Saturday, 26 June 2021

All The Time in The (Jurassic) World (Dominion)

The concept of Deep Time in terms of Earthly geology has its roots, in large part, to the work of Scottish geologist James Hutton. His study of the great natural wonders of his native Scotland - the Isle of Arran with its fault line dividing the Precambrian and the Carboniferous; the dolerite/basalt Salisbury Crags of Holyrood; the rugged uncomformity of Siccar's Point with its clash of sandstone and greywacke - inspired the theory that geological features were not necessarily static and timeless, but transformed and changed over unfathomably long periods of time. This meant that the Earth could not be as young as previously believed, and must have been changing for billions, not thousands, of years. This soon developed into uniformitarianism, and the modern science of the Earth which we know today.

Understandably, such a monumental paradigm shift in humanity's understanding of the planet on which they live every day of their lives was controversial. Certain religious organisations rejected the idea outright, perceiving it as an attack on their scripture: more traditional scientists were skeptical, viewing it as incomplete or unconvincing. In The Science of Life (1929), H.G. Wells & Julian Huxley noted the psychological barriers in getting human minds around such gigantic eons of history can be surmounted with a little effort:

To think in such magnitudes is not so difficult as many people imagine. The use of different scales is simply a matter of practice. We very soon get used to maps, though they are constructed on scales down to a hundred-millionth of natural size; we are used to switching over from thinking in terms of seconds and minutes to some other problem involving years and centuries; and to grasp geological time all that is needed is to stick tight to some magnitude which shall be the unit on the new and magnified scale -  a million years is probably the most convenient - to grasp its meaning once and for all by an effort of imagination, and then to think of all passage of geological time in terms of this unit.

Alas, despite the centuries since Hutton's discovery (& decades since Wells and others developed the Popular Science genre of non-fiction), it seems Deep Time lies beyond the grasp of even the most intellectual of Holywood movie producers...


Friday, 13 November 2020

170 Years of Robert Louis Stevenson

Well, if you want to get technical, it isn't for a wee while yet. Mr Stevenson legally waived all rights to 13th of November as his birthday to a Ms Annie Ide:

Most of us -  especially when we are young-look forward to our birthday each year. Greeting cards arrive in the mail. There may be some exciting presents and perhaps a party with friends. It's a special day and it's fun to be the center of attention.

But suppose that special day happened to come on December 25, the biggest holiday of the entire year? Noone would even notice an ordinary birthday in the middle of Christmas.

Annie Ide of SI. Johnsbury had just such a birthday. Annie was born in 1876 and when she was fifteen her father went to the island of Samoa in the South Pacific.  There he met Robert Louis Stevenson, the famous author of Treasure Island. The two men became good friends.

One day Annie's father told his friend that because his daughter was born on December 25, she had never had a real birthday celebration. Stevenson offered to give his birthday to Annie so she could have a day all her own. He mailed her a document that said,

"I, Robert Louis Stevenson, ... have attained an age when, 0, we never mention it, and... have no further use for a birthday of any description... do hereby transfer to... (Miss) A.H.Ide, all and whole my rights and privileges in the thirteenth day of November, formerly my birthday, now, hereby, and henceforth the birthday of the said A(nnie) H.Ide, to have, hold, exercise and enjoy the same in the customary manner, by the sporting of fine raiments, eating of rich meats and receipt of gifts, compliments and copies of verse, according to the manner of our ancestors."

Well, while I'm sure Annie enjoyed every 13th of November of her life, it would be a most diminished world if only one person could claim a day for their birthday, wouldn't it? I have a post over at DMR books talking about three of Stevenson's most important works, and how they affected me personally.

Monday, 7 September 2020

Pumzika Kwa Amani, Charles R. Saunders, Griot for Another World


I was just digesting the shocking news of Chadwick Boseman's death when I heard about Charles R. Saunders, Sword and Soul pioneer and lovely man, who has also passed away. Fellow Howard reader Ben Friberg's parting gift to me before my long absence from Cross Plains was a copy of Imaro: The Naama War, which I read as soon as I got home to Scotland. Fellow New-Pulp and black speculative fiction creators Milton Davis, Kiini Ibura Salaam, Gareth Miles, & Derrick Ferguson offered tributes, as well as Locus Magazine, Ron Fortier, Ryan Harvey,

Friday, 7 August 2020

The Phantasmagoria Metallique: 100 Years of A. Merritt's "The Metal Monster"

Sphere and block and pyramid ran together, seemed to seethe. I had again that sense of a quicksilver melting. Up from them thrust a thick rectangular column. Eight feet in width and twenty feet high, it shaped itself. Out from its left side, from right side, sprang arms—fearful arms that grew and grew as globe and cube and angle raced up the column's side and clicked into place each upon, each after, the other. With magical quickness the arms lengthened.

Before us stood a monstrous shape; a geometric prodigy. A shining angled pillar that, though rigid, immobile, seemed to crouch, be instinct with living force striving to be unleashed.

Two great globes surmounted it—like the heads of some two-faced Janus of an alien world.

At the left and right the knobbed arms, now fully fifty feet in length, writhed, twisted, straightened; flexing themselves in grotesque imitation of a boxer. And at the end of each of the six arms the spheres were clustered thick, studded with the pyramids—again in gigantic, awful, parody of the spiked gloves of those ancient gladiators who fought for imperial Nero.

For an instant it stood here, preening, testing itself like an athlete—a chimera, amorphous yet weirdly symmetric—under the darkening sky, in the green of the hollow, the armored hosts frozen before it—

And then—it struck! 

 - "The Metal Monster," A. Merritt 

Today marks the 100th anniversary of the publication of A. Merritt's "The Metal Monster," one of my very favourite weird tales and a truly remarkable work of science fiction.

Pal of the Blog Deuce Richardson very kindly hosts my exploration of just how rich and expansive the story's links to modern science fiction are.

For such a visual feast, there's remarkably little illustration out there for "The Metal Monster." Stephen Fabian's cover art for the 1976 Avon Books publication (pictured at the top of the post) is a bit closer to the modular, weird nature of the Monster, but there are some other interesting ones out there.

Thursday, 11 June 2020

Robert E. Howard in Scots: Echoes from an Anvil

Echaes frae a Stiddie

Screivit by Rabert E. Howard 

I leave tae pegral makars

The tabor an the lute;

I sing in drums an tom-toms

The bleck bysmal bruit –

Ma vyse is o’ the people,

Thon etin wild an mout.

Wi’ bluid o’ aw the ages

His braken nails are bleck,

The hale waurld wechts an burdens

His birsie beastial back;

He shammles doon ivermair

A blin an fankelt track.

I bring nae sneithit diamants,

Nae gems frae Lunnon toun;

Nae culturt wheem or teevock

Ma rochle varses croun;

You find here nocht but pouer

That braks a ceety doun.

I spill nae wirds o’ beauty,

Cuinyies frae a siller purse,

Ma hauns are built o’ airn,

An airn is in ma varse.

I bring nae luve but fury,

Nae blissin but a curse.

Ma law-fung brou is slentit,

Ma een are burnin reid,

Wi’ fairce bleck primal veesions

That thunner in ma heid;

Ahint ma hert the rivers

An aw the jungles spreid.

I sclaved in starn-girt Babel

An lauboured at the wa’;

I watchit the birth o’ pavies

Aneath ma clourin mell –

An in a frenzied dawin

I saw her tours faw.

I toiled in Tuscan vinyairds,

I brak the beaten laim,

I streend agin the haimer

That drave the clourer haim;

I sweitit in the gaileys

That brak the road tae Roum.

Och, Khan an keeng an pharaoh!

In cauld an drouth an heat

I bled tae build yer glore,

An eemock aneath yer feet –

But aye ris a mornin

Whan bluid ran in the street.

The waurld upon ma shouders

Knee deep in muck an silt,

Ma haun aneath ma tatters

Still grips the hidden hilt –

Wha fed the auncient rivers

Wi’ bluid rebellions spilt?

Wednesday, 11 March 2020

Jurassic Park and the End of Man's Dominion

In which I ponder the new title for the upcoming third Jurassic World film, and how it relates to Robert Burns.

Because that's the sort of Venn Diagram this blog is all about.

Thursday, 31 October 2019

BeastieScotInktoberFest: #31 - Wild Hairy Haggis

My heart’s in the Highlands,
twa strings on my bow
To hunt the fierce haggis,
man’s awfu’est foe.
And weel may my bairn
ha’ a tear in his ee.
For I shallna come back
if the haggis hunts me.
 - James J. Montague, The New York Tribune, 2nd January 1924

Ah, that most feared & beloved of Scottish beasties, the Wild Haggis. Elusive yet ubiquitous, they're rare enough to be seldom seen in the wild, yet populous enough to feed 5.4 million Scots every Burns' Night. Some say they are small furry mammals, others that they are little birds with vestigial wings; some say their right (or left) legs are longer than the others to facilitate mountain navigation at the cost of reproductive opportunity, while others suppose that they have only three legs, or even no legs at all; there are those who compare their call with the drone of the bagpipes, and others who equate it with a whistly twittering.

There are regional variations, of course. Those Haggis which perambulate around the hills and mountains have two known species based on the direction most amenable to their gait: the Deisul Haggis (Haggis scottii dexterous, also known as the Sunwise Haggis) & the Widdershins Haggis (Haggis scottii dexterous, or the Taibhse Tuathal in the Gaelic heartlands), who are forced to travel clockwise and anti-clockwise respectively by their biology. The Golden Haggis of Lewis (Haggis limnuensis) - an even-legged variety - is prized not just for its meat, but its fur, which was traditionally used to adorn the sporrans of Lewis's menfolk. The near-legendary Great Haggis (Haggis magnificens), now thought to be either extinct or hiding with Nessie, was an enormous breed which could feed an entire village from St. Andrew's Day to Burns' Night, as documented in The Capture of the Great Haggis, 1743. All varieties are believed to be derived from the ancient Hebridean Haggis (Haggis hebudensis), a small and hardy creature especially adapted to the rough lands of the Western Isles in a manner not unlike the famous Shetland Pony.

A pseudoscientific fad in recent years claims that the Wild Haggis are not real, and that it is merely a Scottish culinary staple given some local flavour. Such attacks against science & history are not to be dignified with a response.

Thursday, 10 October 2019

BeastieScotInktoberFest: #10 - Bauchan

I have given these specimens of a particular class of tales which are common enough, as they came to me, because they seem to be fair illustrations of the popular creed as to spirits; and to show that the so-called spirits are generally very near mortal men. My belief is, that bocan, bodach, fuath, and all their tribe, were once savages, dressed in skins, and that gruagach was a half-tamed savage banging about the houses, with his long hair and skin clothing; that these have gradually acquired the attributes of divinities, river gods, or forest nymphs, or that they have been condemned as pagan superstitions, and degraded into demons; and I know that they are now remembered, and still somewhat dreaded, in their last character. The tales told of them partake of the natural and supernatural, and bring fiction nearer to fact than any class of tales current in the Highlands, unless it be the fairy stories of which a few are given under number 28, etc.
 - John Campbell, Popular tales of the West Highlands

As an admirer of the great Arthur Rackham and modern master Brian Froud, I wanted to pay tribute in one of the (slightly) less terrifying beasties of Scottish folklore, the Bauchan.

Here's a tale of the Bauchan chronicled by John Campbell:

In the neighbourhood of Loch Traig, in Lochaber, Callum Mor MacIntosh held a little farm. There were rumours of his having intercourse with a mysterious personage called a bauchan, but of his first acquaintance with him there are no authentic accounts. One thing, however, is certain, that on some occasions he was supernaturally aided by this bauchan, while at others, having in some way excited his displeasure, Callum was opposed in all his schemes, and on several occasions they came the length of fighting hand to hand, Callum never suffering much injury. On one occasion, as Callum was returning from Fort-William market, he met his friend the bauchan within a short distance of his own house, and one of these contests took place, during which Callum lost his pocket-handkerchief, which, having been blessed and presented to him by the priest, was possessed of a peculiar charm. The fight being ended, Callum hurried home; but, to his dismay, found that he had lost his charmed handkerchief, for which he and his wife in vain sought. 

Callum felt certain he had to thank the bauchan for this mishap, and hurried back to the scene of action. The first object that met his view was the bauchan, busily engaged in rubbing a flat stone with the identical handkerchief. On seeing Callum, he called out, "Ah you are back; it is well for you, for if I had rubbed a hole into this before your return you were a dead man. No doctor on earth or power could save you; but you shall never have this handkerchief till you have won it in a fair fight." "Done," said Callum, and at it they went again, and Callum recovered his handkerchief. Peats were almost unknown at that time, and Callum, when the weather grew cold, took his axe, and felled a large birch tree in the neighbouring forest, the branches supplied wood for the fire for several days, and Callum did not trouble himself to lay in a store nearer hand-when, lo! a snow storm came on, and blocked up the country, so that he was cut off from his supply. There was no means of access to the tree; and careful as Callum's wife was, the last branch was almost consumed, and the fire burnt low.

Up started Callum with an exclamation, "Oh! wife, would that we had the tree I felled in the forest! it would keep us warm this night." Hardly had he spoken when the house was shaken and the door rattled; a heavy weight had fallen near the door. Callum rushed to see what the cause was, and there was the wished-for tree, with the Bauchan grinning at him - "S ma am Bauchan fathast, ged a sgain an Sagart" - ("the Bauchan is still kind, though the Priest should burst") - said the wife. On another occasion it happened that Callum left the farm he was in and went to one adjoining which he had taken carrying with him his wife and all his furniture. In the nighttime Callum turned to his wife and said, "Well, it is well we have all with us; only one thing have we forgotten, the hogshead in which the hides are being barked; that we have forgotten" "No matter for that," said the wife; "there is no one to occupy the place yet a while, and we have time to get it home safe enough;" and so the matter rested; but on going round the end of the house next morning, what did Callum see but his own identical hogshead, hides and all. It had been transported the distance of five miles of most rugged, rocky district. None but a goat could have crossed the place, and in the time it would have bothered one to do it, but the Bauchan managed it, and saved Callum a most troublesome journey. If you will go and take a look at it--the spot is there yet--and I would like to see how soon you would manage it, let alone the hogshead.

Poor Callum, however, was obliged, with many of his neighhours, to leave Lochaber; indeed, he was amongst the first embarking at Arisaig for New York. The passage was a tedious one, but it ended at last, and without any particular adventures but on arriving they had to perform a quarantine of many days. On getting pratique, Callum was in the first boat which landed, and happened to have stowed himself in the bows of the boat, and when she grounded, was the first man to jump on shore. Directly his feet touched the ground, who should meet him in the shape of a goat but the Bauchan, "Ha, ha Callum, ha mi sho air thoseach orst" - ("Ha, Malcolm, I am here before thee"). Here ends our story; but rumour says that Callum was the better of the Bauchan's help in clearing the lands of his new settlement, and that, till he was fairly in the way of prosperity, the Bauchan abstained from teasing and provoking poor Callum.

Wednesday, 9 October 2019

BeastieScotInktoberFest: #9 - The Blue Men of the Minch

The Blue Men are found only in the Minch, and chiefly in the strait which lies between the Island of Lewis and the Shant Isles (the charmed islands), and is called the " Sea-stream of the Blue Men". They are not giants, like the Nimble Men, but of human size, and they have great strength. By day and by night they swim round and between the Shant Isles, and the sea there is never at rest. The Blue Men wear blue caps and have grey faces which appear above the waves that they raise with their long restless arms. In summer weather they skim lightly below the surface, but when the wind is high they revel in the storm and swim with heads erect, splashing the waters with mad delight. Sometimes they are seen floating from the waist out of the sea, and sometimes turning round like porpoises as they dive.
 - Donald Alexander Mackenzie, Wonder Tales from Scottish Myth & Legend

Now for something really scary... While many nations have their equivalents to Kelpies, sea serpents, and bogles, the Blue Men are peculiar to Scotland alone. It's probably just as well, as the idea of long-armed, creepy humanoids floating out on the open sea from the waist up is quite a frightening image. This aspect was rather cleverly theorised by Sophia Kingshill as a folk memory of woad-painted Pictish Warriors travelling with low kayak-like canoes, which might indeed somewhat resemble people eerily floating from the waist up. An alternative explanation is that the "Blue Men" were in fact black - daoine gorm, rendered in English, literally means "blue people," but is used to refer to people with dark skin - and is a folk memory of Viking or Roman slaves, who would understandably be very unusual to people on the very edge of the world.

Mackenzie relates one tale of the Blue Men, where their love of poetry and messing with ships at sea is highlighted:

In days of old the " Blue Men's Stream " was sometimes called " The Current of Destruction ", because so many ships were swamped in it. The people blamed the Blue Men, who dwelt in caves, Nimble Men, Blue Men, &c. Si they said, at the bottom of the sea. Their sentinels were always on the look-out, and when a vessel came in siofht, word was sent to the men o in the caves to come up. Sailors were afraid of them, and many sailed round the Shant Islands instead of taking the short cut between these and the big Island of Lewis. When the chief of the Blue Men had all his men gathered about him, ready to attack a ship, he rose high in the water and shouted to the skipper two lines of poetry, and if the skipper did not reply at once by adding two lines to complete the verse, the Blue Men seized the ship and upset it. Many a ship was lost in days of old because the skipper had no skill at verse. True is the Gaelic saying, however: "There comes with time what comes not with weather."

One day, when the wind was high and the billows rough and angry, the Blue Men saw a stately ship coming towards their sea-stream under white sails. Royally she cleft her way through the waves. The sentinels called to the blue fellows who were on the sea floor, and as they rose they wondered to see the keel pass over- head so swiftly. Some seized it and shook it as if to try their strength, and were astonished to find it so steady and heavy. It carried on straight as a spear in flight. The chief of the Blue Men bobbed up in front  of the ship, and, when waist-high among the tumbling waves, shouted to the skipper:

"Man of the black cap, what do you say
As your proud ship cleaves the brine?"

No sooner were the words spoken than the skipper answered:

"My speedy ship takes the shortest way,
And I'll follow you line by line!"

This was at once an answer and a challenge, and the chief of the Blue Men cried angrily:

"My men are eager, my men are ready
To drag you below the waves!"

 The skipper answered defiantly in a loud voice:

"My ship is speedy, my ship is steady,
If it sank it would wreck your caves!"

The chief of the Blue Men was worsted. Never before had a seaman answered him so promptly and so well. He had no power to injure the ship, because the skipper was as good a bard as he was himself, and he knew that if he went on shouting half-verses until the storm spent itself the skipper would always complete them. He signaled to his followers to dive; and down below the wave ridges they all vanished, like birds that dive for fish. The big ship went on proudly and safely under snow-white, wind-tight sails while the sea-wind through the cordage sang With high and wintry merriment. 

Also included is this haunting song of the Blue Men, attributed to Scottish boatmen:

When the tide is at the turning and the wind is fast asleep,
And not a wave is curling on the wide, blue deep,
Oh, the waters will be churning in the stream that never smiles,
Where the Blue Men are splashing round the charmed isles.

As the summer wind goes droning o'er the sun-bright seas,
And the Minch is all a-dazzle to the Hebrides,
They will skim along like salmon, you can see their shoulders gleam,
And the flashing of their fingers in the Blue Men's Stream.

But when the blast is raving and the wild tide races,
The Blue Men are breast-high with foam-grey faces;
They'll plunge along with fury while they sweep the spray behind,
Oh, they'll bellow o'er the billows and wail upon the wind.

And if my boat be storm-toss'd and beating for the bay,
They'll be howling and be growling as they drench it with the spray
For they 'd like to heel it over to their laughter when it lists,
Or crack the keel between them, or stave it with their fists.

 Oh, weary on the Blue Men, their anger and their wiles!
The whole day long, the whole night long, they 're splashing round the isles;
They'll follow every fisher ah! they'll haunt the fisher's dream-
When billows toss, Oh, who would cross the Blue Men's Stream!

 - Boatman's Song, Wonder Tales of Scottish Myth & Legend