Special Halloween Post: Lovecraft’s Halloween Dream

At Papers, Halloween is largely superfluous, what with the usual doses of horror, magic, and all manner of oddness.  Nonetheless, I can touch upon one special work that is especially apropos to this date:  the dream Lovecraft had on Halloween night, 1927.

After his beloved eighteenth-century England and New England,  HPL’s favorite historical period was ancient Rome.  That Halloween, Lovecraft decided to re-read the Aeneid, filling his head with the glory that would become the city on the Tiber.  That night, the holiday merged with Virgil’s prose to give him an uncanny vision.

That night, Lovecraft dreamed that he was Lucius Caelius Rufus, an administrator assigned to conquered Spain who had delved deep into the forbidden lore of the region.  Lucius had heard rumors of the dark folk – the Miri Nigri – in the hills near Pompelo, who every October 31 kidnapped some of the local villagers for their rituals.  This year, however, no one had gone missing, suggesting that something especially devilish was afoot.

Lovecraft, in the character of Lucius, spent considerable time arguing with the local authorities to send troops to the hills to root out the evil.  In the end, he won out, and he accompanied three hundred seasoned warriors into the hills above the town.  Leaving their horses behind, they climbed up, and up…

Then with utter and horrifying suddenness we heard a frightful sound from below. It was from the tethered horses – they had screamed, not neighed, but screamed… and there was no light down there, nor the sound of any human thing, to shew why they had done so. At the same moment bonfires blazed out on all the peaks ahead, so that terror seemed to lurk equally well before and behind us. Looking for the youth Vercellius, our guide, we found only a crumpled heap weltering in a pool of blood. In his hand was a short sword snatched from the belt of D. Vibulanus, a subcenturio, and on his face was such a look of terror that the stoutest veterans turned pale at the sight. He had killed himself when the horses screamed… he, who had been born and lived all his life in that region, and knew what men whispered about the hills. All the torches now began to dim, and the cries of frightened legionaries mingled with the unceasing screams of the tethered horses. The air grew perceptibly colder, more suddenly so than is usual at November’s brink, and seemed stirred by terrible undulations which I could not help connecting with the beating of huge wings.

As panic overtook the legion, Lovecraft awoke.  You can read one particular version of the tale here.

Surprisingly, Lovecraft never turned this amazing dream into a story.  He wrote about it to at least three of his friends – Donald Wandrei, Frank Belknap Long, and Bernard Austin Dwyer.  Wandrei later sent it to a fanzine called Scienti-Snaps, which published it as the story “The Very Old Folk” (link above).  Long took matters further, using the fragment from his letter as the nucleus for his novella “The Horror from the Hills” (which you can find more cheaply here).

Dwyer’s version only appears in the second (now OOP) volume of Lovecraft’s Selected Letters, which is something of a shame.  First, it seems closer to the original dream account than the others, being much less polished in presentation.  Second – and seemingly in contradiction to this – it’s much more detailed, with HPL able to recall everything from the costumes of a crowd walking through town down to the text on scrolls on Lucius’ desk.   For Mythos fans, it’s also the only version (based on a quick glance) that mentions the dreaded Magnum Innominandum and the infamous Greek book Hieron Aigypton.

And what of Pompelo, the location of this story?  It was a real Roman town that survived whatever phantasmal terror Lovecraft’s mind conjured up and became modern Pamplona, the site of the famous “running of the bulls.”  That level of specificity should give everyone shivers.

Happy Halloween!

Encyclopedia Help: Robert E. Howard

The author of this page disagrees with my interpretation of Robert E. Howard’s character John Kirowan.  He’s too polite to say it, but that’s because I didn’t include Kirowan’s non-Mythos adventures when writing his entry and missed some details here and there.  I’m trying to fill in the gaps on this.

With that goal in mind, I’m trying to find an REH story called “Scarlet Tears,”  also  published under the title “Hands of the Black Goddess.”  It appeared in the Lin Carter-edited Weird Tales anthologies and the Cryptic Publications chapbook Bran Mak Morn: A Play, neither of which is obtainable through interlibrary loan.  Any help would be appreciated.

On the Shelf: The Goetia of Dr. Rudd, Part 2

We left off last time with the burning question, “Who is Doctor Rudd?” Let’s go to Skinner and Rankine to find the answers!

Or not. As it turns out, The Goetia of Dr Rudd doesn’t have a section devoted to Doctor Rudd at all. Instead, we just learn that his first name was Thomas, and that he died in 1656.

To fill in the gaps, I consulted the Dictionary of National Biography from 19o9 – an older source, but an extensively-researched and still-used reference work on relatively obscure figures from English history, which means I like it a lot.  (It’d be better to have the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, but that’s a major library purchase.)

There is indeed an interesting Rudd listed that seems to fit the description that Skinner gives: Captain Thomas Rudd.

Rudd was born in 1584 to Thomas Rudd of Northamptonshire.  He worked his way up the ranks to captain and became known for his work with military fortifications, often being called upon to advise on their construction.  When not engaged in this, he wrote two books on geometry, one of which included a mathematical work by the Elizabethan magus John Dee.  During the English Civil War, he sided with the crown, and lost considerable holdings of land when Parliament won.  He died in 1656, survived by only one daughter.  A work by him was posthumously published in Richard Elton’s The Compleat Body of the Art Military.

So, we’ve got the first name and the date of death, plus a tantalizing connection to John Dee.  Of course, the doesn’t necessarily mean anything – Dee was, aside from being a magician, one of the leading intellectual lights of his place and time.

Aren’t we forgetting something?  Ah yes – he’s supposed to be a doctor.

That’s where matters stood until the Practical Angel Magic of John Dee’s Enochian Tables, a previous book edited by Skinner and Rankine, arrived.  That’s when I realized just how erroneous this identification might be.
We’ll hear about that next time.

Averoigne Interlude: Being the Miraculous and Highly Dubious Vision of Julien le Grand, Student of the University of Paris

(This particular piece will include my back-and-forth with Julien’s player.)

As your limbs lose all sensation, you find yourself moving slowly about a rapidly shifting landscape.  Grass becomes gravel, gravel becomes flagstones, and these turn back to dust.  Sometimes mighty trunks loom in the distance, only to be supplanted by stone pillars closer at hand.  Overhead is a pointed vault, a thatched and timbered roof, a succession of low Romanesque arches, and a dark sky with streaking stars and wobbling planets.  You see a flicker of a face or catch a snippet of speech occasionally, but the phantasmagoria never ceases long enough for any of these to register.  You are growing colder, and colder…

With a wrench, you sit up.  Your goblet topples, and you instinctively snatch the nearest scroll away from the spray of dark red that spatters the table.  You grab a rag and mop it up quickly.  Wait.  Where are you?

You sit on a small folding camp stool at a rough table in the middle of a large tent.  Chests, maps, a cot, and other items lie scattered beneath the canvas.  Before you lies a wax tablet and stylus on which a few letters have been scratched.  In your hand, the scroll is in – Greek? – at any rate, you cannot read it.

A man pushes open the flap and salutes.  He is wearing a dirty tunic, with a breastplate and curious short, guardless blade on his side.  You cannot make out his words when he speaks, but you know he wants you to come outside.  Someone – something? – anticipated has arrived.  You rise uncertainly and follow him.

Outside the tent is brilliant sunshine.  The same breeze that cools your brow wafts small cumulus clouds across a sky of deepest azure.  You stand at the top of a hill whose tree-blanketed slopes slowly descend to a crescent of slow, gleaming river.  On all other sides of the declivity the forest stands, primeval and serene, as if gods fearing the gnawing of time had transfixed a roiling ocean of verdure.

Nearer at hand, a number of workers in rough cloth, overseen by more men in armor, pile stones to form a rough fortification.  Other tents dot the hilltop.  Two men lounge nearby, roasting a haunch of venison over a fire spent of light but not heat.  A weary soldier brings a bucket of water to a foam-flecked messenger’s horse.  In the midst of all this hubbub stand five large, weathered monoliths, as dignified elders might preside over a gathering of raucous children.

Through the gaps in the wall appears a procession, flanked by guards.  They are men and women in long white robes, wearing garlands and carrying vicious-looking flint knives tucked into their cord belts.  At their head, bearing a familiar staff, stands the beautiful woman from the crypt.  She walks toward you with a determined expression.

–

Julien will greet the woman and use his seeming position of authority to try and get an understanding of what is going on from subordinates (“Refresh my mind on the terms of our agreement” and similar locutions). He will try to steer the conversation to what the men and women in white are up to. When the woman speaks, does Julien understand her? Is there a translator?

OOC question: As a player I suspect I know who these are, would Julien’s scholarship allow him to recognize
them?
–

The woman is there before you can question your subordinate on the details.  The conversation proceeds with her statement.  No translator is available, though you are not certain exactly what language is being spoken.

She has heard, she begins, that your glorious Empire seeks to build an outpost at Simaesis.  Fear exists among her people that the circle of stones that tops this hill will be pulled down.  It is bad enough that the holy ones will no longer be able to offer praises in honor of the sacred times of the year.  More is at stake here, however.

In ancient times, a man of exceptional wickedness once lived near here.  He was a skinshifter and a wizard who bedevilled the farmers and herders with black magic that withered the crops and lamed their beasts.  On dark nights, he took on the form of a hideous beast to waylay travelers and snatch infants from their mothers’ arms.  The holy ones took up action against him, though they lacked the will to destroy him.  This infamous figure was buried alive on top of the hill, and the stones sealed with the five-pointed star you see there.  Such a ward keeps his spirit in this place.  She asks you, for the sake of her people and yours, to leave these unmolested.

(You have no idea who she is – you failed your Know roll, and thus forgot your Caesar.)

–

“I can order the stones to be left alone, but what of those who come after me? Is there not some more permanent solution, or at least an alternative should someone unknowing move the stones in times to come?”

–

Such is the way of things.  Trees fall, rock crumbles, and someday the stones will be gone.  At that time, one must destroy That Beneath before it has time to fatten on the passions of those who draw near.

Still, with your word, it seems this will not occur within our lifetimes.  Can you offer any refreshment?

–

Julien calls for wine – and awakens.

–

For those who might be curious, the Knowledge roll Julien failed was to identify the priests as Druids.  I believe the book on his table is a Greek copy of the Hieron Aigypton from Lovecraft’s Roman dream, on which I should likely post later.

On the Shelf: The Goetia of Dr. Rudd, Part 1

Amazon recommendations are always hit-or-miss for me. I tend to buy my gifts through Amazon, with the effect that they keep telling me about great mystery novels and cookbooks. Their most recent recommendation turned out to be The Goetia of Dr. Rudd, edited by Stephen Skinner and David Rankine and forming the third in the Sourceworks of Ceremonial Magic series.

For those who aren’t in the know, the Goetia is a text dealing with the summoning and control of evil spirits from a longer work called the Lemegeton, or the Lesser Key of Solomon. It’s been made infamous from the English translation made largely by MacGregor Mathers and shamelessly ripped off by Aleister Crowley. As the cover makes clear, the book also includes the other three treatises from the Lemegeton, dealing with spirits that are more pleasant all around. That’s what the book says, anyway.

Some of you might be saying, “Didn’t Joe Peterson turn out his own version of the Lemegeton not too long ago?” He did, but that version is out of print now. This particular manuscript – Harley MS. 6483 at the British Library – had at least one feature that made it unusual: the insertion of the angels of the Shemhamphorasch. For the uninitiated, this means lining up the Hebrew letters of each verse from 19 to 21 of Exodus 14 (verse 20 in reverse), each of which contains 72 letters. Reading the columns then creates seventy-two names thought to be names of different angels.

What Rudd’s Goetia does is to associate each of the seventy-two demons in the book with an angel from the Shemhamphorasch. Thus, when making the seal of a demon for its conjuration, the magician writes the name of the angel and a verse from a Psalm on the opposite side. The theory is that this allows for a more stable procedure, as the magician has an angel backing him up for each demon.

Skinner is inclined to see this as an elaboration of an important ceremonial technique that has been lost to the ages save in a few manuscripts. I think someone noticed that the number of demons matched the number of angels and got creative. This indicates a fundamental difference in our perspectives that I think often gets Skinner in trouble.

This particular manuscript has been known for many years, and such occult luminaries as Aleister Crowley, Arthur Edward Waite, and Frances Yates. I’ll be delving into their works a little later, in order to illuminate a crucial question that astute readers have likely already asked.

Who is Doctor Rudd?

UPDATE, April 8, 2008:  I notice a large number of hits from this thread on Lashtal linking here.  For your convenience, here are links to Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6,  and Part 7, as well as this update.

I’ve yet to hear back from David Rankine on all of this.  It’s already been said that he’s addressed another writer’s criticisms on his Facebook forum.  If anyone sees a critique of the above there, would someone mind forwarding it to me?

Templar Lies?

With everything to do in a day, sometimes matters just get away from you. For example, I completely blanked today and forgot to be in the Vatican City’s Sala Vecchia del Sinodo for the big Processus contra Templarios shindig. Sure, I didn’t have the $8400 to shell out for a limited-edition copy, but I’m sure they at least had a veggie tray.

For those who are wondering about all of this, you can read this Reuters story. Basically, almost seven hundred years after the head of the Knights Templar, Jacques de Molay, was burned at the stake for recanting his confession, documents were uncovered in the Vatican Secret Archives relating to the papal investigation into charges of blasphemy, homosexuality, and lewd conduct. The investigators sent by Clement V found that the Templars were guilty of some minor sins, but not of the enormities of which King Philip of France had accused them.

After that, they disbanded the order and let Philip burn their leaders at the stake, but who’s perfect?

I want to apologize to everyone out there who held out, hope against hope, that the Templars really were gay warrior-mystic sorcerers who worshiped a magical talking head. For the rest of you, a more accessible version of the same material was published in Barbara Frale’s article “The Chinon Chart: Papal Absolution to the Last Templar Master, Jacques de Molay”, published in the Journal of Medieval History 30.2 (June 2004), pp. 109-134. Or, you could just make up your own story about the Templars, the way people have been doing for centuries.

UPDATE:  For the record, Papers is entirely against commemorating innocent holy men who died in flames via BBQ aprons.

Personal Update

I just realized I’ve spent almost a week with my evenings jam-packed with events – three days at the Lovecraft forum, two days of evening RPGs, and a night of reference.  Also, after taking a break, I’m back to work on the book, with C. J. Henderson sending me a huge pile of pulp Mythos goodness.  As such, my sails are out of wind at the moment.

Fear not!  I’ve got notes from the HPL Forum to write up, plus a series on a new grimoire that I just purchased.  (I’m actually waiting for an ILL to come in to help me.)  In the meantime, I’ll just send all of you to Papers favorite Kenneth Hite’s interview on the Trail of Cthulhu RPG.

Night!

Cthulhu Mythos Encyclopedia Update

At this point, I’ve worked my way through most of the book list for the 3rd edition Cthulhu Mythos Encyclopedia.  Thus, I’m throwing the door open to any suggestions of material made public before June 30 that I should view for the new edition – Web fiction, poetry, movies, games of all sorts, graphic novels, pseudofactual essays, funky magical works, whatever it takes.

The only stipulation is budgetary – in other words, I have to be able to get it for free.  That means a lot of ILL, material up on the Web, movies available through Netflix, or previously published material sent to me.  (Yes, I know Netflix isn’t really free, but we’ll ignore that for the time being.)  I’d love to include everything published by everyone, but time and money limit what can be accomplished here.

Also, I’m still looking for that ETCHINGS AND ODYSSEYS 9 with the Rimel story, in case anyone’s curious.

So, send your suggestions to the Gmail account for CthulhuEncyclopedia, and I’ll take a look.  Feel free to distribute this to people who will be interested in making suggestions.

On the Screen: Cthulhu

I’m back from the HPL Forum in New Paltz, so it’s time for a report.  I want to start in the middle, with a late-night private screening of the movie Cthulhu, on which reactions are quite polarized.   I won’t bore you with the details on the IMDB site, so I’ll just give a few comments of my own.

Overall, I felt that the movie was not great, but nonetheless good.  It’s the tale a young gay intellectual who returns to his hometown after his mother’s death to make his peace with his family and friends.  As Lovecraft fans can guess, this will fail miserably.  Despite its title, the story is actually a loose adaptation, not of “The Call of Cthulhu”, but of “The Shadow over Innsmouth,” and does an admirable job of transplanting the story to a modern day city on the West Coast.

The most controversial aspects of the story are undoubtedly the inclusion of Tori Spelling and the theme of homosexuality.  On the first, I didn’t realize it was Tori until well into the movie.  I didn’t think her performance stood out – it was simply competent – but her character doesn’t have much screen time.  As for the sexual aspects, it’s handled just like any other love story, and is likely just as appropriate or inappropriate as any viewer finds inserting sex into a HPL tale (and it’s rare that adapters don’t).  The main character’s homosexuality also dovetails well with the sense of alienation of the narrator that pervades “Innsmouth.”  Plus, it leads to a wonderful dinner table scene that has to be seen to be believed.

In conclusion, I’ll note that this was a rough cut shown on an uncommonly dark projection, so I can’t comment on the final form or on the lighting.  Still, it’s a solid work that I think Lovecraft fans should definitely check out.

Averoigne I:26

Being Nocturns, the second day of November, Anno Domini One Thousand Two Hundred and Seventy-Five, in the courtyard of Bishop Philbert of Ximes…

The bishop’s statement leads to uproar as the three men protest their innocence simultaneously.

“So, how do you explain your actions?” asks the bishop when the tumult subsides.

Silence reigns.  Thibault and Richard share a glance and take one step back.  Marcel notices too late, and mutters something unclerical under his breath.

“Good friar?”  The bishop beams.  “We eagerly await your exposition.”

Marcel coughs and puts on an ingratiating smile.  “First, Your Grace, we hope you will indulge us in a few minor, um, procedural points.”

The bishop frowns, but motions for him to continue.

“First, would it not be irregular for us to be interrogated when our friend is incapacitated?  Surely we cannot tell the complete story and satisfy your curiosity while he remains in his present state.”

“On the contrary,” says the bishop.  “I will find it amusing to interrogate you separately, especially your slumbering ringleader, who no doubt can easily be induced to become turncoat against his compatriots.”

“Well, then, my second request is that my local superior, the abbot of Cordeliers, be present at my questioning.”

The bishop looks at Marcel warily.  “The Franciscans are known for their discernment and command of rhetoric.  I would feel better with a Dominican, who might bear no favoritism toward your speeches – Still, it is a reasonable request that might get us to the bottom of this.”

He draws himself up.  “You, Marcel le Hyers, will be treated as a guest, as will Thibault, in recognition of his service to the archbishop.  Your other two friends, who have not the same protection, will be locked in a cell to await the pleasure of my enquiry.”

“Fear not!” cries Marcel as a dismayed Richard is borne away.  “We will have you out shortly!”

–

Being Terce, the fifth day of November, Anno Domini One Thousand Two Hundred and Seventy-Five, in the guestroom of Bishop Philbert of Ximes…

Thibault and Marcel sit looking dully at a chessboard in the opulent room.  “Your move,” says Thibault.

“Is it?” Marcel sighs.  “I fear my heart is not in the game, but elsewhere in the cold depths of this palace.”

“Not a word from them,” says Thibault.  “They will not even let us see them. ‘Tis a cruel tactic on his part.  He will wait us out until one of us breaks.”

“I have heard the men speaking in the courtyard.”  Marcel looks out the window.  “Last night four priests entered the crypt to perform an exorcism.  None returned, and only their stained crosses were found.”

“I know not what we can do against this peril, even if we were allowed to act,” says Thibault.  “But hark!  At the window!”

The two men look out to see a horse, its sides gleaming with sweat, canter into the courtyard.  A young man leaps down, runs for the companions’ window, and hands Marcel two letters.  Marcel looks at Thibault, who sighs and tosses the messenger a coin.

The friar quickly opens the first one and breathlessly scans it.  Then he sits back.  “Ah.  This is a missive from the good doctor Nathaire, saying that he has no knowledge of any Quentin de Foix amongst the students or the faculty of Montpellier.”

“I am glad he cleared that up,” says Thibault.  “And the other?”

Marcel holds it for a moment.  “It bears the seal of the archbishop.”  He passes it to Thibault.  “’Tis for you.”

Thibault quickly opens it.  He looks at the first page.  “It’s an official document – but in Latin.  He knows my command of the tongue is deficient, so the second sheet,” he shuffles them, “is the explanation in the vernacular.”  He scans it.  “It seems you’ve stirred up a nest of hornets, friend.”

“Really?”

“It seems the archbishop’s good friend, the abbot of Cordeliers, came to see him recently.  He discussed the character of a certain friar, and a certain letter from a certain friar, and the implications thereof…”  He scans the letter for a moment.  “As a result, I have been vested with the authority to carry out an investigation of potential corruption in the bishopric of Ximes, requisitioning what gear, moneys, and personnel I see fit to carry out this mission.”

Marcel stands stunned.

“I am also,” Thibault continues, “admonished to keep a close eye on you in such matters.  And those that have to do with young women.”

Marcle throws up his hands.  “That was all a misunderstanding!  But no matter!  We must be off!  It is time to requisition personnel from the bishop’s dungeon!”

“Indeed.”  Thibault rolls up the commission.  “God only knows what horrors we may find.”

–

“’Tis quite miserable here,” says Thibault to Victor as he pours a second cup of wine.  “And, no doubt, no good for the health of my friend.”

“You actually got a nicer cell,” says Victor, chomping on a crust of bread, all that remains of a repast of cheese, stew, and sausage spread on a barrel top before them.

“Perhaps.  This is an area of legal knowledge foreign to me.”

“As for your friend, he’s getting the best care we can give.  Though if he does not awaken soon and partake of liquid, I cannot say.”

“Is it he?” cries out a familiar voice from a nearby cell.

Victor rolls his eyes.  “No, Gustave, it is not he.  I know the man’s character too well.”

Richard arches his brows.  “What is that about?”

“No doubt he is curious as to whether you intend to cut his throat with a sharpened piece of bone.”  Victor sops up a bit of broth with his bread.  “Apparently it’s now my job to check to see if it appeals to anyone.”

Richard is not sure how to react to this, but is saved when he feels something large shift on the makeshift pallet behind him.  “Julien?”

The student stirs, and mouths wordlessly for a moment.  “W-wine,” he finally whispers.

“He’s awake!  And in his usual wits!” shouts Richard.  He grabs the pitcher and a goblet and runs to his friend’s side.  Julien sits up and, with a mighty swing of his arm, snatches the pitcher away and puts it to his lips.  Crimson rivulets drain down the sides of his mouth as he gulps and gulps again as the lawyer looks on in astonishment.

“We thought you dead!”

Julien puts down the pitcher, smiles, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.  “My friend, nothing could be further from the truth.  I have been most productive.”  He sways slightly.  “I have a tale beyond belief for you.”

“No doubt you are right,” says Richard, regarding the dregs of wine in the pitcher.  “But please, speak!”

And thus begins

The Miraculous and Highly Dubious Vision of Julien le Grand, Student of the University of Paris