This is a special 20 page sampler for
Masters of Adventure M A G A Z I N E Issue number 1 You can read the rest of the stories and articles by purchasing your own print or electronic copy at www.lulu.com/ragemachinebooks There you can also find other exciting publications from
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CONTENTS MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE .............................................4 EDGAR ALLAN POE • ILLUSTRATED BY G. W. THOMAS
Cover art and design:
M.D. Jackson
SMITH AND THE PHARAOHS .........................................13 H. RIDER HAGGARD • ILLUSTRATED BY M. D. JACKSON
All of the stories that appear in this magazine are in the public domain.
THE BRAZILIAN CAT .................................................42 A. CONAN DOYLE • ILLUSTRATED BY M. D. JACKSON
THE GROVE OF ASHTORATH .........................................56 MASTERS OF ADVENTURE — issued occasionally by the Dark Worlds Club, British Columbia, Canada. Copyright 2010. All Rights Reserved by the Editors and Author/Artist Partners. All copyright remains with the authors and artists. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission. No submissions will be accepted without invitation of the Dark Worlds Club. Letters of Comment can be sent to darkworlds21@gmail.com. Each story in this anthology is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents in this anthology are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people (living or dead) places, business establishments, locales, and/or events is entirely coincidental.
JOHN BUCHAN • ILLUSTRATED BY G. W. THOMAS
TARZAN RESCUES THE MOON .......................................74 EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS • ILLUSTRATED BY M. D. JACKSON
A THOUSAND DEATHS ...............................................86 JACK LONDON • ILLUSTRATED BY M. D. JACKSON
A TROPICAL HORROR ................................................94 WILLIAM HOPE HODGSON • ILLUSTRATED BY G. W. THOMAS
BREATH OF ALLAH .................................................102 SAX ROHMER • ILLUSTRATED BY G. W. THOMAS
THE PEOPLE OF THE PIT..........................................116 A. MERRITT • ILLUSTRATED BY G. W. THOMAS
WINGS IN THE NIGHT .............................................128 ROBERT E. HOWARD • ILLUSTRATED BY M. D. JACKSON
MASTERS OF ADVENTURE
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Hail! fellow traveler, as we embark embar rk into lands of flashing sw words ords o rd s a and nd midnig night suns!
Swords of Fire
David A. Hardy C.J. Burch Jack Mackenzie G.W. Thomas
Edit d
Available now from Rage Machine Publishing
FOUR FANTASTIC SWORD AND SOTALES OF RCERY by
Da avid A. Hardy C.J. Burch Ja ack Mackenzie Edited by G. W. TH
G.W. Thomas
OMAS
www.lulu.com/ragemachinebooks darkworlds21.blogspot.com www.gwthomas.org 2
MASTERS OF ADVENTURE
EDITOR’S NOTES THE STORIES COLLECTED here and in future volumes contain the greatest fantastic adventure stories produced in English (and occasionally other languages too). Most were written between 1850 and 1930, a time in which attitudes about race, the role of women and empire were different than today. It is a well-documented fact that Jack London and Robert E. Howard were outright “racist” in their beliefs. Some of the other authors in this book equally show their dated beliefs. The anti-Semitic underpinning of Buchan’s story as well as Edgar Rice Burroughs’ war between Tarzan and the African tribe in Tarzan’s early days would never be published in today’s world of multiculturalism. These authors wrote for a largely white, male and Christian readership who would have shared many of these overt or unconscious prejudices.
This leaves the modern editor flinching at times while revising these texts. There is a temptation to switch an offensive word with a newer, more politically correct one. But this temptation must be resisted for the magic that these writers possessed, a storytelling glamour that is as much the charm of their bygone days as it was personal to them, will not suffice tampering. To remove or change any part is to paste fig leaves over the genitals of statues, as the Victorians were wont to do. Instead, we prefer to trust in the intelligence of our readers, who know that these outmoded ways of thinking do not reflect our own beliefs. Our desire is to promote the classic tales of far-flung adventure, fantastic monsters and exciting, unseen worlds, not to demean any group, creed or creature. – The Editors.
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4
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Ms. Found in a Bottle EDGAR ALLAN POE Illustrated by G. W. Thomas Qui n’a plus qu’un moment a vivre N’a plus rien a dissimuler. — Quinault — Atys. OF MY COUNTRY AND OF MY FAMILY I HAVE LITTLE TO say. Ill usage and length of years have driven me from the one, and estranged me from the other. Hereditary wealth afforded me an education of no common order, and a contemplative turn of mind enabled me to methodize the stores which early study very diligently garnered up. — Beyond all things, the study of the German moralists gave me great delight; not from any ill-advised admiration of their eloquent madness, but from the ease with which my habits of rigid thought enabled me to detect their falsities. I have often been reproached with the aridity of my genius; a deficiency of imagination has been imputed to me as a crime; and the Pyrrhonism of my opinions has at all times rendered me notorious. Indeed, a strong relish for physical philosophy has, I fear, tinctured my mind with a very common error of this age — I mean the habit of referring occurrences, even the least susceptible of such referMASTERS OF ADVENTURE
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MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE
ence, to the principles of that science. Upon the whole, no person could be less liable than myself to be led away from the severe precincts of truth by the ignes fatui of superstition. I have thought proper to premise thus much, lest the incredible tale I have to tell should be considered rather the raving of a crude imagination, than the positive experience of a mind to which the reveries of fancy have been a dead letter and a nullity. After many years spent in foreign travel, I sailed in the year 18 — , from the port of Batavia, in the rich and populous island of Java, on a voyage to the Archipelago of the Sunda islands. I went as passenger — having no other inducement than a kind of nervous restlessness which haunted me as a fiend. Our vessel was a beautiful ship of about four hundred tons, copper-fastened, and built at Bombay of Malabar teak. She was freighted with cotton-wool and oil, from the Lachadive islands. We had also on board coir, jaggeree, ghee, cocoa-nuts, and a few cases of opium. The stowage was clumsily done, and the vessel consequently crank. We got under way with a mere breath of wind, and for many days stood along the eastern coast of Java, without any other incident to beguile the monotony of our course than the occasional meeting with some of the small grabs of the Archipelago to which we were bound. One evening, leaning over the taffrail, I observed a very singular, isolated cloud, to the N.W. It was remarkable, as well for its color, as from its being the first we had seen since our departure from Batavia. I watched it attentively until sunset, when it spread all at once to the eastward and westward, girting in the horizon with a narrow strip of vapor, and looking like a long line of low beach. My notice was soon afterwards attracted by the dusky-red appearance of the moon, and the peculiar character of the sea. The latter was undergoing a rapid change, and the water seemed more than usu6
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EDGAR ALLAN POE
ally transparent. Although I could distinctly see the bottom, yet, heaving the lead, I found the ship in fifteen fathoms. The air now became intolerably hot, and was loaded with spiral exhalations similar to those arising from heat iron. As night came on, every breath of wind died away, a more entire calm it is impossible to conceive. The flame of a candle burned upon the poop without the least perceptible motion, and a long hair, held between the finger and thumb, hung without the possibility of detecting a vibration. However, as the captain said he could perceive no indication of danger, and as we were drifting in bodily to shore, he ordered the sails to be furled, and the anchor let go. No watch was set, and the crew, consisting principally of Malays, stretched themselves deliberately upon deck. I went below — not without a full presentiment of evil. Indeed, every appearance warranted me in apprehending a Simoom. I told the captain my fears; but he paid no attention to what I said, and left me without deigning to give a reply. My uneasiness, however, prevented me from sleeping, and about midnight I went upon deck. — As I placed my foot upon the upper step of the companion-ladder, I was startled by a loud, humming noise, like that occasioned by the rapid revolution of a mill-wheel, and before I could ascertain its meaning, I found the ship quivering to its centre. In the next instant, a wilderness of foam hurled us upon our beamends, and, rushing over us fore and aft, swept the entire decks from stem to stern. The extreme fury of the blast proved, in a great measure, the salvation of the ship. Although completely water-logged, yet, as her masts had gone by the board, she rose, after a minute, heavily from the sea, and, staggering awhile beneath the immense pressure of the tempest, finally righted. By what miracle I escaped destruction, it is impossible to say. Stunned by the shock of the water, I found myself, upon recovery, jammed in between the stern-post and rudder.
EDGAR ALLAN POE
With great difficulty I gained my feet, and looking dizzily around, was, at first, struck with the idea of our being among breakers; so terrific, beyond the wildest imagination, was the whirlpool of mountainous and foaming ocean within which we were engulfed. After a while, I heard the voice of an old Swede, who had shipped with us at the moment of our leaving port. I hallooed to him with all my strength, and presently he came reeling aft. We soon discovered that we were the sole survivors of the accident. All on deck, with the exception of ourselves, had been swept overboard; — the captain and mates must have perished as they slept, for the cabins were deluged with water. Without assistance, we could expect to do little for the security of the ship, and our exertions were at first paralyzed by the momentary expectation of going down. Our cable had, of course, parted like pack-thread, at the first breath of the hurricane, or we should have been instantaneously overwhelmed. We scudded with frightful velocity before the sea, and the water made clear breaches over us. The frame-work of our stern was shattered excessively, and, in almost every respect, we had received considerable injury; but to our extreme Joy we found the pumps unchoked, and that we had made no great shifting of our ballast. The main fury of the blast had already blown over, and we apprehended little danger from the violence of the wind; but we looked forward to its total cessation with dismay; well believing, that, in our shattered condition, we should inevitably perish in the tremendous swell which would ensue. But this very just apprehension seemed by no means likely to be soon verified. For five entire days and nights — during which our only subsistence was a small quantity of jaggeree, procured with great difficulty from the forecastle — the hulk flew at a rate defying computation, before rapidly succeeding flaws of wind, which, without equalling the first violence of the Simoom, were still more terrific than any tempest I had before encountered. Our course for the first four days
MS. FOUND IN A BOTTLE
EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809-1849) IN TODAY’S world genres are defined by what publishers put on the spines of books. In the past this was not the case. Imaginative fiction was seen as an umbrella for many different types of adventure-oriented story-telling. Two hundred years ago, the term was “Romance” but today that word is much narrower, tales of women and men falling in love. A hundred years ago the same kind of fiction was called “Fantasy”, again a narrow classification, filled with Tolkienesque elves and Howardian barbarians. Whatever you call it, there is a wealth of imaginative adventure fantasy which, like horror, mystery and even science fiction, date back to Edgar Allan Poe. Poe, you say? Tales like “Ms. Found In a Bottle” (1833), “Descent Into the Maelstrom” (1841) and the unfinished The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym (1838) inspired generations of writers to create amazing adventures in the far-away places of the Earth, as yet undiscovered. The first author to really solidify this genre was Jules Verne, with his “Voyages Fantasque”. Verne (as would H. P. Lovecraft decades later) even wrote a sequel/ending to Arthur Gordon Pym’s tale called The Sphinx of the Ice-Fields (1897).
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Smith and the Pharaohs H. RIDER HAGGARD Illustrated by M. D. Jackson
I. SCIENTISTS, or some scientists — for occasionally one learned person differs from other learned persons — tell us they know all that is worth knowing about man, which statement, of course, includes woman. They trace him from his remotest origin; they show us how his bones changed and his shape modified, also how, under the influence of his needs and passions, his intelligence developed from something very humble. They demonstrate conclusively that there is nothing in man which the dissecting-table will not explain; that his aspirations towards another life have their root in the fear of death, or, say others of them, in that of earthquake or thunder; that his affinities with the past are merely inherited from remote ancestors who lived in that past, perhaps a million years ago; and that everything noble about him is but the fruit of expediency or of a veneer of civilisation, while everything base must be attributed to the instincts of his dominant and primeval nature. Man, in short, is an animal who, like every other animal, is finally subdued by his environment and takes his colour from his surroundings, as cattle do from the red soil of Devon. Such are the facts, they (or some of them) declare; all the rest is rubbish. At times we are inclined to agree with these sages, especially after it has been our privilege to attend a course of lectures by one of them. Then perhaps something comes within the range of our experience which gives us pause and causes doubts, the old divine doubts, to arise again deep in our hearts, and MAST AASTERS STER ST ERSS OF ADV ER DVENTURE DVEN ENTU EN TURE TU RE 1 13 3
“J. E. Smith was well born and well educated. When he was a good- looking and able young man at college, but before he had taken his degree, trouble came to him, the particulars of which do not matter, and he was thrown penniless, also friendless, upon the rocky bosom of the world. “ 14 4 MAS ASTERS ASTE TERS TE RS O OFF ADVENT DVENTURE NTUR NT RE
H. RIDER HAGGARD
with them a yet diviner hope. Perchance when all is said, so we think to ourselves, man is something more than an animal. Perchance he has known the past, the far past, and will know the future, the far, far future. Perchance the dream is true, and he does indeed possess what for convenience is called an immortal soul, that may manifest itself in one shape or another; that may sleep for ages, but, waking or sleeping, still remains itself, indestructible as the matter of the Universe. An incident in the career of Mr. James Ebenezer Smith might well occasion such reflections, were any acquainted with its details, which until this, its setting forth, was not the case. Mr. Smith is a person who knows when to be silent. Still, undoubtedly it gave cause for thought to one individual — namely, to him to whom it happened. Indeed, James Ebenezer Smith is still thinking over it, thinking very hard indeed. J. E. Smith was well born and well educated. When he was a good- looking and able young man at college, but before he had taken his degree, trouble came to him, the particulars of which do not matter, and he was thrown penniless, also friendless, upon the rocky bosom of the world. No, not quite friendless, for he had a godfather, a gentleman connected with business whose Christian name was Ebenezer. To him, as a last resource, Smith went, feeling that Ebenezer owed him something in return for the awful appellation wherewith he had been endowed in baptism. To a certain extent Ebenezer recognised the obligation. He did nothing heroic, but he found his godson a clerkship in a bank of which he was one of the directors — a modest clerkship, no more. Also, when he died a year later, he left him a hundred pounds to be spent upon some souvenir.
SMITH AND THE PHARAOHS
H. RIDER HAGGARD (1856-1925) PERHAPS no other writer has been so synonymous with the words “African adventure” than Sir Henry Rider Haggard. His Victorian adventure tales are now considered fantastic, but were considered more speculative in their day. Haggard wrote his most famous novel, King Solomon’s Mines (1885) after reading Stevenson’s Treasure Island. When he played down the book, his brother challenged him to write a better one. The Allan Quatermain series grew to include: King Solomon’s Mines (1885) Allan Quatermain (1887), Maiwa’s Revenge (1888), Allan’s Wife and Other Tales (1889), Marie (1912), Child of Storm (1913), Allan and the Holy Flower (1915), The Ivory Lake (1916), Finished (1917), Smith and the Pharaoh and Other Tales (1920), The Ancient Allan (1920), Heu-Heu, the Monster (1924), The Treasure of the Lake (1926), and Allan and the Ice Gods (1927). Perhaps even more famous are the novels about Ayesha or She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed: Wisdom’s Daughter (1923), She (1887) and Ayesha the Return of She (1905). The two series connect with She and Allan (1921). His series characters are featured in the bulk of his work, though he wrote about Central America and Mexico as well. Others of interest: The World’s Desire (1890) with Andrew Lang, Eric Brighteyes (1891), The People of the Mist (1894), Heart of the World (1895), The Spirit of Bambaste (1906), The Yellow God (1908), Sheba’s Ring (1910), Red Eye (1911), When the World Shook (1919).
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SMITH AND THE PHARAOHS
Smith, being of a practical turn of mind, instead of adorning himself with memorial jewellery for which he had no use, invested the hundred pounds in an exceedingly promising speculation. As it happened, he was not misinformed, and his talent returned to him multiplied by ten. He repeated the experiment, and, being in a position to know what he was doing, with considerable success. By the time that he was thirty he found himself possessed of a fortune of something over twenty-five thousand pounds. Then (and this shows the wise and practical nature of the man) he stopped speculating and put out his money in such a fashion that it brought him a safe and clear four per cent. By this time Smith, being an excellent man of business, was well up in the service of his bank — as yet only a clerk, it is true, but one who drew his four hundred pounds a year, with prospects. In short, he was in a position to marry had he wished to do so. As it happened, he did not wish — perhaps because, being very friendless, no lady who attracted him crossed his path; perhaps for other reasons. Shy and reserved in temperament, he confided only in himself. None, not even his superiors at the bank or the Board of Management, knew how well off he had become. No one visited him at the flat which he was understood to occupy somewhere in the neighbourhood of Putney; he belonged to no club, and possessed not a single intimate. The blow which the world had dealt him in his early days, the harsh repulses and the rough treatment he had then experienced, sank so deep into his sensitive soul that never again did he seek close converse with his kind. In fact, while still young, he fell into a condition of oldbachelorhood of a refined type. Soon, however, Smith discovered — it was after he had given up speculating — that a man must have something to occupy his mind. He tried philanthropy, but found himself too sensitive for a business which so often resolves it-
H. RIDER HAGGARD
self into rude inquiry as to the affairs of other people. After a struggle, therefore, he compromised with his conscience by setting aside a liberal portion of his income for anonymous distribution among deserving persons and objects. While still in this vacant frame of mind Smith chanced one day, when the bank was closed, to drift into the British Museum, more to escape the vile weather that prevailed without than for any other reason. Wandering hither and thither at hazard, he found himself in the great gallery devoted to Egyptian stone objects and sculpture. The place bewildered him somewhat, for he knew nothing of Egyptology; indeed, there remained upon his mind only a sense of wonderment not unmixed with awe. It must have been a great people, he thought to himself, that executed these works, and with the thought came a desire to know more about them. Yet he was going away when suddenly his eye fell on the sculptured head of a woman which hung upon the wall. Smith looked at it once, twice, thrice, and at the third look he fell in love. Needless to say, he was not aware that such was his condition. He knew only that a change had come over him, and never, never could he forget the face which that carven mask portrayed. Perhaps it was not really beautiful save for its wondrous and mystic smile; perhaps the lips were too thick and the nostrils too broad. Yet to him that face was Beauty itself, beauty which drew him as with a cart-rope, and awoke within him all kinds of wonderful imaginings, some of them so strange and tender that almost they partook of the nature of memories. He stared at the image, and the image smiled back sweetly at him, as doubtless it, or rather its original — for this was but a plaster cast — had smiled at nothingness in some tomb or hiding-hole for over thirty centuries, and as the woman whose likeness it was had once smiled upon the world. A short, stout gentleman bustled up and, in
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16 MASTERS OF ADVENTURE
“In the centre of this room, lying in the middle of a golden patch of sunlight, there was stretched a huge creature, as large as a tiger, but as black and sleek as ebony. “
4 MAS 42 AASTERS ASTE STE TERS RS O OFF ADVE DVENTURE D VENT VE NT NTUR TUR UREE
The
Brazillian ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE Illustrated by M. D. Jackson
Cat
IT IS HARD LUCK ON A YOUNG FELLOW TO HAVE EXPENSIVE tastes, great expectations, aristocratic connections, but no actual money in his pocket, and no profession by which he may earn any. The fact was that my father, a good, sanguine, easy-going man, had such conďŹ dence in the wealth and benevolence of his bachelor elder brother, Lord Southerton, that he took it for granted that I, his only son, would never be called upon to earn a living for myself. He imagined that if there were not a vacancy for me on the great Southerton Estates, at least there would be found some post in that diplomatic service which still remains the special preserve of our privileged classes. He died too early to realize how false his calculations had been. Neither my uncle nor the State took the slightest notice of me, or showed any interest in my career. An occasional brace of pheasants, or basket of hares, was all that ever reached me to remind me that I was heir to Otwell House and one of the richest estates in the country. In the meantime, I found myself a bachelor and man about town, living in a suite of apartments in Grosvenor Mansions, with no occupation save that of pigeon-shooting and polo-playing at Hurlingham. Month by month I realized that it was more and more difďŹ cult to get the brokers to renew my bills, or to cash any further post-obits upon an unentailed property. Ruin lay right across my MAASTERS S ERSS OFF ADV ST DVENTURE DVEN ENTU EN TURE TU RE 4 43 3
THE BRAZILLAIN CAT
path, and every day I saw it clearer, nearer, and more absolutely unavoidable. What made me feel my own poverty the more was that, apart from the great wealth of Lord Southerton, all my other relations were fairly well-to-do. The nearest of these was Everard King, my father’s nephew and my own first cousin, who had spent an adventurous life in Brazil, and had now returned to this country to settle down on his fortune. We never knew how he made his money, but he appeared to have plenty of it, for he bought the estate of Greylands, near Clipton-on-the-Marsh, in Suffolk. For the first year of his residence in England he took no more notice of me than my miserly uncle; but at last one summer morning, to my very great relief and joy, I received a letter asking me to come down that very day and spend a short visit at Greylands Court. I was expecting a rather long visit to Bankruptcy Court at the time, and this interruption seemed almost providential. If I could only get on terms with this unknown relative of mine, I might pull through yet. For the family credit he could not let me go entirely to the wall. I ordered my valet to pack my valise, and I set off the same evening for Clipton-on-the-Marsh. After changing at Ipswich, a little local train deposited me at a small, deserted station lying amidst a rolling grassy country, with a sluggish and winding river curving in and out amidst the valleys, between high, silted banks, which showed that we were within reach of the tide. No carriage was awaiting me (I found afterwards that my telegram had been delayed), so I hired a dogcart at the local inn. The driver, an excellent fellow, was full of my relative’s praises, and I learned from him that Mr. Everard King was already a name to conjure with in that part of the county. He had entertained the school-children, he had thrown his grounds open to visitors, he had subscribed to charities—in short, his benevolence had been so universal that my driver could only account for it on the supposi44 MASTERS OF ADVENTURE
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tion that he had parliamentary ambitions. My attention was drawn away from my driver’s panegyric by the appearance of a very beautiful bird which settled on a telegraph- post beside the road. At first I thought that it was a jay, but it was larger, with a brighter plumage. The driver accounted for its presence at once by saying that it belonged to the very man whom we were about to visit. It seems that the acclimatization of foreign creatures was one of his hobbies, and that he had brought with him from Brazil a number of birds and beasts which he was endeavouring to rear in England. When once we had passed the gates of Greylands Park we had ample evidence of this taste of his. Some small spotted deer, a curious wild pig known, I believe, as a peccary, a gorgeously feathered oriole, some sort of armadillo, and a singular lumbering in-toed beast like a very fat badger, were among the creatures which I observed as we drove along the winding avenue. Mr. Everard King, my unknown cousin, was standing in person upon the steps of his house, for he had seen us in the distance, and guessed that it was I. His appearance was very homely and benevolent, short and stout, forty-five years old, perhaps, with a round, good-humoured face, burned brown with the tropical sun, and shot with a thousand wrinkles. He wore white linen clothes, in true planter style, with a cigar between his lips, and a large Panama hat upon the back of his head. It was such a figure as one associates with a verandahed bungalow, and it looked curiously out of place in front of this broad, stone English mansion, with its solid wings and its Palladio pillars before the doorway. “My dear!” he cried, glancing over his shoulder; “my dear, here is our guest! Welcome, welcome to Greylands! I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Cousin Marshall, and I take it as a great compliment that you should honour this sleepy little country place with your presence.”
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
Nothing could be more hearty than his manner, and he set me at my ease in an instant. But it needed all his cordiality to atone for the frigidity and even rudeness of his wife, a tall, haggard woman, who came forward at his summons. She was, I believe, of Brazilian extraction, though she spoke excellent English, and I excused her manners on the score of her ignorance of our customs. She did not attempt to conceal, however, either then or afterwards, that I was no very welcome visitor at Greylands Court. Her actual words were, as a rule, courteous, but she was the possessor of a pair of particularly expressive dark eyes, and I read in them very clearly from the first that she heartily wished me back in London once more. However, my debts were too pressing and my designs upon my wealthy relative were too vital for me to allow them to be upset by the illtemper of his wife, so I disregarded her coldness and reciprocated the extreme cordiality of his welcome. No pains had been spared by him to make me comfortable. My room was a charming one. He implored me to tell him anything which could add to my happiness. It was on the tip of my tongue to inform him that a blank cheque would materially help towards that end, but I felt that it might be premature in the present state of our acquaintance. The dinner was excellent, and as we sat together afterwards over his Havanas and coffee, which later he told me was specially prepared upon his own plantation, it seemed to me that all my driver’s eulogies were justified, and that I had never met a more large-hearted and hospitable man. But, in spite of his cheery good nature, he was a man with a strong will and a fiery temper of his own. Of this I had an example upon the following morning. The curious aversion which Mrs. Everard King had conceived towards me was so strong, that her manner at breakfast was almost offensive. But her meaning became unmistakable when her husband had quitted the room. “The best train in the day is at twelve-fifteen,”
THE BRAZILLAIN CAT
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE (1859-1930) A. CONAN Doyle will be remembered forever as the author of the Sherlock Holmes stories, but his works about two scientists, Challenger and Maracot are important pieces of adventure science fiction. The Lost World (1912) along with Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth would inspire Edgar Rice Burroughs and his dinosaur-filled lands. Professor Challenger and his associates venture to a remote plateau in South America where ancient forms of life survive. The sequel The Poison Belt (1913) has the scientists explore the Earth after a holocaust, caused when a poisonous gas cloud passes over the earth. The Maracot Deep (1927-8) features another scientist, Professor Maracot, who descends into the depths of the ocean to find the lost inhabitants of Atlantis. In this technologically advanced world he meets The Lord of the Dark Face. A. Merritt would use a similar idea in The Moon Pool. Doyle became famous as a promoter of Spiritualism. Unlike his character Sherlock Holmes, Doyle had a penchant for the fantastic and the weird. He also penned several tales of horror and suspense. One of his best non-supernatural tales is “The Brazilian Cat” from The Strand, December 1898.
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“I am one of those fellows who are born Colonial at heart, and I don't see why I shouldn’t arrange my life as I please. Besides, for ten years I have been falling in love with this country, and now I am up to the neck."
56 MASTERS OF ADVENTURE
The of
Grove
Ashtorath BY JOHN BUCHAN ILLUSTRATED BY G.W. THOMAS "C'est enfin que dans leurs prunelles Rit et pleure-fastidieuxL'amour des choses eternelles Des vieux morts et des anciens dieux!" - PAUL VERLAINE. I. WE WERE SITTING AROUND THE CAMP FIRE, SOME THIRTY MILES NORTH of a place called Taqui, when Lawson announced his intention of finding a home. He had spoken little the last day or two, and I had guessed that he had struck a vein of private reflection. I thought it might be a new mine or irrigation scheme, and I was surprised to find that it was a country house. "I don't think I shall go back to England," he said, kicking a sputtering log into place. "I don't see why I should. For business purposes I am far more useful to the firm in South Africa than in Throgmorton Street. I have no relation left except a third cousin, and I have never cared a rush for living in town. That beastly house of mine in Hill Street will fetch what I gave for it,--Isaacson cabled about it the other day, offering for furniture and all. I don't want to go into Parliament, and I hate shooting little birds and tame deer. I am one of those fellows who are born Colonial at heart, and I don't see why I shouldn't arrange my life as I please. Besides, for ten years I have been falling in love with this Read the rest of this story by purchasing Masters of Adventure #1 at www.lulu.com/ragemachinebooks
MASTERS OF ADVENTURE 57
This is a special 20 page sampler for
Masters of Adventure MAGAZINE Issue number 1 You can read the rest of this stories and articles by purchasing your own print or electronic copy at
www.lulu.com/ragemachinebooks There you can also find other exciting publications from
Rage Machine Books