Summary:
A pretty good issue, with a better than good first instalment of Thomas Burnett Swann’s mythic fantasy The Weirwoods, and Philip Wordley’s very good Goodnight Sweet Prince, a time-travel story set in Shakespeare’s time and which features the man himself.
[ISFDB page] [Archive.org copy]
Other reviews:1
John Boston and Damien Broderick: Strange Highways: Reading Science Fantasy, 1950-67 (p. 265 of 365)
Graham Hall, Vector #35, October 1965, p. 21
_____________________
Editor, Kyril Bonfiglioli; Associate Editor, J. Parkhill-Rathbone
Fiction:2
The Weirwoods (Part 1 of 2) • serial by Thomas Burnett Swann ∗∗∗+
Ragtime • short story by Pamela Adams ∗∗∗
Green Goblins Yet • short story by W. Price –
State of Mind • short story by E. C. Tubb ∗∗
The Foreigner • short story by Johnny Byrne ∗∗
Goodnight, Sweet Prince • novelette by Philip Wordley ∗∗∗∗
Non-fiction:
Cover • by Agosta Morol
Editorial • by J. Parkhill-Rathbone
_____________________
The Weirwoods by Thomas Burnett Swann dominates this issue, with the first part of this mythological fantasy taking up almost two-thirds of the magazine’s space (p. 4 to p. 75 of 128 pp.). The story begins with a leisurely description of the Etruscan town of Sutrium and the nearby Weirwoods (and their human and non-human inhabitants), before detailing the uneasy relationship that exists between these two:
In return for the right to trade in the market place, the Weir Ones allowed the Sutrii access through the Weirwoods to Viterbo and Volsinii and other Etruscan cities of the north. Long ago, it was said, they had also offered access to the heart of the forest and their own sylvan cities. But the ancestors of the present Sutrii had scorned the offer and passed through the forest with the look of aristocrats in a foul-smelling compound of slaves. Thus, the Weir Ones no longer sought them as friends. Still, they allowed them to follow the one path—the Road, it was called—and claimed in return the right to trade.
In the market place, the Weir Ones seemed shy, halting, and clumsy; in the forest, when glimpsed from the road, they seemed to have put on strength, like a god who had donned a mantle of invulnerability. The backs of the Centaurs arched in manly pride and their clattering hooves became the beat of drums; the horns of the Fauns curved like daggers of bone. Such glimpses were not reassuring to those who travelled the road. If riding on horseback, they spurred their mounts to a gallop. If riding in carriages, they shut their eyes and imagined the forest to be inhabited solely by naked and compliant nymphs. As a matter of fact, there were many nymphs in the forest, the female Water Sprites, usually naked, always compliant to males of their own race, but liking the Etruscans no better than a dolphin likes a shark. p. 5-6
Into this mix enters Lars Velcha, a nobleman travelling through the forest to Sutrium with his daughter Tanaquil. When he needs water he breaks the rules by going into the forest, and sees what he initially thinks is a sixteen-year-old boy sleeping in the sun by the shore of a lake. When Lars sees webbed feet, pointed ears, and soft fins at the boy’s temples, he realises it is a water sprite. He stuns the creature with a blow, and takes him as a slave and playmate for his daughter Tanaquil. The rest of the novel flows from this fatal act.
The next part of the story introduces the various other characters from whose point of view the story is mostly told: apart from Tanaquil, the daughter, and Vel, the water sprite (who turns out to be a semi-wild, sexual and amoral creature), we are introduced to Arnth, an itinerant musician whose cart is pulled by a one-eyed bear called Ursus. After Arnth plays for Lars and Tanaquil one evening he learns of Vel’s plight, and vows to free him. This leads Arnth, after he talks to Vel about smuggling him out of the city—unlikely to succeed given the guards on the gate—to a lake in the forest, and to another of the story’s major characters, Vegoia, the matriarch of the water sprites and a sorceress.
After Arnth and Vegoia discuss Vel’s plight they eventually sleep together, although not until after much discussion about the matter:
There was something decidedly pleasant about the prospect of claiming his guest-rights. But [Arnth] made it an inflexible rule never to accept the more compromising favours of young women, who, he had learned to his sorrow, held out a cornucopia with one hand and with the other, a net. p. 39
.
It was time to explain his philosophy. “Everyone knows that women exact a price for their favours. They can’t help it—it’s the way they’re made. In the market place or in the bedroom, they’re always making bargains. That’s their privilege. As for me, I’m too poor to pay in coins and too free to pay with my liberty. I travel. I intend to keep on travelling. In a word, I don’t buy.” p. 41
At one point in his life Swann was engaged to be married; then he wasn’t. You wonder to what extent that situation is reflected in the above and other similar comments.
Of course, the pair’s brief encounter does not go smoothly, and Arnth subsequently manages to upset Vegoia—and so during the next night he is on the floor. They do talk though and, when Arnth asks her why she doesn’t have a heart, there is a passage where she tells him the myth of the Builder, which has the Builder create the sprites late on the fifth day of Creation and not complete them. This digression eventually concludes with a final question from Arnth, and Vegoia’s answer:
“And you never miss having a heart?”
“I think,” she said, “that it is better to have no heart, than to have one and not use it.” p. 51
After this romantic interlude, the final part of this instalment sees Vegoia going to town on market day. There she does tricks—which captivate the town’s serval cats—and is seen by Tanaquil, who correctly assumes she is Vegoia. The pair talk in a secluded temple, and (spoiler) Vegoia gives Tanaquil cats-eye jewels to give to Vel to assist his escape. However, when Tanaquil later passes on the jewels to Vel, he is as wild and disrespectful as ever.
That night, Arnth (who has also returned to the town to ensure Tanaquil’s safety during whatever plot is afoot) performs once again for her and her father. Vel plies the company with a heady wine.
Later, Arnth sleeps at the foot of Tanaquil’s bed but wakes up paralyzed to see Vel and the town’s cats arrive. After Vel takes Arnth back to the slaves’ quarters he dispatches the cats on their mission. When Vegoia finally arrives she tells Arnth the cats were only meant to kill the guards, but she finds Vel has unleashed them on the town.
This novel has some lovely description, lines, and dialogue, and it gains an added depth by echoing some of this throughout the story (hearts and nets make more than one appearance)—but it doesn’t, at least not in this part, reach the heights of his first novel, The Blue Monkeys (The Day of the Minotaur). That said, Swann’s previous novel begun in a light, gentle way before becoming much darker later on—so maybe this will also become more substantial in its second part. Nonetheless, it’s still pretty good stuff, and this latter criticism is only by way of comparison.
•
Ragtime by Pamela Adams starts with a couple renting a houseboat beside an island. The landlord tells them that the island has a strange history involving a missing man, and the sound of music from the 1920s.
Later that evening, after the couple have settled into the houseboat, they hear music, and then a rowing boat with several party goers passes by. The occupants offer to take the couple to the party on the island, but the wife (and narrator) has earlier twisted her ankle, so doesn’t go. However, she encourages her husband to attend. The next morning he hasn’t returned.
The story then skips forward a year in time, and the wife is back on the boat writing to her brother. In this account (spoiler) she lays out a theory about different time tracks that cross—and where time passes at different speeds. As she finishes her account, she hears music, and hopes to be reunited with her husband.
This is a pretty slight and straightforward story but it has an atmospheric ending that worked for me. I also got the impression that this piece is from an experienced writer, although I couldn’t find any other work by her.
•
Green Goblins Yet by W. Price, on the other hand, struck me as a refugee from the slushpile. It begins with a scientist from the future coming into cafe and telling two men (one of whom is the narrator) that he needs help to find his goblin. After some unconvincing vernacular (““Gobble off,” says Spike, “Me an’ Jigsy ain’t interested. Go peddle your vacuum cleaners somewhere else.”), the narrator drives him to Kinder Scout where several sheep have reportedly been mauled by a strange creature.
After losing the scientist in the wilds, the narrator eventually meets the goblin—revealed as a Venusian—and it speaks to him using the scientist’s voice. Then it gets on a flying saucer and leaves.
The ending makes no sense at all. A TBSF.3
•
State of Mind by E. C. Tubb is a competently done piece of Dickian paranoia about a man who starts to suspect his wife is an alien before (spoiler) he eventually kills her. At one point in the story he has a stroke during one of his belligerent outbursts and a doctor later warns him that:
“The brain’s a funny thing, you know, Henry. Sometimes it gets its wires crossed. If that happens don’t let it throw you.” p. 98
I’m not sure this SF, but it is an okay read regardless.
•
The Foreigner by Johnny Byrne starts with a lodger in a guesthouse who hears a huge crash from upstairs. When he goes to the flat to investigate the story takes on a vaguely Kuttnerish air:
My eyes took in instantly the incredible confusion of the room and came to rest on the action that was taking place about six inches below the ceiling. Two high stepladders supported a wide heavy board on which a figure lay rocking gently from side to side. On my entrance the figure jerked up startled, caught its head smartly on the ceiling, lost its balance and with a shriek of fear and surprise toppled to land awkwardly on the floor. It groaned once and lay still. There was a nasty silence.
From what I could see I judged it to be a man. He appeared to be dressed only in a mattress. It was wrapped around him under the arms and reached to just below the knee. It was held in place by a profusion of straps, buckles and hooks. From inside the mattress a long snarl of cheap, plastic-covered flex ran to a plug in the skirting-board. A faint sound of radio crackle came from the mattress and, from time to time, a blue spark. p. 99
It soon becomes obvious that the man in the mattress is a time traveller who is trying to get back home by “impacting” while operating the electronics surrounding him. When he sees a car crash outside (spoiler) the story proceeds to its obvious conclusion.
This, for all its slightness, is entertainingly enough told.
•
Goodnight, Sweet Prince by Philip Wordley4 is the fourth (and sadly last) of this writer’s contributions to Science Fantasy and it starts with time-travelling movie crew in Shakespearian times:
“Yes, yes, I know. But what I want is colour. Get that? Colour.” And Art Kirbitz’s horny little mitts grabbed a handful of none-too-fresh Tudor air and flung it skywards.
His director, Harry Gorrin, followed it with his eyes, as if expecting it to burst into iridescent bubbles and float over the lousy thatched roofs in a glory of Kirbitz-Kolor. If it had, it wouldn’t have surprised Harry.
“But, leader,” he ventured diffidently. “Surely authenticity is more—”
“Authenticity Schmorthenticity snorted Art, adroitly dodging a hurtling mess of ullage from a bedroom window.
“That’s a hunk of fruit salad and you know it. So we should be authentic? You want we should play the arthouses with this one? We’re playing to people, boy, not crumbs who grow hair on their nuts and still read books.” p. 107
After this fairly typical SF scene the story switches to its other subplot, which has William Shakespeare writing an impassioned letter to his wife, Anne Hathaway, confessing his adultery:
Two tragedies together are too much for a man, even if he writes one and lives the other. Our tragedy is over now, Anne, so I can write you this letter; the tragedy I wrote—the play founded on Kydd’s old “Hamlet”—is finished too.
Richard, Gus and all the dear lads (Ned too, Anne) are learning their scripts in the tiring-room as I write this. I can hear Hal Condell’s stutter, Gus’s sage Polonius, and dear Dick (who longs to see you again, by the bye)—his voice soars into the rafters and comes down full of sunbeams.
[. . .]
So, my darling and my wife, one tragedy comes to the boards as the other leaves the bed. You have long known how it was with me, Anne, even though you have been so silent. You are a comely grave thing, wife, and when you say nothing, it is because there is too much to say. What was in your heart Anne, sitting at home and knowing? Did you feel the stranger in your bed? When Hamlet died, did you think I would draw to you again? God knows I tried; but I could not weep and gather you to me, and God forgive me, I could not love. Did you know that, Anne? I think you did, and knowing it, did you sit like Penelope in the fable, loving and waiting? There is a queen in my play, Anne; when her husband is murdered she marries the killer and takes him to her bed. Who killed me, Anne? Do you know? And if you had known, would you have opened your arms to my murderer? My murderer has been a woman, Anne, black as lust, white as leprosy and hot and rank as hell. I am telling you this, to show you her true picture; or have you seen it in my eyes as we were abed? She killed me, Anne; she killed you and me, and I went gladly to death, cursing to death, fighting, yielding, I know not what. You went to your death, the death of our love, because you had to. You had no choice.
Now, I am back from the grave like stinking Lazarus, hot from a black bed, and I must turn Orpheus and fetch you into the light again—if you wish to share it with me. Anne, may you and God forgive me, for this is a heavy tale and harder to tell as I know not what ending you will give it for me. I have wished for death to stay my telling you. pp. 108-109
The rest of the story alternates between time traveller Harry’s problems with the production, and Shakespeare’s long and agonising confessional. There are some great sections in both of these strands: in the first there is, among other things, the entertaining banter between a teenage prostitute looking for trade and the uninterested Harry—who then suddenly realises that she is only fourteen years old, and needs to eat. He gives her two crowns, and hopes that the money will give her a chance to improve her life. In the second Shakespeare gives an account of the performance of one of his plays, the lords and ladies that attend, a fight among the groundlings afterwards, and the woman he becomes infatuated with:
I was left on the quiet stage. The floorboards were worn smooth by the long scuffling of buskins, and I sat down and ran my hands over the joins, trying to find a splinter. I found one. That was when she laughed. She was still in the gallery, a pale and eager face with her mouth half-open and her eyes burning into my cod-piece like coals.
There was a young bright lord with red hair and a pink fool’s face standing behind her. He seemed to want to go, but she would not. And how could she? We were joined by an invisible chain, and must stay where we were or draw nearer. My eyes locked with her black gaze and my heart was offal again, as before the play, stinking dead meat alive with worms of sheer naked hunger.
She came down to the stage. I followed the ripple of her thighs under the farthingale as she held it up and back in mock modesty to climb the steps to me.
“The lone player. Where is your speech? Give it to me,” she said. There was laughter in her voice and her mouth turned up at one comer. Her teeth were blackened, her face blotched, bosom too full and head too small. Her nose was too upturned and her hair was black straw, tousled as if straight from a pillow. And every movement and every look of her unwinking black eyes reeked of lust. I desired her more than any woman made by God, and I still do. Foolishly I stood there. The young kneebender turned on his heel and went. He said something, but I don’t know what.
I started the first thing that came into my head, a speech of Hieronymo’s when he plays mad. Up and down I strutted. Will Hemmynges came up to see what the noise was, said “Sweet Jesu!” and went back. Higher and higher, faster and faster, the whirling words came. She never moved her eyes from me. There was contempt in them. There was greed and want in them. I was nothing and she wanted me. I was a hired player. Give the word and I ranted. Put away the props and I was done. But it pleased her to hire me, and have me as well. I drew my lath sword and had at the air in my madness (mine, not Hieronymo’s now). She had stepped nearer and it caught the lacing of her bodice. I tore it away unthinking and her breasts were bare. Oh Anne, in God’s name why do I tell you this to murder you still more? She was a whore, I am a fornicator, and there’s an end to it. Must I twist your guts as she twists mine? I am trying to purge myself, Anne, and there is no-one but you and God who can shrive me. God won’t if you don’t.
I took her there on the stage, and neither of us cared who saw. pp. 118-119
The two parts of the story eventually dovetail when Art takes Harry to a replica of the Globe that he has had built at Chiswick. There, Art realises he has left the scripts in the future, so he dispatches Harry to get a copy of the play.
Harry travels to Shakespeare’s Globe. There he looks through a window and sees the great man at his desk. When Shakespeare leaves the room, Harry sneaks in and steals a pile of papers, and then retires to a nearby tavern to read them. When he finds a letter in among the papers he reads it, and then decides to return the stolen goods.
On his return to the theatre Shakespeare watches Harry from the darkened corner of the room as he returns the papers to the desk; Shakespeare surprises and then questions Harry, and the two men end up talking. Harry eventually tells Shakespeare he is from the future, and the latter, after accepting the fact far too easily, impishly asks if he is remembered. When Harry tells him that everyone knows his name, Shakespeare asks, more seriously, “with joy or sorrow?”
The story ends with Harry agreeing to take Shakespeare’s letter to his wife, and the last lines of the story make it clear that the letter is not a confessional we have been reading, but a different letter full of news and gossip and homesick longing; Shakespeare thanks God “he had not written as he had thought.”
This is an ambitious time-travel story that paints a convincing portrait of Shakespeare and his times. It is a huge shame that this superlative piece is not better known, and that we heard no more from this promising writer.
•••
The Cover on this issue is again by Agosta Morol: I’m still not a fan—the last one was dark and muddy, and this one looks like a crude colour sketch (look at the figures in the middle of the piece for example).
This issue’s Editorial by J. Parkhill-Rathbone is prefaced by a brief note explaining why the magazine’s hard-working assistant editor is providing the text:
Mr. Bonfiglioli is in Venice observing heavenly bodies from a little observatory on the Lido. p. 2
Parkhill-Rathbone provides an essay about what the future will be like (I think—it’s a bit of a ramble).
•••
A pretty good issue, with a good to very good serial from Swann to start, and a very good novelette from Wordley to finish. Even the filler in the middle (with one exception) isn’t bad. ●
____________________
1. John Boston (Strange Highways: Reading Science Fantasy, 1950-67 p. 265-268) says that Thomas Burnett Swann’s The Weirwoods “is about the best of his stories yet for Science Fantasy [. . .] and as enjoyable as anything I’ve read in the magazine.” He goes on to say that “The Weirwoods is by far the most sexually explicit story to have appeared in this magazine, though in 1965 that’s still not too explicit (on the other hand, it’s inexplicit at some length).” I’d have thought that title would have gone to Thom Keyes and his earlier Period of Gestation.
Boston also says:
Swann conveys a strong sense of displacement into a world where people, and not-quite-people, like the Water Sprites, think differently from us. His world is vividly realized through a wealth of sensory and social detail conveyed economically and unobtrusively. This is fantasy that is High without being Jumped-Up. p. 266
He also liked Philip Wordley’s Goodnight Sweet Prince, calling it a “forgotten gem” and a “brilliant little tour de force, made by the sections comprising Shakespeare’s letter.” He concludes by saying that it “is shameful that it’s now totally forgotten.” Well, not in his book, and not here.
As to the rest of the stories, Boston thinks they are “well executed but not too interesting,” although he doesn’t seem to like Johnny Byrne’s story much, stating:
[Byrne] has contributed several very literate and surreal pieces to the magazine, but now he seems to have decided to write SF stories and start from scratch. This reads like a contrived beginner’s piece. p. 267
Graham Hall (Vector #35, October 1965, p. 21) says that he personally doesn’t like Swann’s work, and finds his “flowery, verbose style is well-enough executed, but [. . .] stodgy and uncaptivating.” He is much more positive about Philip Wordley’s story:
A bright note to be found in this issue is that Philip Wordley finally fulfills the promise shown in earlier stories. His “Goodnight, Sweet Prince” makes a mockery of most tired time-travel stories; what author would dare to write half a story in the form of a letter from William Shakespeare to Anne Hathaway? And how many authors could succeed in carrying it off? Coupled with his idea of films taken on time-location, this is one of the best of the new crop of stories. Along with Pippin Graham’s [Hilary Bailey’s] “In Reason’s Ear” (SFY 73) it is the best that Bonfiglioli has published. p. 21
Hall adds that Price’s Green Goblins Yet is “an amusing tale, slightly spoilt by its narration by an illiterate teenager. But anyone using the phrase “in a voice all Network Three and rich Abernathy biscuits” deserves to be read.” He goes on to say that he found Adams “ghost story with an attempted SF twist” “rather weary.” Tubb “shows his limitations as a writer with a study of a man going slowly insane,” and Johnny Byrne “produces a story which, for once, deserves printing.”
Hall concludes that the issue is worth buying for the Wordley story, and that “Science Fantasy tends to have a much wider variation in standard than New Worlds. Science Fantasy prints the best and the worst—a pity it can’t just print the best.”
2. My previous historical scores for the stories were (current assessment in brackets):
The Weirwoods by Thomas Burnett Swann ∗∗∗∗ (now ∗∗∗+)
Ragtime by Pamela Adams ∗∗ (∗∗∗)
Green Goblins Yet by W. Price – (-)
State of Mind by E. C. Tubb – (∗∗)
The Foreigner by Johnny Byrne ∗∗∗ (∗∗)
Goodnight, Sweet Prince by Philip Wordley ∗∗∗∗∗ (∗∗∗∗)
3. TBSF=Typical Bonfiglioli Space Filler.
4. There was some discussion about Philip Wordley’s identity on one of my lists. One contributor pointed out that only six people called Philip Wordley were born in the UK in the period 1916-2006; four were born after 1954 (therefore too young) which left two people: Philip H. Wordley, born Lesk (this is probably Leek, as below), Staffordshire, 3Q 1934, and Philip J. Wordley, born Crosby, Glamorgan, 2Q 1946.
There were seven births prior to 1916, but only two after 1887, Philip Wordley, born Leek, Staffordshire, 2Q 1902, and Philip Millington Wordley, born Stoke-on-Trent, Staffordshire, 1Q 1906. Died Newcastle under Lyme, 4Q 1968.
The ages of these people at the time of the story’s publication were (approx.) 31, 19, 63, and 59 years old. The general consensus was that the writer was probably the 31-year-old Philip H. Wordley, who sadly collapsed and then drowned in the River Tiverton in 2014 (there is a news report here). I’m not entirely sure about that, and think there is an equal chance that it was one of the two older men (I don’t think the story is the kind of thing that the fourth candidate, a 19-year-old, could write).
I wish I started doing this blog 20 years ago, when all these people were still alive and you could track them down and ask them a questions about their brief writing careers (most obviously, why did someone so talented as yourself stop writing?) ●
