enemies were and how the disagreement had come about. “Phaëthon,” he told us, “is king of the people living on the sun—the sun, you see, is inhabited just like the moon—and he’s been at war with us for a long while. It all started this way. Some time ago I got the idea of collecting the poorest among my subjects and sending them out to found a colony on the Morning Star, which is completely bare and uninhabited. Phaëthon out of spite called out his Ant Cavalry and intercepted the expedition before it had gone halfway. We were beaten—we were no match for his forces at the time—and turned back. Now I want to take the offensive again and establish my colony. If you’re willing, come, join our army. I’ll supply each of your men with one buzzard from the royal stables plus a complete outfit. We leave tomorrow.”
“If that’s what you want, why, of course,” I replied.
We stayed the night with him as his guests. At the crack of dawn his lookouts reported that the enemy was approaching, and we rose and took our positions. Endymion had 100,000 troops, not counting supply corps, engineers, infantry, and contingents from foreign allies. Of the 100,000, 80,000 were Buzzard Cavalry and 20,000 Saladbird Cavalry. The saladbird is an enormous bird covered all over with salad greens instead of feathers; its wings look exactly like lettuce leaves. Alongside these were units of Peashooters and Garlickeers. He also had some allied forces from the Big Dipper: 30,000 Fleaborne Bowmen and 50,000 Windrunners. The Fleaborne Bowmen are mounted on huge fleas hence the name—each as big as twelve elephants. The Windrunners, though ground forces, are able to fly through the air without wings. This is the way they do it: they wear shirts that go down to their feet; by pulling these up through the belt and letting them belly before the wind like sails, they’re carried along the way a boat would be. In battle they serve for the most part as mobile infantry. There was talk that 70,000 Ostrich-Acorns and 50,000 Crane Cavalry were expected from the stars over Cappadocia, but they never showed up so I didn’t see them and, consequently, haven’t dared to describe what they’re like—the fabulous things I heard about them are unbelievable.
So much for the make-up of Endymion’s army. The equipment was standard throughout: a helmet made from a bean (enormous, tough beans are grown there), a breastplate of overlapping lupine husks (since the husks of the lupines are very hard, like horn, they are made into armor by being stitched together), and a sword and shield of the Greek type.
At the appropriate moment Endymion drew up his forces for battle. The Buzzard Cavalry together with the king and his elite guard (including us) were on the right, the Saladbird Cavalry on the left, and, in the center, the cavalry units from the foreign allies, each disposed as it chose. The infantry, numbering about 60,000,000, he positioned as follows. He ordered the local spiders—they are numerous and big, any one of them larger by far than the average Aegean island—to span the air between the moon and the Morning Star with a web; as soon as they finished, he stationed the infantry on the plain so formed, with General Nightly Goodday and two others in command.
On the enemy side the Ant Cavalry with Phaëthon in command formed the left wing. This army uses enormous winged beasts similar to our ants in every respect except size, for the largest can run upwards of two hundred feet in length. The mount as well as the rider fights, principally by using its feelers. Their number was reportedly 50,000. On the right wing were the Aerognats, bowmen astride huge gnats, also 50,000 in number, and, behind them, the Aerojumpers. These, although light-armed infantrymen, are especially dangerous because they have slings that fire elephantine radishes capable of inflicting in whomever they hit a gangrenous wound which spells instant death; rumor has it these missiles are tipped with mallow juice. On the Aerojumpers’ flank were 10,000 Stalk-and-Mushroomeers, heavy-armed troops for hand-to-hand combat, so called because they use mushrooms for shields and asparagus stalks for spears. Nearby were 5,000 Dog-Acorns, dog-faced men who fought mounted on winged acorns; they had been sent by the inhabitants of Sirius. According to reports, Phaëthon had other allies who were late—the Cloud-Centaurs and a detachment of slingers he had summoned from the Milky Way. The Cloud-Centaurs arrived after the battle had been decided. (How I wish they hadn’t gotten there at all!) The slingers never showed up, and I’ve heard say that Phaëthon was so angry he subsequently laid their country waste with fire.
Such was the make-up of the force attacking us. The standards were raised; donkeys—the substitute in these armies for trumpeters—brayed the charge on both sides; the lines clashed, and the battle was on. The sun’s left immediately fled without waiting to engage our Buzzard Cavalry; we pursued, slaughtering as we galloped. Their right, however, overpowered our left, and the Aerognats gave chase all the way to where our infantry was drawn up. The infantry came to the rescue, and the Aerognats, well aware that their left had been defeated, gave way and ran. The retreat turned into a full-scale rout: our men killed or captured huge numbers. Streams of blood spilled over the clouds, drenching them and turning them the scarlet color they take on at sunset. Quite a lot dripped down on earth—which makes me wonder whether something similar hadn’t occurred centuries ago and Homer simply jumped to the conclusion it was Zeus sending down a shower of blood to honor Sarpedon’s death.
As soon as we returned from the pursuit we erected two monuments, one on the cobwebs to commemorate the infantry battle, the other on the clouds for the air battle. Before we had finished, our lookouts reported the approach of the Cloud-Centaurs, the forces which were to have joined Phaëthon before the battle. Sure enough, they came into view, an absolutely incredible sight: each was a combination of man and winged horse, the human part as tall as the upper half of the Colossus of Rhodes and the equine as big as a large cargo vessel. I won’t put down their number; it was so great I’m afraid no one will believe it. Sagittarius, the archer from the Zodiac, was in command. When they realized their allies had been defeated, they sent word to Phaëthon to return to the attack and, lining up in battle formation, charged. The Moonmen who, because of the chase and subsequent search for plunder, had broken ranks and scattered all over, were routed to a man; the king himself was pursued to the walls of his capital, and most of his birds were killed. After tearing down our two monuments, the Cloud-Centaurs overran the entire plain woven by the spiders and, in the process, took me and two of my shipmates prisoner. When Phaëthon arrived on the scene, monuments were again erected—this time for his side.
The very same day we were carried off to the sun, our hands tied behind our backs with a strip of cobweb. The enemy decided against laying siege; instead, on the way back they set up a barricade in mid-air, a double wall of cloud, which cut the moon off completely from the sun’s light. The moon consequently went into total eclipse and remained in the grip of perpetual night. Greatly upset, Endymion sent a message to the Sunmen imploring them to tear down the structure and not force his subjects to live their lives in pitch-darkness. He said he was ready to submit to taxation, furnish military aid when required, and enter into a nonaggression pact, and he volunteered to supply hostages to guarantee performance. Phaëthon and hi
s people held two referendums: in the first they were as bitter as ever, but in the second they changed their minds and agreed to a treaty of peace worded thus:
The Sunmen and their allies hereby agree to a treaty of peace with the Moonmen and their allies on the following terms:
The Sunmen shall tear down the barricade they erected, shall hereafter never make war on the moon, and shall return all prisoners at a ransom to be determined for each;
the Moonmen shall grant autonomy to all other stars and shall not bear arms against the sun;
each party shall render aid to the other in the event of aggression by a third party;
the king of the Moonmen shall pay to the king of the Sunmen an annual levy of 10,000 jars of dew and provide 10,000 hostages from his own subjects;
both parties shall co-operate in founding the colony on the Morning Star; interested nationals of any other country may take part;
this treaty shall be inscribed on a tablet of silver and gold to be erected in mid-air at the common frontier.
Sworn to by
Firestone
Heater
Burns
for the sun;
Nighting
Moony
Allbright
for the moon.
Peace was made on these terms, and the moment it took effect the wall was torn down and the prisoners, including us, released. When we arrived back on the moon, our shipmates and Endymion himself came out a little way to meet us and welcomed us with tears in their eyes. Endymion asked us to stay on and take part in founding the colony, promising to give me his own son in marriage (there are no women on the moon). I was not to be persuaded and requested instead to be sent back down to the ocean. When he realized my mind was made up he let us go after a week’s entertainment as his guests.
I want to describe the strange, new phenomena I observed during this stay on the moon.
