But is this sad conclusion all we can learn from this manuscript? No. There is further information to be gleaned from the lines of poetry; and this indicates almost beyond a shadow of a doubt that the igneos need not be gone from among us for good.
For, I submit humbly, but with the certainty of all my years of scholarship in this field, that these lines, together with other evidence I have mentioned, reveal that the igneos, as a race, have not died out. What they have done is to withdraw temporally from us humans. They have literally hidden themselves somewhere in the temporal continuum, using their ability to travel there.
Where in the temporal continuum are they hiding? The answer to this question must await further research. But no one of intelligence can doubt that the answer is there waiting for us. I submit to you two inescapable conclusions:
One, that this manuscript was clearly written by a modern hand.
Two, that the Dragon-Runners’ Guild is proved beyond any reasonable doubt to exist.
The deduction from these conclusions is obvious. The writer of the manuscript must have been himself or herself a member of the Guild—a modern member who was able to return through time to the Fourteenth Century or earlier. Such temporal translations could only have been accomplished with the help of one or more igneos—which means that their race must still exist, in some area removed from our modern present, but from which they are in contact with the Guild. Such Guild-contact can only indicate that the igneos have not completely given up on humanity.
This being the case, however, we may well ask ourselves—can the igneos ever be brought back into contact with the rest of our race, and if so, how?
The poem itself offers an answer. It was the lack of association of noble-hearted humans that caused the igneos to disappear from view, it tells us. But it avoids suggesting that there were no longer any noble-hearted humans in existence. I propose, rather, that it was the noisy vehicles of modern transportation, the overwhelming growth of human cities—in short, the infestation of earth and sky with all the artifacts of what humans call modern civilization—that caused the sensitive igneos to shrink back more and more into isolated areas, where the possibility of their contact with the noble-hearted among our own race was extremely limited.
But now, we have finally come upon a practical means of bringing the igneos out of hiding. It is through such publications as this, that a sufficient number of igneos-minded humans can be located and identified; so that, finding human friends once more available to them, the igneos may possibly be enticed to return among us.
I have been told point-blank by other igneos experts that this prospect is a pipe-dream on my part; that the noble-hearted human is as extinct as the igneos themselves have popularly been believed to be. However, I emphatically reject such pessimism; and I offer to rebut it with the reactions of the readers of this monograph. Let me refer you to the fact that, at its conclusion, the manuscript shows Shagoth and Morlet, although they are now separated, maintaining their friendship through an exchange of correspondence once a year:
“… Butte yn ye season whenne ye mistletoe And holly hangeth hevye on ye bough, Ech wrytes to ech a lettere of gude cheere, To telle hys friende whatte hym befel thatte yeare.”
I stand on my belief that there are among the readers of this publication many of those noble-hearted individuals with whom our time-stranded igneos friends yearn to have contact. And I call on all of you reading this. How many of you would not be willing, like Morlet, to sit down once a year at this holiday season and pen a “lettere of gude cheere” to an igneos friend?
Confident that the positive response to this question will be an overwhelmingly decisive one, I sit back to await the future in an atmosphere of anticipation and high hope.
Ye Prenitce And Ye Dragon
Yn frostye season whenne ye mistletoe
And holly hangeth hevye on ye bough;
A deede bothe brave and kindlie once befel;
The tale of whych yn truthe I canne nowe telle.
Ther wasse a Dragon, SHAGOTH, on a clyffe.
I wiss hee wasse a Dragon fatte and styffe;
For thatte since manye settynges of ye sunne
Hee hadde no ferce battaile, nor helthful ronne.
And as bothe Dragones and alle mankinde hathe,
Hys styffnesse fedeth fulle hys anciente wrathe.
By alle of whych I shulde be understoode
To saye of hym, hys temper wasse notte gude.
By cause of thys, hys sore infirmitee,
He sheweth no traveleres ne mercie;
Ande suche grym stories of hym didde resound,
Alle folke of hys clyffe passeth far around.
But at ye tyme of whych I nowe relate
Ther cameth one whose renoun wasse notte grete;
A Prentice onlie, but by stronge oathe bounde,
To ronne alle Dragones, and to keepe them sounde.
And as hys rank, tho gentil, wasse not grete,
Hee had no welth, ne any hy estate;
But that rare charitie to Dragonkinde
Whych Sages praiseth, tyme alle oute of mynde.
MORLET, hys name, a brave and kindlie youth.
When thatte hee knew ye mattere wasse ynsoothe
Of a Dragon’s deepe neede, yvowed thatte hee
Shulde see ye SHAGOTH ronninge lyssomlee.
Yet perille was ynough, as welle he wotte,
Sobye hee came at nyghttyme as ythought,
Wher slepeth SHAGOTH yn a rockye neste,
Groanynge for aches thatte paineth stronge hys reste.
And clever lye ye Prentice, alle alone,
Beneathe ye necke of SHAGOTH rolled a stone.
So thatte ye Dragon twyst hys necke yn sleepe,
Ye stone from bruysing of his fleshe to keepe.
So slepeth hee wyth twysted necke tyll dawne.
Woke wyth ye sunne and sterteth up anon.
A styffe, and certes, a crookede necke to fynde,
Soe thatte he myghte bye no meanes looke behinde.
Soe payned thys laste condicioun, past beliefe,
Thatte SHAGOTH gan to wepe for verie griefi
“O sadde a Dragon’s lyfe,” quod hee,
“thatte I Must suffere soe, and am too fatte to flye!”
But scarcelie hadde he made thys woefulle moan,
When hee did feele a poke at hys tayle-bone.
Furieuse, hee tryde to turn hys head and see,
Who poked atte hym; but hys styffe necke stopped hee.
“Hay done!” hee cryed, “Yn Name of Dragon’s Wrathe!”
Yette MORLET kneweth welle hys Prentice‘ pathe;
Wherefor hee proddeth SHAGOTH yette once more
And SHAGOTH lepeth from hys neste, aroare.
So wroth ye Dragon wasse, ne recketh hee
Of alle hys aches and alle hys miserie.
“I shalle thys Pokkere shak fro off my tayle,”
Swered hee, “then dryve hym erthwerd lyke a nayle!”
Rechinge ye open plaine, hee gan gallope
As onlie Dragons canne, withouten stoppe.
At fersom speede hee thundred o’er ye lande,
Ther wasse no distaunce thatte culde hym withstande.
Meantyme, yonge MORLET, faithfulle to hys vowe,
Clunge to ye Dragon’s tayle, gratefulle enowe.
For hys gude belte, withe whych tyght-bounde hadde hee,
Hymself to SHAGOTH, leste hee bee throwne free.
So, ryskinge lyfe and lymbe and mortale dethe,
MORLET revowed hys oathe whyle hee hadde brethe,
“I will succour thys Dragon, or wille die. Suth dutie ys ye leeste fro suche as I!”
Yet, if yonge MORLET wulde notte bende hys wille,
Namor culde SHAGOTH’s Dragon’s wrathe be stille.
Togethere, they continuede on ther ronne
Through mornynge, noone, and settynge of ye sunne.
Acrosse ye wyde plaine, thro ye furthere hilles,
/> By fieldes and forestes, swampes and rockye rilles,
Chargeth ye SHAGOTH ynto deepeste nyghte.
Fulle warme wasse hee, ne ached, but felte aryghte.
And as ye yongling dawne gan bleede ye skye,
SHAGOTH unto hymself asked, “Bee thys I?
So lyghtlie leping o’er ech hille and dale;
So acheless, fulle of strengthe, ne lyke to fayle?
“Mayhap thys longe gallope hathe done me gude.
Culdest bee thys Pokkere knewe soe, thatte yt wulde?
Yf soe, mystaken wasse my wrathe anon
I muste admitte to hym thatte I wasse wronge.“
Hee turned hys heade—nowe on a supple necKe,
To speke to MORLET. But hee fayled to recke
Of (juste aheade) a cliffe-edge, sharpe yndeede
From off of whych hee hurtled atte fulle speede
A cliffe ytte wasse, famos fro lande to lande,
For halfe a myle sheere, felle ytte to ye strande
Of ye deepe sea, wyth grete stones alle aboute,
To smashe ye lyfe fro man and Dragon oute.
Ye whole world knowes—despyte hys fercer parte,
How ech Dragon wythin hathe noble herte;
And yn thys moment whenne fel dethe wasse nere,
Ytte wasse notte for hymself SHAGOTH felte feare.
“Alas!” cryed hee, “ne looked I onne, eftsoone.
I have repayed kyndnesse wyth ferful doome!
Pokkere, t’was thou helped mee—nowe wee muste dye!“
”NonSense!“ quod MORLET. ”Needes butte thatte ye flye.
Grete teares therpon bedewed ye Dragon’s cheek.
“Alas,” hee wept, “I am too fatte and weake!”
“Thatte once wasse true,” sayd MORLET, “but namor.
Thy ronne hathe made thee lean and lyght to soare.”
“Canne thys bee true?” sayd SHAGOTH. “I wille trye.“
Hee tryed, and lo! Hee founde thatte hee culde flye.
As once hadde hee, when butte a Dragon yonge,
Soarynge above ye erthbounde, everechon.
Ah, grete ye bliss of hygh lordes yn ther toweres,
And grete ther laydes bliss wythin ther bowers;
But no bliss toucheth that whych doth obtayn,
A Dragon fatte, who nowe canne flye agayne!
Above ye rocye strande and cruel sea,
SHAGOTH bete upward, lyght as fethers bee;
Swoopynge and makynge Turnes Immeleman,
Ande Loope-ye-Loopes, all suche as Dragons canne.
So triumphantlee returned hee home by aire,
To hys own clyffe. Partynge wyth MORLET ther,
He didde ye Prentice thanke moste hertilie,
And waved farewel as far as hym culde see.
And soe they parted. Butte since then, ech dawne,
Earlie, SHAGOTH some lengthie leagues doth ronne;
Ande lyfteth hevie weightes to keepe hym trim,
Soe thatte alle other Dragones envie hym.
Meantyme, yonge MORLET hath becom a Knyghte.
Yn manye landes hath shone yn gallaunt fyghte
Ande won hym grete honors, untyl ye Kyng
Hath made hym Baronne, as ye mynstrelles sing.
Soe goeth ech, uponne hys separate waye,
SHAGOTH doth aide alle travelleres gone astraye.
MORLET doth rule hys Baronnie, and fyghte
Alle eville Knyghtes, and trounceth them aryght.
Butte yn ye season whenne ye mistletoe
And holly hangeth hevye on ye bough,
Ech wrytes to ech a lettere of gude cheere
To telle hys friende whatte hym befel thatte yeare.
When art is a product of madness, what happens when the artist goes sane?
A Case History
“YOU LOOK LIKE AN INTELLIGENT YOUNG MAN,” SAID THE gray-haired individual.
“Thank you,” the bartender replied. “Another boilermaker?”
“Make it a double. My nerves are shattered.”
“Ninety cents,” the barman said, putting it down in front of him. “For long-term results, however, I would recommend a psychiatrist.”
“I am a psychiatrist,” the other answered, gloomily.
“Oh.”
“And there’s no use telling me to see someone else in my own profession,” he added. “I can’t afford it. Anyway, it wouldn’t help. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Or, in other words, who will listen to the psychiatrist? Nobody but the bartender.”
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, the lunch crowd will be coming in shortly and I’ve got to get these glasses washed—”
“Young man,” said the psychiatrist, “the patient’s name was Elmer.” “Elmer?”
Elmer Grudy was his real name, said the psychiatrist. He is better known under his pseudonym of Bruce Mondamin, as a leading writer of American fantasy fiction. His speciality was the supernatural spiced with a nice touch of the gruesome, for which certain childhood traumata were directly responsible—but I won’t violate professional confidence by going into details. Enough that he was successful and had experienced an unhappy childhood—as who hasn’t? Why, in my own case—but I wander from the subject.
As I say, he was successful—up to a certain point. The monsters he was adept at creating in his fiction were uniformly successful in chilling the blood of readers during the early and relatively bleak years of his career when he lived on peanut butter sandwiches and cheap beer. However with the postwar boom in this type of literature, he suddenly began to make money and the first signs of his personal tragedy began to make their appearance. He put on weight, filling out his six foot frame from a skinny 130 to a robust 180 pounds. He moved into better quarters, got a haircut and some new clothes and was observed to smile where he once scowled, to be mildly sociable where he used to be violently antisocial. In short, to give all the sinister indications of being happier than he had ever been in his life before.
I need hardly say that the effect all this had on his writing was disastrous. It was finally and forcibly brought to his attention when his latest story was returned by his most consistent publisher with a curt note, the substance of which was that he clean up a certain passage dealing with the story’s Monster—or else—
Elmer looked at the passage indicated, in surprise. He had written it in good faith; and, even looking at it now, he could see nothing wrong with it. The passage went as follows:
“The Thing!” screamed little Tommy Wittleton, “The Thing in the closet! It’s coming out!”
The Thing came all the way out. It advanced on little Tommy.
“There, there, Tommy,” it said, “don’t be frightened.”
Beaming reassuringly on the little fellow, it produced a large chocolate bar from its pocket and gave it to the boy. Then it took its other hand from behind its back.
“Guess what I have here?” it whispered. Tommy looked. His eyes bugged out.
“The little puppy-dog I wanted for Christmas!” he cried joyfully.
Elmer scratched his head over the passage. It looked all right to him. He worried about it for a week and finally came to see me.
I pointed out the truth to him. He had, unfortunately, become a happy and contented man. It was ruining his work. What he needed was to delve back into his childhood and recapture the old neuroses and psychoses. After some struggle he agreed to try.
Now, Elmer had been raised by a maiden aunt following the early death of both his parents; and this maiden aunt—well, I’ll spare you the details. However, the maiden aunt, who was still alive, was the personification of all his early terrors. She lived alone, a complete recluse, in a small town down east. Elmer had not seen her since he had run away from home at the age of fifteen to find freedom and the means of livelihood as general cleanup boy in a flourishing mortuary.
“Go back, Elmer,” I told him. “Return in your own mind to the days when you lived with your Auntie Eglantine. Recreate your childhood,
and your old skill with monsters will return to you.”
Elmer was doubtful, but Elmer tried. He spent long hours walking by himself, or brooding in the cellar of his house (he had a house of his own by this time). He even tried eating sandwiches of stale bread and lard—a favorite of his aunt’s during his childhood. But it seemed that he would be without success, until it occurred to him one day to put his unique talents to work on the problem. As a writer, he should be able to dramatize his situation with his pen. Accordingly, he sat down and commenced a story in which a boy like himself was being brought up by an aunt like his aunt; and at the end of the story, the aunt became a hideous monster.
The story was a resounding success. His monster aunt was the most spine-chilling thing to hit the stands and counters in a decade. There was one horrible little bit at the end in which her eyes melted and ran together—but I won’t afflict you with the full description. Suffice it to say that the man who set up the galley proofs is now in Bellevue.
Well, the problem appeared solved. Elmer obliged with story after story in which somebody’s aunt finished up by becoming a monster. And the aunt he used for his model was always his aunt; and in each story, her appearance became more horrible than ever.
I saw by the reviews in the various periodicals that Elmer was riding the crest of the wave; and I expected to hear no more from him. You can judge my surprise, therefore, when six months later the shattered wreck of a man that called himself Elmer Grudy tottered into my office and collapsed on the couch.