"The Transition of Juan Romero," "The Hoard of the Wizard-Beast," and "The Slaying of the Monster"

And here it is. My last Lovecraft story post. Three short pieces, two of them co-written, one of them a Lovecraft original.

"The Transition of Juan Romero" was written in 1919, so this is another early, pre-Sonya piece. Not as early as "The Mysterious Ship," but still. It was published in 1944 by Arkham House, the tribute-publisher created by August Derleth and several other Lovecraft friends and admirers after Lovecraft's death.

The Transition of Juan Romero

Of the events which took place at the Norton Mine on October 18th and 19th, 1894, I have no desire to speak. A sense of duty to science is all that impels me to recall, in these last years of my life, scenes and happenings fraught with a terror doubly acute because I cannot wholly define it. But I believe that before I die I should tell what I know of the—shall I say transition—of Juan Romero.

If this is the historical Norton gold mine that was opened up in the 1870's, then our story is set in Australia. Though I'm not sure how many Hispanic men there would have been in Australia by the 1910's, this Romero fellow could always be a rare exception.

Let's see if this horror actually justifies the protagonist's hesitance. It's 1919 Lovecraft, so I'm betting on "no."


My name and origin need not be related to posterity; in fact, I fancy it is better that they should not be, for when a man suddenly migrates to the States or the Colonies, he leaves his past behind him. Besides, what I once was is not in the least relevant to my narrative; save perhaps the fact that during my service in India I was more at home amongst white-bearded native teachers than amongst my brother-officers. I had delved not a little into odd Eastern lore when overtaken by the calamities which brought about my new life in America’s vast West—a life wherein I found it well to accept a name—my present one—which is very common and carries no meaning.

If you're calling attention to autobiographic details, then that means you think your identity and origins ARE relevant, and you're just being a pretentious douche about it.


In the summer and autumn of 1894 I dwelt in the drear expanses of the Cactus Mountains, employed as a common labourer at the celebrated Norton Mine; whose discovery by an aged prospector some years before had turned the surrounding region from a nearly unpeopled waste to a seething cauldron of sordid life. A cavern of gold, lying deep below a mountain lake, had enriched its venerable finder beyond his wildest dreams, and now formed the seat of extensive tunnelling operations on the part of the corporation to which it had finally been sold. Additional grottoes had been found, and the yield of yellow metal was exceedingly great; so that a mighty and heterogeneous army of miners toiled day and night in the numerous passages and rock hollows. The Superintendent, a Mr. Arthur, often discussed the singularity of the local geological formations; speculating on the probable extent of the chain of caves, and estimating the future of the titanic mining enterprise. He considered the auriferous cavities the result of the action of water, and believed the last of them would soon be opened.

I was going to say that it looks like these are the actual Norton gold mines in Australia, since Mr. My Name Isn't Important here specified gold, but the Cactus Mountains are in Nevada. So, I guess this is a fictional gold mine that just happens to share the name of a real one.

A sordid, heterogenous mob drawn by a strange land formation, though. Well, at least this time its understandable human greed that's drawing them this time rather than some evil melanin-based telepathy.

It was not long after my arrival and employment that Juan Romero came to the Norton Mine. One of a large herd of unkempt Mexicans attracted thither from the neighbouring country, he at first commanded attention only because of his features; which though plainly of the Red Indian type, were yet remarkable for their light colour and refined conformation, being vastly unlike those of the average “Greaser” or Piute of the locality. It is curious that although he differed so widely from the mass of Hispanicised and tribal Indians, Romero gave not the least impression of Caucasian blood. It was not the Castilian conquistador or the American pioneer, but the ancient and noble Aztec, whom imagination called to view when the silent peon would rise in the early morning and gaze in fascination at the sun as it crept above the eastern hills, meanwhile stretching out his arms to the orb as if in the performance of some rite whose nature he did not himself comprehend.

I don't think Lovecraft realized that the Aztecs looked pretty much like all of their neighboring tribes, and that your average Mexico City native is part Aztec.

Basically, Lovecraft just said "he looked like a Mexican, but you know, not like all those other Mexicans." So, um. Feel free to imagine whatever the hell you want, I guess.


But save for his face, Romero was not in any way suggestive of nobility. Ignorant and dirty, he was at home amongst the other brown-skinned Mexicans; having come (so I was afterward told) from the very lowest sort of surroundings. He had been found as a child in a crude mountain hut, the only survivor of an epidemic which had stalked lethally by. Near the hut, close to a rather unusual rock fissure, had lain two skeletons, newly picked by vultures, and presumably forming the sole remains of his parents. No one recalled their identity, and they were soon forgotten by the many. Indeed, the crumbling of the adobe hut and the closing of the rock fissure by a subsequent avalanche had helped to efface even the scene from recollection. Reared by a Mexican cattle-thief who had given him his name, Juan differed little from his fellows.

...The Mound?

This sounds like Lovecraft was already thinking about the concept of Xinaian in the caves beneath North America, and its "Native American looking, but like not all native american looking, but not white either," inhabitants.

Yeah, this is a proto-Xinaian story.


The attachment which Romero manifested toward me was undoubtedly commenced through the quaint and ancient Hindoo ring which I wore when not engaged in active labour. Of its nature, and manner of coming into my possession, I cannot speak. It was my last link with a chapter of life forever closed, and I valued it highly.

So our narrator murdered some Indian guy over a piece of jewelry and had to change his name and run away to America.

Verily a man of refinement and civilization, well positioned to pass judgement on these brown skinned savages. :/


Soon I observed that the odd-looking Mexican was likewise interested; eyeing it with an expression that banished all suspicion of mere covetousness. Its hoary hieroglyphs seemed to stir some faint recollection in his untutored but active mind, though he could not possibly have beheld their like before. Within a few weeks after his advent, Romero was like a faithful servant to me; this notwithstanding the fact that I was myself but an ordinary miner. Our conversation was necessarily limited. He knew but a few words of English, while I found my Oxonian Spanish was something quite different from the patois of the peon of New Spain.

The event which I am about to relate was unheralded by long premonitions. Though the man Romero had interested me, and though my ring had affected him peculiarly, I think that neither of us had any expectation of what was to follow when the great blast was set off. Geological considerations had dictated an extension of the mine directly downward from the deepest part of the subterranean area; and the belief of the Superintendent that only solid rock would be encountered, had led to the placing of a prodigious charge of dynamite. With this work Romero and I were not connected, wherefore our first knowledge of extraordinary conditions came from others. The charge, heavier perhaps than had been estimated, had seemed to shake the entire mountain. Windows in shanties on the slope outside were shattered by the shock, whilst miners throughout the nearer passages were knocked from their feet. Jewel Lake, which lay above the scene of action, heaved as in a tempest. Upon investigation it was seen that a new abyss yawned indefinitely below the seat of the blast; an abyss so monstrous that no handy line might fathom it, nor any lamp illuminate it. Baffled, the excavators sought a conference with the Superintendent, who ordered great lengths of rope to be taken to the pit, and spliced and lowered without cessation till a bottom might be discovered.

The "Hindoo" ring is basically a precursor to the tulu-metal amulet from "The Mound." Wonder how it ended up in India?

And, the miners seem to have blown open a shaft that drops all the way down to the conceptual precursor to Xinaian. If not all the way down to proto-Yoth or proto-N'Kai.

Maybe they'll even find that gold there, which Mr. Romero's original people use to build shit out of.


Shortly afterward the pale-faced workmen apprised the Superintendent of their failure. Firmly though respectfully they signified their refusal to revisit the chasm, or indeed to work further in the mine until it might be sealed. Something beyond their experience was evidently confronting them, for so far as they could ascertain, the void below was infinite. The Superintendent did not reproach them. Instead, he pondered deeply, and made many plans for the following day. The night shift did not go on that evening.

Not sure why that should scare them so much. Really deep pit, so what?

Did they at least lower someone down a few dozen meters to check the walls for ore?


At two in the morning a lone coyote on the mountain began to howl dismally. From somewhere within the works a dog barked in answer; either to the coyote—or to something else. A storm was gathering around the peaks of the range, and weirdly shaped clouds scudded horribly across the blurred patch of celestial light which marked a gibbous moon’s attempts to shine through many layers of cirro-stratus vapours. It was Romero’s voice, coming from the bunk above, that awakened me; a voice excited and tense with some vague expectation I could not understand:

“¡Madre de Dios!—el sonido—ese sonido—¡oiga Vd! ¿lo oye Vd?—Señor, THAT SOUND!”

I listened, wondering what sound he meant. The coyote, the dog, the storm, all were audible; the last named now gaining ascendancy as the wind shrieked more and more frantically. Flashes of lightning were visible through the bunk-house window. I questioned the nervous Mexican, repeating the sounds I had heard:

“¿El coyote?—¿el perro?—¿el viento?”

Al Azif. 

Dogs and coyotes often do bark at each other from across fences, as anyone who's lived around both can testify. But this is consistent with the "music of the spheres" when other stories included it; an emergent and inexplicable rythm that arises from individually mundane or just slightly off-kilter natural sounds.

Juan can hear it.


But Romero did not reply. Then he commenced whispering as in awe:

“El ritmo, Señor—el ritmo de la tierra—THAT THROB DOWN IN THE GROUND!”

"Throb" is not an English word I would expect this guy to know.


And now I also heard; heard and shivered and without knowing why. Deep, deep, below me was a sound—a rhythm, just as the peon had said—which, though exceedingly faint, yet dominated even the dog, the coyote, and the increasing tempest. To seek to describe it were useless—for it was such that no description is possible. Perhaps it was like the pulsing of the engines far down in a great liner, as sensed from the deck, yet it was not so mechanical; not so devoid of the element of life and consciousness. Of all its qualities, remoteness in the earth most impressed me. To my mind rushed fragments of a passage in Joseph Glanvill which Poe has quoted with tremendous effect—

“—the vastness, profundity, and unsearchableness of His works, which have a depth in them greater than the well of Democritus.”

Suddenly Romero leaped from his bunk; pausing before me to gaze at the strange ring on my hand, which glistened queerly in every flash of lightning, and then staring intently in the direction of the mine shaft. I also rose, and both stood motionless for a time, straining our ears as the uncanny rhythm seemed more and more to take on a vital quality. Then without apparent volition we began to move toward the door, whose rattling in the gale held a comforting suggestion of earthly reality. The chanting in the depths—for such the sound now seemed to be—grew in volume and distinctness; and we felt irresistibly urged out into the storm and thence to the gaping blackness of the shaft.

The Tsathites are making their zombie slave band play too loudly.

They're keeping great rhythm with the breathing of Yog-Sothoth, but seriously, guys, there's no need for that volume!


We encountered no living creature, for the men of the night shift had been released from duty, and were doubtless at the Dry Gulch settlement pouring sinister rumours into the ear of some drowsy bartender. From the watchman’s cabin, however, gleamed a small square of yellow light like a guardian eye. I dimly wondered how the rhythmic sound had affected the watchman; but Romero was moving more swiftly now, and I followed without pausing.

As we descended the shaft, the sound beneath grew definitely composite. It struck me as horribly like a sort of Oriental ceremony, with beating of drums and chanting of many voices. I have, as you are aware, been much in India. Romero and I moved without material hesitancy through drifts and down ladders; ever toward the thing that allured us, yet ever with a pitifully helpless fear and reluctance. At one time I fancied I had gone mad—this was when, on wondering how our way was lighted in the absence of lamp or candle, I realised that the ancient ring on my finger was glowing with eerie radiance, diffusing a pallid lustre through the damp, heavy air around.

It was without warning that Romero, after clambering down one of the many rude ladders, broke into a run and left me alone. Some new and wild note in the drumming and chanting, perceptible but slightly to me, had acted on him in startling fashion; and with a wild outcry he forged ahead unguided in the cavern’s gloom. I heard his repeated shrieks before me, as he stumbled awkwardly along the level places and scrambled madly down the rickety ladders. And frightened as I was, I yet retained enough of perception to note that his speech, when articulate, was not of any sort known to me. Harsh but impressive polysyllables had replaced the customary mixture of bad Spanish and worse English, and of these only the oft repeated cry “Huitzilopotchli” seemed in the least familiar. Later I definitely placed that word in the works of a great historian—and shuddered when the association came to me.

I guess the Tsath concept was a weird Asian/Aztec hybrid in Lovecraft's mind at this time, and would only later become the pan-American nightmare described in "The Mound."

There's also some Dreamlands imagery in here. The procession from "The Festival" leading underground. The underground pit of the bone-eaters from "Dream Quest." Etc.


The climax of that awful night was composite but fairly brief, beginning just as I reached the final cavern of the journey. Out of the darkness immediately ahead burst a final shriek from the Mexican, which was joined by such a chorus of uncouth sound as I could never hear again and survive. In that moment it seemed as if all the hidden terrors and monstrosities of earth had become articulate in an effort to overwhelm the human race. Simultaneously the light from my ring was extinguished, and I saw a new light glimmering from lower space but a few yards ahead of me. I had arrived at the abyss, which was now redly aglow, and which had evidently swallowed up the unfortunate Romero. Advancing, I peered over the edge of that chasm which no line could fathom, and which was now a pandemonium of flickering flame and hideous uproar. At first I beheld nothing but a seething blur of luminosity; but then shapes, all infinitely distant, began to detach themselves from the confusion, and I saw—was it Juan Romero?—but God! I dare not tell you what I saw! . . . Some power from heaven, coming to my aid, obliterated both sights and sounds in such a crash as may be heard when two universes collide in space. Chaos supervened, and I knew the peace of oblivion.

I hardly know how to continue, since conditions so singular are involved; but I will do my best, not even trying to differentiate betwixt the real and the apparent. When I awaked, I was safe in my bunk and the red glow of dawn was visible at the window.

Oh. The Lovecraft Copout. That's always a compelling and satisfying way avoid telling a story. :/


Some distance away the lifeless body of Juan Romero lay upon a table, surrounded by a group of men, including the camp doctor.

Huh. If he actually plunged into that pit, the Tsathites either caught him before he hit bottom, or put him together again pretty impressively.


The men were discussing the strange death of the Mexican as he lay asleep; a death seemingly connected in some way with the terrible bolt of lightning which had struck and shaken the mountain. No direct cause was evident, and an autopsy failed to shew any reason why Romero should not be living. Snatches of conversation indicated beyond a doubt that neither Romero nor I had left the bunkhouse during the night; that neither had been awake during the frightful storm which had passed over the Cactus range. That storm, said men who had ventured down the mine shaft, had caused extensive caving in, and had completely closed the deep abyss which had created so much apprehension the day before. When I asked the watchman what sounds he had heard prior to the mighty thunderbolt, he mentioned a coyote, a dog, and the snarling mountain wind—nothing more. Nor do I doubt his word.


So they astrally projected themselves into the mine, and Juan's astral form just never came home. Leaving his organic body to rot.

Well, I hope he's happy being a cave spirit now.


Upon the resumption of work Superintendent Arthur called on some especially dependable men to make a few investigations around the spot where the gulf had appeared. Though hardly eager, they obeyed; and a deep boring was made. Results were very curious. The roof of the void, as seen whilst it was open, was not by any means thick; yet now the drills of the investigators met what appeared to be a limitless extent of solid rock. Finding nothing else, not even gold, the Superintendent abandoned his attempts; but a perplexed look occasionally steals over his countenance as he sits thinking at his desk.

One other thing is curious. Shortly after waking on that morning after the storm, I noticed the unaccountable absence of my Hindoo ring from my finger. I had prized it greatly, yet nevertheless felt a sensation of relief at its disappearance. If one of my fellow-miners appropriated it, he must have been quite clever in disposing of his booty, for despite advertisements and a police search the ring was never seen again. Somehow I doubt if it was stolen by mortal hands, for many strange things were taught me in India.


The ring is what let our narrator participate partway through the astral journey, I guess. It was either consumed in this process, or the Tsath-ghosts took it off of his astral self which sent him back to his sleeping body.

And the bottomless gulf - despite the fact that there SHOULD be some kind of hollow there, geologically speaking - has vanished. Another more Dreamlands-esque detail to be sure.


My opinion of my whole experience varies from time to time. In broad daylight, and at most seasons I am apt to think the greater part of it a mere dream; but sometimes in the autumn, about two in the morning when winds and animals howl dismally, there comes from inconceivable depths below a damnable suggestion of rhythmical throbbing . . . and I feel that the transition of Juan Romero was a terrible one indeed. 


And that's the end.

So, there's a subset of Lovecraft stories in which the reader is only allowed to see the very outside fringes of the Puzzle Plot, and no character gives us enough information to actually put it together, despite them often having that information and being given no reason not to disclose it as part of the narrative. Sometimes, the implications manage to communicate enough to make the puzzle solvable, or at least make the mystery intriguing. "The Tree," "In The Vault," and "The Moon-Bog" made it work. "Charles Dexter Ward" kinda sorta pulled it off some of the time, I guess. "The Horror At Red Hook," "Under The Pyramids," and this story...do not. All of those stories also happen to be bad for other reasons as well, of course, but this particular flaw basically makes the others a moot point, because it prevents the story from ever really being told at all.

So, there's not much to this story besides racism and confusion, as well as a needlessly and probably unintentionally unlikable narrator.


This next pair of stories were both co-written with Robert Barlow in 1933, and only published half a century after the fact in the 1990's, well after Lovecraft had become the pop cultural figure we know him as today. Both of these tales are quite short, and completely new reads to me. Let's start with the extremely sword-and-sorcery title of "The Hoard of the Wizard-Beast."


The Hoard of the Wizard-Beat

There had happened in the teeming and many-towered city of Zeth one of those incidents which are prone to take place in all capitals of all worlds. Nor, simply because Zeth lies on a planet of strange beasts and stranger vegetation, did this incident differ greatly from what might have occurred in London or Paris or any of the great governing towns we know. Through the cleverly concealed dishonesty of an aged but shrewd official, the treasury was exhausted. No shining phrulder, as of old, lay stacked about the strong-room; and over empty coffers the sardonic spider wove webs of mocking design. When, at last, the giphath Yalden entered that obscure vault and discovered the thefts, there were left only some phlegmatic rats which peered sharply at him as at an alien intruder.


It doesn't get more planetary romance than this!

The comparisons to London or Paris does naturally make one wonder who is relaying this story to us, and how they learned it themselves. Sort of like some of the Dreamlands stories, "The Cats of Ulthar" and "The Silver Key" especially.

Anyway, corrupt official made off with the treasury, and the king just found out.


There had been no accountings since Kishan the old keeper had died many moon-turns before, and great was Yalden’s dismay to find this emptiness instead of the expected wealth. The indifference of the small creatures in the cracks between the flagstones could not spread itself to him. This was a very grave matter, and would have to be met in a very prompt and serious way.

I don't think that last bit needed to be said, lol.

Anyway, I guess the moral of the story is that you should check your balance frequently, and not rely on any single, unchecked person to handle everything for you.


Clearly, there was nothing to do but consult Oorn, and Oorn was a highly portentous being.

Oorn, though a creature of extremely doubtful nature, was the virtual ruler of Zeth. It obviously belonged somewhere in the outer abyss, but had blundered into Zeth one night and suffered capture by the shamith priests. The coincidence of Its excessively bizarre aspect and Its innate gift of mimicry had impressed the sacred brothers as offering vast possibilities, hence in the end they had set It up as a god and an oracle, organising a new brotherhood to serve It—and incidentally to suggest the edicts it should utter and the replies It should give. Like the Delphi and Dodona of a later world, Oorn grew famous as a giver of judgments and solver of riddles; nor did Its essence differ from them save that It lay infinitely earlier in Time, and upon an elder world where all things might happen. And now Yalden, being not above the credulousness of his day and planet, had set out for the close-guarded and richly-fitted hall wherein Oorn brooded and mimicked the promptings of the priests.


Oh, that's an interesting bit of worldbuilding alright! I might have to steal this for a DnD campaign or something.

In terms of mythical inspirations, this is probably borrowing from the tale of Solomon and Ashmadai, aka "Humans Are Bastards: the Jewish Folk Tale." The difference being that in this case, the villainous "priests" are using the captive entity to pull one over on the king as well as everyone else, rather than the king himself being the captor.

Robert E. Howard's "The Tower of the Elephant" was also a lot like this, come to think of it.

When Yalden came within sight of the Hall, with its tower of blue tile, he became properly religious, and entered the building acceptably, in a humble manner which greatly impeded progress. According to custom, the guardians of the deity acknowledged his obeisance and pecuniary offering, and retired behind heavy curtains to ignite the thuribles. After everything was in readiness, Yalden murmured a conventional prayer and bowed low before a curious empty dais studded with exotic jewels. For a moment—as the ritual prescribed—he stayed in this abased position, and when he arose the dais was no longer empty. Unconcernedly munching something the priests had given It was a large pudgy creature very hard to describe, and covered with short grey fur. Whence It had come in so brief a time only the priests might tell, but the suppliant knew that It was Oorn.

Hesitantly Yalden stated his unfortunate mission and asked advice; weaving into his discourse the type of flattery which seemed to him most discreet. Then, with anxiety, he awaited the oracle’s response. Having tidily finished Its food, Oorn raised three small reddish eyes to Yalden and uttered certain words in a tone of vast decisiveness: “Gumay ere hfotuol leheht teg.” After this It vanished suddenly in a cloud of pink smoke which seemed to issue from behind the curtain where the acolytes were.


"Get the hell out of here, ya mug."

Is he acting out in particular right now, or do the priests always just take this in stride and "interpret" his resentful answers however they wish?


The acolytes then came forth from their hiding-place and spoke to Yalden, saying: “Since you have pleased the deity with your concise statement of a very deplorable state of affairs, we are honored by interpreting its directions. The aphorism you heard signifies no less than the equally mystic phrase ‘Go thou unto thy destination’ or more properly speaking, you are to slay the monster-wizard Anathas, and replenish the treasury with its fabled hoard.”


Read: "bring the mailled fist of the state down on a rival of ours who had nothing to do with any of this."


With this Yalden was dismissed from the temple. It may not be said in veracity that he was fearless, for in truth, he was openly afraid of the monster Anathas, as were all the inhabitants of Ullathia and the surrounding land. Even those who doubted its actuality would not have chosen to reside in the immediate neighborhood of the Cave of Three Winds wherein it was said to dwell.


Reminding me a bit of Humbaba, the forest monster that Gilgamesh had to go kill, with the way this thing is being built up.


But the prospect was not without romantic appeal, and Yalden was young and consequently unwise. He knew, among other things, that there was always the hope of rescuing some feminine victim of the monster’s famed and surprising erotic taste.  Of the true aspect of Anathas none could be certain; tales of a widely opposite nature being commonly circulated.  

Hmm.

Maybe this entire story is just meant to be a piss take on the genre and nothing more, but I also feel like there's a pretty incisive recurring theme of humans forcing these other entities into roles they resent and which reflect really badly on us. We were told that there's no really reliable information on what Anathas looks like, but everyone just assumes that it likes to rape attractive human women, and Yalden is actually HOPING that it does so that he gets to rescue a damsel.


Many vowed it had been seen from afar in the form of a giant black shadow peculiarly repugnant to human taste, while others alleged it was a mound of gelatinous substance that oozed hatefully in the manner of putrescent flesh. Still others claimed they had seen it as a monstrous insect with astonishing supernumerary appurtenances. But in one thing all coincided; namely, that it was advisable to have as little traffic as possible with Anathas.

With due supplications to his gods and to their messenger Oorn, Yalden set out for the Cave of Three Winds. In his bosom were mixed an ingrained, patriotic sense of duty, and a thrill of adventurous expectancy regarding the unknown mysteries he faced. He had not neglected such preparations as a sensible man might make, and a wizard of old repute had furnished him with certain singular accessories. He had, for example, a charm which prevented his thirsting or hungering, and wholly did away with his need for provisions. There was likewise a glistening cape to counteract the evil emanations of a mineral that lay scattered over the rocky ground along his course. Other warnings and safeguards dealt with certain gaudy land-crustaceans, and with the deathly-sweet mists which arise at certain points until dispersed by heliotropism.


That "mineral with evil emanations" makes me think that maybe Anathas' lair is radioactive. Full of activated uranium or something. So, ring of sustenance and a cloak of radiation immunity, plus some advice on how to avoid the poisonous mists and colorful-but-deadly dire lobsters of the region.


Thus shielded, Yalden fared without incident until he came to the place of the White Worm. Here of necessity he delayed to make preparations for finding the rest of his way. With patient diligence he captured the small colorless maggot, and surrounded it with a curious mark made with green paint. As was prophesied, the Lord of Worms, whose name was Sarall, made promise of certain things in return for its freedom. Then Yalden released it, and it crawled away after directing him on the course he was to follow.


In the story I linked above, Solomon captured Ashmadai to force him to (among other things) help him enslave yet another supernatural being; a small worm with immense rock-boring abilities. That element showing up here makes me more sure than before that "The Hoard of the Wizard-Beast" is drawing inspiration from that story.

Sarall is probably not providing him with the most helpful set of directions. Or intending to deliver on its other promises in the desired and expected way.


The sere and fruitless land through which he now travelled was totally uninhabited. Not even the hardier of the beasts were to be seen beyond the edge of that final plateau which separated him from his goal. Far off, in a purplish haze, rose the mountains amidst which dwelt Anathas. It lived not solitary, despite the lonely region around, for strange pets resided with it—some the fabled elder monsters, and others unique beings created by its own fearful craft.

At the heart of its cave, legend said, Anathas had concealed an enormous hoard of jewels, gold, and other things of fabulous value. Why so potent a wonder-worker should care for such gauds, or revel in the counting of money, was by no means clear; but many things attested the truth of these tastes. Great numbers of persons of stronger will and wit than Yalden had died in remarkable manners while seeking the hoard of the wizard-beast, and their bones were laid in a strange pattern before the mouth of the cave, as a warning to others.


In other words, Anathas just minds his own business, and ignores humans that aren't trying to rob him. The land around his lair is uninhabitable for our sort of life (either due to his activities, or simply because those conditions attracted him in the first place) so there's literally no good reason for humans to be going there.

The comment about why such a powerful being would care about hoarding gold has got to be a barb at Yalden himself. If he's such a great man, why is he debasing himself like this over some shiny rocks?


When, after countless vicissitudes, Yalden came at last into sight of the Cave of Winds amid the glistening boulders, he knew indeed that report had not lied concerning the isolation of Anathas’ lair. The cavern-mouth was well-concealed, and over everything an ominous quiet lowered. There was no trace of habitation, save of course the ossuary ornamentation in the front yard. With his hand on the sword that had been sanctified by a priest of Oorn, Yalden tremblingly advanced. When he had attained the very opening of the lair, he hesitated no longer, for it was evident that the monster was away.

Deeming this the best of all times to prosecute his business, Yalden plunged at once within the cave. The interior was very cramped and exceedingly dirty, but the roof glittered with an innumerable array of small, varicoloured lights, the source of which was not to be perceived. In the rear yawned another opening, either natural or artificial; and to this black, low-arched burrow Yalden hastened, crawling within it on hands and knees. Before long a faint blue radiance glowed at the farther end, and presently the searcher emerged into an ampler space. Straightening up, he beheld a most singular change in his surroundings. This second cavern was tall and domed as if it had been shapen by supernatural powers, and a soft blue and silver light infused the gloom. Anathas, thought Yalden, lived indeed in comfort; for this room was finer than anything in the Palace of Zeth, or even in the Temple of Oorn, upon which had been lavished unthinkable wealth and beauty. Yalden stood agape, but not for long, since he desired most of all to seek the object of his quest and depart before Anathas should return from wherever it might be. For Yalden did not wish to encounter the monster-sorcerer of which so many tales were told. Leaving therefore this second cave by a narrow cleft which he saw, the seeker followed a devious and unlit way far down through the solid rock of the plateau. This, he felt, would take him to that third and ultimate cavern where his business lay. As he progressed, he glimpsed ahead of him a curious glow; and at last, without warning, the walls receded to reveal a vast open space paved solidly with blazing coals above which flapped and shrieked an obscene flock of wyvern-headed birds. Over the fiery surface green monstrous salamanders slithered, eyeing the intruder with malignant speculation. And on the far side rose the stairs of a metal dais, encrusted with jewels, and piled high with precious objects; the hoard of the wizard-beast.


Anathas' treasure hoard, and some of his biological creations.


At sight of this unattainable wealth, Yalden’s fervour well-nigh overcame him; and chaffing at his futility, he searched the sea of flame for some way of crossing. This, he soon perceived, was not readily to be found; for in all that glowing crypt there was only a slight crescent of flooring near the entrance which a mortal man might hope to walk on. Desperation, however, possessed him; so that at last he resolved to risk all and try the fiery pavement. Better to die in the quest than to return empty-handed. With teeth set, he started toward the sea of flame, heedless of what might follow.

As it was, surprise seared him almost as vehemently as he had expected the flames to do—for with his advance, the glowing floor divided to form a narrow lane of safe cool earth leading straight to the golden throne. Half dazed, and heedless of whatever might underlie such curiously favouring magic, Yalden drew his sword and strode boldly betwixt the walls of flame that rose from the rifted pavement. The heat hurt him not at all, and the wyvern-creatures drew back, hissing, and did not molest him.


It's just an illusion protecting the treasure. Anathas' creations seem to be harmless, themselves.


The hoard now glistened close at hand, and Yalden thought of how he would return to Zeth, laden with fabulous spoils and worshipped by throngs as a hero. In his joy he forgot to wonder at Anathas’ lax care of its treasures; nor did the very friendly behaviour of the fiery pavement seem in any way remarkable. Even the huge arched opening behind the dais, so oddly invisible from across the cavern, failed to disturb him seriously. Only when he had mounted the broad stair of the dais and stood ankle-deep amid the bizarre golden reliques of other ages and other worlds, and the lovely, luminous gems from unknown mines and of unknown natures and meanings, did Yalden begin to realise that anything was wrong.

But now he perceived that the miraculous passage through the flaming floor was closing again, leaving him marooned on the dais with the glittering treasure he had sought. And when it had fully closed, and his eyes had circled round vainly for some way of escape, he was hardly reassured by the shapeless jelly-like shadow which loomed colossal and stinking in the great archway behind the dais. He was not permitted to faint, but was forced to observe that this shadow was infinitely more hideous than anything hinted in any popular legend, and that its seven iridescent eyes were regarding him with placid amusement.


Hah! Not an illusion at all, but a trap!

Well played, Anathas.


Then Anathas the wizard-beast rolled fully out of the archway, mighty in necromantic horror, and jested with the small frightened conqueror before allowing that horde of slavering and peculiarly hungry green salamanders to complete their slow, anticipatory ascent of the dais.


Always love a happy ending.~

Like "Till A' The Seas" I feel like this really is at least as much a Barlow story as a Lovecraft one. For one thing, I don't think Lovecraft would ever treat Dunsanyan fantasy as irreverently as this on his own. For another, for all its pessimism about humanity, this story is willing to actually SYMPATHIZE with the nonhumans instead of just dragging the rest of the universe down with us. Oorn is the most relatable and charismatic character of the tale, despite the brevity of his appearance. Anathas never gets as much characterization, but given the world he inhabits one can very readily take his side over Yalden's. Contrast this with Lovecraft's own "The Doom That Came to Sarnath," which insisted on layering contempt on the nonhumans even though the humans were the clear and acknowledged villains of the piece.

That said, Yalden wasn't totally unsympathetic himself either. The story repeatedly called attention to his youth and ignorance, and to the public nature of his royal office. It seems like he's the figurehead paragon who embodies all that his society holds in high esteem, and his real purpose is to be thrown under the bus by that society's true powerbrokers whenever convenient. He's probably imminently replaceable. More than just a political figurehead, I can totally see Yalden as every young man sent off to fight a horrible overseas war for unconvincing reasons while the cynical old plutocrats back home profit from both the war itself and from his absence. Who actually stole the treasury in the first place? I think the "priests" deliberately avoided answering that question when they were consulted. Better to send Yalden off to invade someone else instead of allowing him to clean house; either he'll get himself killed and no longer trouble them, or he'll just bring back more treasure for them or their cronies to steal. Rinse and repeat. The human supremacist attitude with its heroic framing is just a tool to enslave well-meaning but uncritical humans into fighting for the assholes.

So, while I'm glad Anathas won the battle, this was still ultimately a "bad guys win" outcome. They engineered the situation so that they'd win no matter who won the battle. The only winning move was not to play; Yalden should have stripped the priests of their tax exempt status, subjected each of them to a full audit and investigation, and freed Oorn. I'll bet his missing treasure was, if not in the priests' own coffers, at least in those of someone they were on good terms with.

Last story, and a very short one. "The Slaying of the Monster." Written and published in the same years and with the help of the same third parties as the last one.


The Slaying Of the Monster

Great was the clamour in Laen; for smoke had been spied in the Hills of the Dragon. That surely meant the Stirrings of the Monster—the Monster who spat lava and shook the earth as he writhed in its depths. And when the men of Laen spoke together they swore to slay the Monster and keep his fiery breath from searing their minaret-studded city and toppling their alabaster domes.


Another Dunsany-esque fantasy story, it would seem. Probably less subversive this time.


So it was that by torch-light gathered fully a hundred of the little people, prepared to battle the Evil One in his hidden fast-hold. With the coming of night they began marching in ragged columns into the foot-hills beneath the fulgent lunar rays. Ahead a burning cloud shone clearly through the purple dusk, a guide to their goal.

For the sake of truth it is to be recorded that their spirits sank low long ere they sighted the foe, and as the moon grew dim and the coming of the dawn was heralded by gaudy clouds they wished themselves more than ever at home, dragon or no dragon. But as the sun rose they cheered up slightly, and shifting their spears, resolutely trudged the remaining distance.

Clouds of sulphurous smoke hung pall-like over the world, darkening even the new-risen sun, and always replenished by sullen puffs from the mouth of the Monster. Little tongues of hungry flame made the Laenians move swiftly over the hot stones. “But where is the dragon??” whispered one—fearfully and hoping it would not accept the query as an invitation. In vain they looked—there was nothing solid enough to slay.


Definitely some recurring elements here.


So shouldering their weapons, they wearily returned home and there set up a stone tablet graven to this effect—“BEING TROUBLED BY A FIERCE MONSTER THE BRAVE CITIZENS OF LAEN DID SET UPON IT AND SLAY IT IN ITS FEARFUL LAIR SAVING THE LAND FROM A DREADFUL DOOM.”

These words were hard to read when we dug that stone from its deep, ancient layers of encrusting lava.


Hah!

This one turned out to be equally subversive after all, though for completely different reasons. Once again, we have a criticism of human behavior, but not any moral blindness or chauvinism this time so much as superstitiousness and closed-mindedness. They refused to acknowledge the reality of a threat they couldn't see and touch, despite having so many warning signs. If you can't kill it, then surely it can't kill you either, right?

That line of reasoning, unfortunately, is not going to help you against a volcano. Sometimes you just have to acknowledge that your ancestors picked a really bad spot to build the city, and pack up and move somewhere else.

And, that's it for the Complete Works of Howard Phillips Lovecraft! I didn't read all of his childhood and cowritten stories, or all of the poetry that's available online, but we still covered every original, published story of his written during adulthood, and the lion's share of his other work as well.

I'd do a conclusion post here. A final analysis to close this project off. But, since the poll I put up a couple weeks ago came down decisively in favor of "Lovecraft for Dummies," the next project is going to BE an extended final analysis (and one with much more biographical research and fact checking behind it). So, next weekend I'll get started on that. Thank you all for reading and supporting me.