White’s most famous story, “Lukundoo,” is worth considering in some detail. White makes the interesting comment that, although the story was based on a dream, he would never have had that dream if he had not read H. G. Wells’ “Pollock and the Porroh Man,” included in The Plattner Story and Others (1897). In this story Wells (who, like Kipling, was an occasional correspondent of White’s) depicts the fate of an Englishman, Pollock, who, while on an expedition in West Africa has a violent encounter with a “Porroh man” (witch doctor), wounding him in the hand with a pistol shot. Subsequently Pollock is harassed by a variety of minor but ever intensifying annoyances—incursions of snakes, darts and arrows that narrowly miss him, an aching in his muscles, and the like. Feeling that the Porroh man is responsible, Pollock hires another African to kill him. The latter does so with alacrity, bringing the Porroh man’s decapitated skull back to Pollock. But a Portuguese associate tells Pollock that he has made a grave mistake: the only way to end the “curse” is for Pollock to have killed the Porroh man himself. Pollock is now haunted by the skull, as it keeps returning to him even though he has successively buried it, tossed it into the river, and burned it. Returning to England, Pollock seems to see the skull, dripping with blood, everywhere; as his desperation and fear grow, he finally kills himself.
A supernatural explanation is not required to account for the events in “Pollock and the Porroh Man”; indeed, at the end Wells suggests that the entire scenario is largely a series of hallucinations brought on by Pollock’s fear of the Porroh man’s supposed powers. In “Lukundoo” White has duplicated only the barest outline of the plot of Wells’ tale: the curse inflicted upon a white man by an African sorcerer. “Lukundoo” is, however, manifestly supernatural, and is still more terrifying in that the curse actually invades the explorer Ralph Stone’s body. And yet, both tales are funda mentally tales of revenge, and in both tales we find the victims overcome by remorse at their mistreatment of African natives and inexorably losing their very will to live.
It is regrettable that White never wrote a full-length weird novel, for the crisp character development he displays in his historical novels could have been fused with his powerful weird conceptions to produce a stellar work in this field. Perhaps he was too wedded to Poe’s restriction of weirdness to the short story (with the notable exception of Arthur Gordon Pym); perhaps, too, the tradition of the weird novel was not sufficiently established in his day to render it commercially feasible for White. Whatever the case, Edward Lucas White has left us a small but potent body of weird short fiction that has waited too long for a new generation of appreciative readers.
—S. T. JOSHI
A Note on the Texts
“The Song of the Sirens” and “The Flambeau Bracket” are derived from The Song of the Sirens and Other Stories (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1919); all the other stories are from Lukundoo and Other Stories (New York: George H. Doran, 1927). I have omitted two stories from Lukundoo: “Floki’s Blade,” which is more of a legend or fairy tale than a short story; and “Alfandega 49A,” a tale that, although marginally weird, strikes me as not being equal in quality to White’s other stories. I have arranged the tales chronologically by date of writing, not date of first publication. Of the two poems, “Azrael” (dated October 15, 1897) derives from White’s Matrimony (Baltimore: Norman Publishing Co., 1932); “The Ghoula” is taken from Narrative Lyrics (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1908). Many of the stories in Lukundoo contained typographical and other errors; they have been silently corrected here.
* * *
1 See Wetzel’s “Edward Lucas White: Notes for a Biography,” serialised in Fantasy Commentator 4, No. 2 (Winter 1979–80): 94–114; 4, No. 3 (Winter 1981): 178–83; 4, No. 4 (Winter 1982): 229–39; 5, No. 1 (Winter 1983): 67–70, 74; 5, No. 2 (Winter 1984): 124–27. The account proceeds only up to 1909, cut short by Wetzel’s death in 1983.
2 Edward Lucas White to the Poe Society (12 January 1929); quoted in Wetzel, “Notes for a Biography” [I], p. 98.
3 It is now reprinted in my anthology, Civil War Memories (Nashville: Rutledge Hill Press, 2000).
4 Wetzel, “Notes for a Biography” [III], pp. 236–37.
5 For a synopsis and analysis see A. Langley Searles, “ ‘Plus Ultra’: An Unknown Science-Fiction Utopia,” Fantasy Commentator 4, No. 2 (Winter 1979–80): 51–59; 4, No. 3 (Winter 1981): 162–69, 176–77; 4, No. 4 (Winter 1982): 240–42; 5, No. 1 (Winter 1983): 44–49; 5, No. 2 (Winter 1984): 100–105.
6 H. P. Lovecraft, The Annotated Supernatural Horror in Literature, ed. S. T. Joshi (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2000), p. 58.
Table of Contents
The House of the Nightmare
The Flambeau Bracket
Amina
The Message on the Slate
Lukundoo
The Pig-skin Belt
The Song of the Sirens
The Picture Puzzle
The Snout
Sorcery Island
Azrael
The Ghoula
Edward Lucas White on Dreams
THE STUFF OF
DREAMS
THE WEIRD STORIES OF
EDWARD LUCAS WHITE
The House of the Nightmare
I FIRST caught sight of the house from the brow of the mountain as I cleared the woods and looked across the broad valley several hundred feet below me, to the low sun sinking toward the far blue hills. From that momentary viewpoint I had an exaggerated sense of looking almost vertically down. I seemed to be hanging over the checkerboard of roads and fields, dotted with farm buildings, and felt the familiar deception that I could almost throw a stone upon the house. I barely glimpsed its slate roof.
What caught my eyes was the bit of road in front of it, between the mass of dark-green shade trees about the house and the orchard opposite. Perfectly straight it was, bordered by an even row of trees, through which I made out a cinder side path and a low stone wall.
Conspicuous on the orchard side between two of the flanking trees was a white object, which I took to be a tall stone, a vertical splinter of one of the tilted lime-stone reefs with which the fields of the region are scarred.
The road itself I saw plain as a box-wood ruler on a green baize table. It gave me a pleasurable anticipation of a chance for a burst of speed. I had been painfully traversing closely forested, semi-mountainous hills. Not a farmhouse had I passed, only wretched cabins by the road, more than twenty miles of which I had found very bad and hindering. Now, when I was not many miles from my expected stopping-place, I looked forward to better going, and to that straight, level bit in particular.
As I sped cautiously down the sharp beginning of the long descent the trees engulfed me again, and I lost sight of the valley. I dipped into a hollow, rose on the crest of the next hill, and again saw the house, nearer, and not so far below.
The tall stone caught my eye with a shock of surprise. Had I not thought it was opposite the house next the orchard? Clearly it was on the left-hand side of the road toward the house. My self-questioning lasted only the moment as I passed the crest. Then the outlook was cut off again; but I found myself gazlng ahead, watching for the next chance at the same view.
At the end of the second hill I only saw the bit of road obliquely and could not be sure, but, as at first, the tall stone seemed on the right of the road.
At the top of the third and last hill I looked down the stretch of road under the overarching trees, almost as one would look through a tube. There was a line of whiteness which I took for the tall stone. It was on the right.
I dipped into the last hollow. As I mounted the farther slope I kept my eyes on the top of the road ahead of me. When my line of sight surmounted the rise I marked the tall stone on my right hand among the serried maples. I leaned over, first on one side, then on the other, to inspect my tires, then I threw the lever.
As I flew forward I looked ahead. There was the tall stone — on the left of the road! I was really scared and almost dazed. I m
eant to stop dead, take a good look at the stone, and make up my mind beyond peradventure whether it was on the right or the left — if not, indeed, in the middle of the road.
In my bewilderment I put on the highest speed. The machine leaped forward; everything I touched went wrong; I steered wildly, slewed to the left, and crashed into a big maple.
When I came to my senses I was flat on my back in the dry ditch. The last rays of the sun sent shafts of golden green light through the maple boughs overhead. My first thought was an odd mixture of appreciation of the beauties of nature and disapproval of my own conduct in touring without a companion — a fad I had regretted more than once. Then my mind cleared and I sat up. I felt myself from the head down. I was not bleeding; no bones were broken; and, while much shaken, I had suffered no serious bruises.
Then I saw the boy. He was standing at the edge of the cinder-path, near the ditch. He was stocky and solidly built; barefoot, with his trousers rolled up to his knees; wore a sort of butternut shirt, open at the throat; and was coatless and hatless. He was tow-headed, with a shock of tousled hair; was much freckled, and had a hideous harelip. He shifted from one foot to the other, twiddled his toes, and said nothing whatever, though he stared at me intently.
I scrambled to my feet and proceeded to survey the wreck. It seemed distressingly complete. It had not blown up, nor even caught fire; but otherwise the ruin appeared hopelessly thorough. Everything I examined seemed worse smashed than the rest. My two hampers alone, by one of those cynical jokes of chance, had escaped — both had pitched clear of the wreckage and were unhurt, not even a bottle broken.
During my investigations the boy’s faded eyes followed me continuously, but he uttered no word. When I had convinced myself of my helplessness I straightened up and addressed him:
‘How far is it to a blacksmith shop?’
‘Eight mile,’ he answered. He had a distressing case of cleft palate and was scarcely intelligible.
‘Can you drive me there?’ I inquired.
‘Nary team on the place,’ he replied; ‘nary horse, nary cow.’
‘How far to the next house?’ I continued.
‘Six mile,’ he responded.
I glanced at the sky. The sun had set already. I looked at my watch: it was going — seven thirtysix.
‘May I sleep in your house to-night?’ I asked.
‘You can come in if you want to,’ he said, ‘and sleep if you can. House all messy; ma’s been dead three year, and dad’s away. Nothin’ to eat but buckwheat flour and rusty bacon.’
‘I’ve plenty to eat,’ I answered, picking up a hamper. ‘Just take that hamper, will you?’
‘You can come in if you’re a mind to,’ he said, ‘but you got to carry your own stuff.’ He did not speak gruffly or rudely, but appeared mildly stating an inoffensive fact.
‘All right,’ I said, picking up the other hamper; ‘lead the way.’
The yard in front of the house was dark under a dozen or more immense ailanthus trees. Below them many smaller trees had grown up, and beneath these a dank underwood of tall, rank suckers out of the deep, shaggy, matted grass. What had once been, apparently, a carriage-drive left a narrow, curved track, disused and grass-grown, leading to the house. Even here were some shoots of the ailanthus, and the air was unpleasant with the vile smell of the roots and suckers and the insistent odor of their flowers.
The house was of gray stone, with green shutters faded almost as gray as the stone. Along its front was a veranda, not much raised from the ground, and with no balustrade or railing. On it were several hickory splint rockers. There were eight shuttered windows toward the porch, and midway of them a wide door, with small violet panes on either side of it and a fanlight above.
‘Open the door,’ I said to the boy.
‘Open it yourself,’ he replied, not unpleasantly nor disagreeably, but in such a tone that one could not but take the suggestion as a matter of course.
I put down the two hampers and tried the door. It was latched, but not locked, and opened with a rusty grind of its hinges, on which it sagged crazily, scraping the floor as it turned. The passage smelt moldy and damp. There were several doors on either side; the boy pointed to the first on the right.
‘You can have that room,’ he said.
I opened the door. What with the dusk, the interlacing trees outside, the piazza roof, and the closed shutters, I could make out little.
‘Better get a lamp,’ I said to the boy.
‘Nary lamp,’ he declared cheerfully. ‘Nary candle. Mostly I get abed before dark.’
I returned to the remains of my conveyance. All four of my lamps were merely scrap metal and splintered glass. My lantern was mashed flat. I always, however, carried candles in my valise. This I found split and crushed, but still holding together. I carried it to the porch, opened it, and took out three candles.
Entering the room, where I found the boy standing just where I had left him, I lit the candle. The walls were white-washed, the floor bare. There was a mildewed, chilly smell, but the bed looked freshly made up and clean, although it felt clammy.
With a few drops of its own grease I stuck the candle on the corner of a mean, rickety little bureau. There was nothing else in the room save two rush-bottomed chairs and a small table. I went out on the porch, brought in my valise, and put it on the bed. I raised the sash of each window and pushed open the shutters. Then I asked the boy, who had not moved or spoken, to show me the way to the kitchen. He led me straight through the hall to the back of the house. The kitchen was large, and had no furniture save some pine chairs, a pine bench, and a pine table.
I stuck two candles on opposite corners of the table. There was no stove or range in the kitchen, only a big hearth, the ashes in which smelt and looked a month old. The wood in the wood-shed was dry enough, but even it had a cellary, stale smell. The ax and hatchet were both rusty and dull, but usable, and I quickly made a big fire. To my amazement, for the mid-June evening was hot and still, the boy, a wry smile on his ugly face, almost leaned over the flame, hands and arms spread out, and fairly roasted himself.
‘Are you cold?,’ I inquired.
‘I’m allus cold,’ he replied, hugging the fire closer than ever, till I thought he must scorch.
I left him toasting himself while I went in search of water. I discovered the pump, which was in working order and not dry on the valves; but I had a furious struggle to fill the two leaky pails I had found. When I had put water to boil I fetched my hampers from the porch.
I brushed the table and set out my meal — cold fowl, cold ham, white and brown bread, olives, jam, and cake. When the can of soup was hot and the coffee made I drew up two chairs to the table and invited the boy to join me.
‘I ain’t hungry,’ he said; ‘I’ve had supper.’
He was a new sort of boy to me; all the boys I knew were hearty eaters and always ready. I had felt hungry myself, but somehow when I came to eat I had little appetite and hardly relished the food. I soon made an end of my meal, covered the fire, blew out the candles, and returned to the porch, where I dropped into one of the hickory rockers to smoke. The boy followed me silently and seated himself on the porch floor, leaning against a pillar, his feet on the grass outside.
‘What do you do,’ I asked, ‘when your father is away?’
‘Just loaf ’round,’ he said. ‘Just fool ’round.’
‘How far off are your nearest neighbors?’ I asked.
‘Don’t no neighbors never come here,’ he stated. ‘Say they’re afeared of the ghosts.’
I was not at all startled; the place had all those aspects which lead to a house being called haunted. I was struck by his odd matter-of~fact way of speaking — it was as if he had said they were afraid of a cross dog.
‘Do you ever see my ghosts around here?’ I continued.
‘Never see ’em,’ he answered, as if I had mentioned tramps or partridges. ‘Never hear ’em. Sort o’ feel ’em ’round sometimes.’
‘Nope,’ he declared. ‘I ain’t skeered o’ ghosts; I’m skeered o’ nightmares. Ever have nightmares?’
‘Very seldom,’ I replied.
‘I do,’ he returned. ‘Allus have the same nightmare — big sow, big as a steer, trying to eat me up. Wake up so skeered I could run to never. Nowheres to run to. Go to sleep, and have it again. Wake up worse skeered than ever. Dad says it’s buckwheat cakes in summer.’
‘You must have teased a sow some time,’ I said.
‘Yep,’ he answered. ‘Teased a big sow wunst, holding up one of her pigs by the hind leg. Teased her too long. Fell in the pen and got bit up some. Wisht I hadn’t ’a’ teased her. Have that nightmare three times a week sometimes. Worse’n being burnt out. Worse’n ghosts. Say, I sorter feel ghosts around now.’
He was not trying to frighten me. He was as simply stating an opinion as if he had spoken of bats or mosquitoes. I made no reply, and found myself listening involuntarily. My pipe went out. I did not really want another, but felt disinclined for bed as yet, and was comfortable where I was, while the smell of the ailanthus blossoms was very disagreeable. I filled my pipe again, lit it, and then, as I puffed, somehow dozed off for a moment.
I awoke with a sensation of some light fabric trailed across my face. The boy’s position was unchanged.
‘Did you do that?’ I asked sharply.
‘Ain’t done nary thing ‘ he rejoined. ‘What was it?’
The Stuff of Dreams: The Weird Stories of Edward Lucas White (Dover Horror Classics) Page 2
