Steel's "On the Salt Road"

Fair to say, Flora Annie Steel's short story "On the Old Salt Road" both surprised me and creeped me out. I've read a fair bit of Steel's work now and this wasn't like any of it. For one thing, it's a ghost story, which is not her usual fare but not that strange for the time. It even has the typical framing device of the main story being told to a group of people round the fire after dinner, one of whom writes the story we're reading. It's the story of the Major, from when he was a young officer in the Raj who had just buried his wife and child. Without telling you too much of the story, he falls into a suicidal depression and heads off on a "holiday" on an old salt road to do the deed. Salt roads were set up along trade routes and patrolled regularly to prevent smuggling, but had been abandoned by the time of the story. Some civil officers used them though when on tour. 

The ghostly experiences come upon the young man as if they were real, at no point does he think they're ghosts until a late discovery reveals the infant girl died years before. The bizarre part is when one of the figures in the vision is discovered to still be alive, but had herself recently felt like she was reliving the experience recently. Of course, the experience stops the officer's plan, so he can live to be the senior officer telling the story.

After one of the most awkward opening paragraphs I can think of, Steel produces one of her best stories. Once the Major starts his tale he manages to absorb you, so even though it's a long setup you feel for him. It helps that he is looking back with the wisdom of age, so the desperate feelings he was experiencing at the time are muted and left for the reader to imagine. 

The central "weird" moment is done brilliantly and evokes a mixture of fear and sorrow. This is not a scary ghost, but a tragic story playing out again. 

The main defects with the story, aside from that opening paragraph, are the infant girl's speech and the brief moment with the officer's servant. Steel has been criticised for her babyish children and this one is a classic example with her "Dot's un away" and "wants to make puff-puff-boom". Dot is also described in the most angelic terms as is Steel's want. It was a trend of the period but it doesn't help. The servant is thankfully mostly absent, he's only really included because to leave him out would not be realistic. So, the racist condescension he is shown by the Major, even in retrospect with the "wisdom"  of experience, also fits that realism. It's disgusting and stupid as always, but accurate and mercifully brief. 

Van Vogt's Supermind, or, It's Funny How Things Go

I don’t remember when I did it, but at some point in my childhood I gave Dad a book by A.E. van Vogt with a fuzzy green shape on the cover. For years I thought it was called The Green Brain and I carried an inexplicable pride in having given it to him. Mum had probably chosen it and she definitely paid for it, but it was my gift to Dad. He had five van Vogt novels, including that one, and somehow that name became a magnet to me so that when I had disposable income and easy access to second-hand bookstores I began building up my collection of his works. I’ve probably read more books by him than any other SF author, possibly any author, even P.K. Dick who I consider my favourite. Until last week, however, I hadn’t read The Green Brain.

Actually, I still haven’t since there is no A.E. van Vogt novel of that name. The real title is Supermind and it explores a galaxy where humans are a low-level species under the protection of the vastly superior Great Galactics, and under threat from the Dreeghs, a race of “space vampires” who can only survive a mysterious illness by draining the blood and life energy of others.

In typical van Vogt fashion the novel is a “fix-up” where he patched three shorter works together into one. The seams are distinct but he “fixed” it so they seem like logical progressions of one narrative. It would be interesting to read the originals to see how much he had to fix/change. There are some clashes, the first and third parts feature the Great Galactics while the second part declares that they don’t exist per se but are a freaks of the moment, but there are ways to forgive that and move on with the story.

I’d be overstating it if I called van Vogt a great writer, but he never fails to draw me in. The stories are simple, the characters forever trapped in the 1950s despite their futuristic settings, and the ideas can be a tad whacky, but he pulls them all together into a readable and fun package.

I doubt my dad, who loves the hard SF of Asimov and Clarke, was that into it – he did just give me all five of his van Vogt books – but somehow, this book, or its cover, combined with the childish joy of having given it to him myself, led me to read many books by someone I may not otherwise have read at all. Then I would never have travelled on the Space Beagle, visited the Weapon Shops, or marvelled at the many possibilities of the Reflected Men. And if I hadn’t read those books, what other authors might I have not read? Somewhere out there is a reflected version of me who never read any SF, and that is not the best possible me, of that I am sure.

Keep dreaming!

The Star of Fortune, Vol. 1 of 2: A Story of the Indian Mutiny

The Star of Fortune, Vol. 1 of 2: A Story of the Indian Mutiny by J.E. Preston Muddock

My rating: 2 of 5 stars


This volume is the setup. The Romeo and Juliet romance that leads the lovers to be in India, the third wheel to try to steal Juliet. And a growing undercurrent of the coming uprising which will start in the second volume.

It's interesting from an historical point of view; in terms of late Victorian attitudes not the conflict in India in 1857. The story is weak however and overdrawn. It came out at the very death of the three-volume novel, and is only two volumes I know, but it bears the marks of a writer padding out a threadbare device to fill almost 300 pages.

I'll see how the second volume goes, it should at least have more action, if be even more bigoted and racist. It's hard to figure sometimes how they bought their own bs at times.



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The Scholar who came to Hobart

Why did Facebook suggest that page to me? If it hadn't I would never have known, never have seen ... it is useless to conjecture. I can only assume it was an algorithm and the rest was happen-chance. I mean, to suggest that some eldritch force was in play luring me to that place ... well that'd be crazy. You'd almost think ... I was using too many ellipses.

Fate-driven or otherwise it made the suggestion and, against my usual habit of not even noticing, I clicked the link. It was a bookstore, how could I ignore it? There on the page was the picture of a man. I could not see his face, it was hidden beneath a blue knitted mask covered with tentacles. Mad? ... I leave that to the ellipses to decide ... The man spoke of a gathering. An eminent scholar was coming to our city. I had heard of this gentlemen and read some of the Unutterable Horror he wrote. Why would someone so steeped in obscure lore come to our quiet city in the south? I had to know.

The gathering took place as the sun sunk beneath the mountain. Hobart plunged into twilight. I found the appointed place tucked away behind a church. Irony? I know not. It was a small room crowded with chairs. Books on child rearing were cornered one side. The man from the bookstore page was on the other, selling tomes of lore scribed by the visiting scholar or the madmen he studied. A dark-haired woman sold concoctions and brews to unwary patrons. Some were red, others white, still more came in cans. I knew only that drinking too much of any one of those elixirs would drive me wild. I'd probably end up laughing hideously in a corner.

The crowd that gathered was an odd mixture. Some older folk were there who could be termed "eccentric" by the undiscerning mind. Others wore flannelette shirts ... I feared these the most. A writer spoke first, he called himself Stephen Dillon, it is a name that irks me. I have seen it, I know I have seen it, but I cannot think why. He spoke of how he became involved with the tentacle-bringing prophet H.P. Lovecraft. The Call of Cthulu had reached him in a games shop in England in the 1980s. From there madness crept in. Now he writes tales of horror and insanity.

Next came a local man - one of the flannelette shirt wearers ... Andrew Harper his name was. He recalled a cartoon - one of which I was familiar - and told of an episode featuring Cathulu. He claimed the error in the name was because of a subeditor ... I was a subeditor. I also knew others, I let the insult pass. He spoke too of the past haunting the culture of the present. He spoke loudly. He ... gesticulated. He inspired ellipses ... He said the best Lovecraft was the Lovecraft that didn't try to be Lovecraft. And through the insanity that is context, that made sense to everyone present.

After a short interlude designed for patrons to imbibe the lady's brews or purchase the tomes of lore came the main act. The reason we were all there, the scholar took to the lectern. S.T. Joshi. There, I said it, that is his name. Be warned. He spoke of the tentacle-bringing prophet and his relationships with women. There weren't many so he could give a full history. His manner was friendly, his tone convivial. I tried not to be lured in, but found myself warming to his charm. I listened attentively as he shared his incredible knowledge about someone who, even as his tentacled creation grows famous in popular culture, remains largely obscure beyond the readers of horror and weird fiction.

The night finished with a "panel", where questions were put to the three speakers. They shared more information, joked, laughed and generally made for an interesting time. When that concluded I took out my copy of Joshi's Unutterable Horror to question his sense in publishing this madness. He smiled as I handed it to him and asked me if I wanted it personalised. His charm was too much. I said yes, told him my name. I confessed I had cited the work in my Masters thesis. He said that was interesting. Handed me back the book. I thanked him.

Next thing I knew I was outside, walking down near-abandoned streets in the middle of Hobart. It was after 9pm. If I went back, would that chamber be there ... I can't bring myself to look. Have I really used too many ellipses? Is that even ...

Keep dreaming!

The Broken Road by A.E.W. Mason - A Review

The Broken Road by A.E.W. Mason

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


The Broken Road was sold to me as adventure fiction, but I’m not sure that’s a comfortable label for it to carry. It certainly bears a romantic air that fits the name, and there are moments which are ‘adventurous’, for lack of a better word, but overall there is no single adventure running through it. The hero, if he is one, does very little, while the villain is closer to an antihero in many respects, and is arguably the most sympathetic character for at least a portion of the book. Neither of them ‘get the girl’, who is clearly better off without them, and vice versa – although the ‘villain’ is ruined in figuring that out. Besides a somewhat illusory kidnap attempt, there is very little danger encountered and almost no hardships endured besides the psychological ones suffered by the erstwhile villain.

It starts well enough as an adventure, there’s a siege and a tough-as-nuts hero, but he dies of overexertion and the siege ends, and it’s all a prologue anyway. There’s the expected siege towards the end of the book, but it never happens, and the characters involved are asides, included more for completeness in the narrative than anything else. The war, such as it is, and the hunt for a fugitive across a remote alien land, are dealt with in summation, the latter in a portion of dialogue years after the event. The book is not about adventurous undertakings.

Instead, The Broken Road, is a novel about two young men filled with ideals, who learn through bitter experience that the world simply does not work the way they dreamed. That the main character, in terms of taking up most of the stage, is an Indian prince sent away to England to learn at Eton, gives the novel its central position as a colonial fiction. It is he who, if this were an adventure novel, would be the villain, and he is described as becoming one as events progress, but he is more pathetic in the end than villainous. A mere cog in the wheels of other people’s plans.
It is his progression from proud Oxford graduate who sees himself as White and better than his own people, to religious fanatic avowed to drive the English out of Chiltistan, his fictional home province, and ultimately to sorry drunk removed from any sense of home or identity he once had, that is the centre of the work.

There is much that can be made and said of the book in terms of colonialism and race, but the largely metaphorical nature of the three central characters and the Road itself means there’s no chance of applying a definitive reading on the book – thank goodness. It can be read as sympathetic to subject nations, or not. For my part, it seemed somewhere in the middle. That the British had a position of cultural superiority is not questioned, but that they should therefore force their will upon their supposed subjects – to ‘better’ them – is shown to be ill-fated at best.

Overall, despite some apparent sympathy for the ‘villain’, the sense of English superiority is too strong, and its surrounding narrative too weak, for this to escape the gravity of being ‘colonial’. That said, it is a fascinating read, with strong characters that can give much thought to an open-minded reader.




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The Merry Men and Other Stories by R. L. Stevenson - a brief review

The Merry Men and Other Tales and Fables by Robert Louis Stevenson

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


The stories in this collection are linked by being largely moral in nature. The Merry Men focuses on guilt, conscience and payment for sins; Markheim follows a similar line with a supernatural interference; Thrawn Janet is an episode of a priest and a possessed woman; Will O' the Mill is a contemplation on whether it is better to experience all the world or live a simple life; Olalla is a bizarre story of a fallen and ruined family and choosing to sacrifice personal happiness to prevent future evil; finally The Treasure of Franchard highlights the importance of family, simple things and the evils of money, at least too much of it in the wrong hands.

Despite that, none of them beat the reader over the head with didactic ramblings, and each story has a charm and character of its own to keep the reader intrigued. Olalla ends disappointingly to mine, but the hook of the secret was only just strong enough to keep me going with it anyway. The descriptions in The Merry Men, of the raging sea and the desolate land, are beautifully rendered in true Stevenson style.

In all, this is a pleasant and enjoyable collection, but not one of much mark.



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A Concise Review of a Concise History of India by Francis Watson

India: A Concise History by Francis Watson

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


This book tackles its immense task admirably and gives a good overview of the historical movements, and some of the key figures within that. It, naturally enough, gets a bit clogged in names and places and events that it can't possibly spell out clearly, and could probably have profited by a few more maps to clarify. Nevertheless, given its scope it's an amazing achievement, that also highlights the importance of India in broader world history.



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