After a handful of pages, all signs seemed to point towards a promising maturation on Howard’s part, when compared to the lacklustre Tower of the Elephant. Now, he appeared to have a better command of his paragraphs, meaning that he could actually pull more controlled atmospheres without the gratuitous self-sabotaging by means of hyper-affective testosterone bursts. Here’s a good example of this development (chapter 1):
“Now no more shining towers rose inland. They had passed the southern borders of Stygia, and were cruising along the coasts of Kush. The sea and the ways of the sea were neverending mysteries to Conan, whose homeland was among the high hills of the northern uplands. The wanderer was no less of interest to the sturdy seamen, few of whom had ever seen one of his race."
The perspectival progress is quite captivating, starting from the coastline, then dwelling on the mysterious sea, then zooming out on the musing Conan and finally rounding off at the suspicious mariners eyeing the barbarian. Unfortunately, Howard kind of ruins this zoom-out effect with the following paragraph, where performs a couple of clumsy perspectival hops between the sailors and the barbarian, before starting to outline Conan’s character. (This could have easily been remedied by means of conjunctions or paragraph changes, but apparently it did not occur to Howard.)
Another thing that seemed promising was that Howard ostensibly had become more aware of when the narrative could go obviously over the top, showing that he could have picked up some self-awareness along the way. Such self-awareness can of course be disingenuous and a weakening factor, but at the same time, in moderate amount, it can also help form trust towards the author, that they know what they are doing when they are doing it. Here’s an example from the same chapters, a few paragraphs before the previous excerpt:
“Nor did master Tito pull into the broad bay where the Styx river emptied its gigantic flood into the ocean, and the massive black castles of Khemi loomed over the blue waters. Ships did not put unasked into this port, where dusky sorcerers wove awful spells in the murk of sacrificial smoke mounting eternally from blood-stained altars where naked women screamed, and where Set, the Old Serpent, arch-demon of the Hyborians but god of the Stygians, was said to writhe his shining coils among his worshippers.”
The first sentence is quite fine. It has some Howardisms like “gigantic flood”, “massive black castles” and “loomed over”, yet they do not feel incongruous when conjoined together (as opposed to, say, if he had used “gargantuan”, “deliriously behemothian” and “scowled like madness over” instead, respectively). But what in the name of the unholy is that second monster sentence? It begins with a rather mild main clause yet is fiercely followed by a breathtaking train of subordinates, each attempting to top its predecessor! However, apart from the crowbared explication on the Old Serpent, as a piece of consciously over-the-top raving it works and flows quite well!
In this story, Howard would also craft a surprisingly persistent narrative gradation, namely the lotus-induced dream sequence in chapter 3. The progression from the amorphous blackness to the cinematographic scenes of primordial devolution and the present-day battle scenes is pretty delicious, especially when one considerds the purposely vague trudging of the beginning and the more clear-cut, sped-up scenes at the end. Even though we know it is a dream from the get-go (the song of Belît kind of gives it away), we can still admire the craftsmanship to an extent.
Yet despite all of these hopeful tokens, no full-fledged development had taken place. While it is true that now there was more persistence, the persistence would also extend to Howard’s employment of power words. And these power words were so jarring, that they made me wince in their epilectic luridness.
I do understand that Howard’s bombastic descriptions and his uncaring purple prose can attract many to its nectar. They seem to insist on changing the gear into hyperdrive, wanting to offer the reader faster and more furious theatricality. He cannot craft atmospheres of such durance as the likes of Poe or Conrad, but instead he produces a clear frame after frame, very much like a cartoonist, of the most grotesque poses and power. The muscles coil and knot, eyes take the form of solar-blazing jewels, madness erupts from all the holes of planet Earth, everything glimmers and crimsons, darkness is concrete and starlight celestial, there is “diabolism blacker than the Well of Skelos” and fiends from the molten lavapits of infernal, hellish, hadesian Tophet of Gehenna manifest before the reader exuding “an aura tangible as the black mist rising from a corpse-littered swamp”. For those, who are not exhausted by this, and who do not expect anything but a raw ride to fantasy, these stories definitely can offer a great time.
But let me seethe for a spell:
”Then the moon rose, a splash of blood, ebony-barred, and the jungle awoke in horrific bedlam to greet it. Roars and howls and yells set the black warriors to trembling, but all this noise, Conan noted, came from farther back in the jungle, as if the beasts no less than men shunned the black waters of Zarkheba.”
A rising moon a splash of blood, ebony-barred? Jungle awoke to horrific bedlam to greet the moon, superemphasised by a group of powerful verbs… yet Conan’s nonchalant musing simply pushes the sounds to the background and even infers some “shunning” in them. The effect on the reader is way too violent due to the initial description, and the transition to a pondering Conan showing that the sounds are actually pretty far into the depths of the vegetation is not even jarring—it’s like a car crash.
“[…] And at first glance the crypt seemed brimming with liquid fire, catching the early light with a million blazing facets. Undreamable wealth lay before the eyes of the gaping pirates; diamonds, rubies, bloodstones, sapphires, turquoises, moonstones, opals, emeralds, amethysts, unknown gems that shone like the eyes of evil women. The crypt was filled to the brim with bright stones that the morning sun struck into lambent flame.”
Not only does this vast inventory of precious stones, robbing the scene of its intended dazzling immediacy, it also ends the list with a gormless and weak item, whose intended luminary effect was already deprived by the preceding “million blazing facets”. And how does Howard cap it all, what is his climax? “Filled to the brim with bright stones”? Howard moves from a torrent of sensory data to a dull general depiction, whereas anyone in their right mind would have done it the other way around.
”The blacks shuffled their feet uneasily, but did as they were told. As they swung onward, Conan stepped quickly behind a great tree, glaring back along the way they had come. From that leafy fastness anything might emerge. Nothing occurred; the faint sounds of the marching spearmen faded in the distance.”.
The pirates “shuffle” and “swing”, but no wait, no they “march”. And what can one say of the intraparagraphal transition from “anything might emerge” to “nothing occurred”? It is passages like this that I would adduce if someone was wondering whether Howard was a good writer or not. Or excerpts like “Again Conan looked on death and destruction. Before him lay his spearmen, nor did they rise to salute him. From the jungle edge to the riverbank, among the rotting pillars and along the broken piers they lay, torn and mangled and half devoured, chewed travesties of men.”
Enough of that, though. I have made my views clear enough. Now, what about the story itself? Surely this tale is driven by world-building and plot, as much as action scenes—so it would be silly to not mention them in a review.
For a short adventure, a lot of things happen in it. We get a boat tour around Howard’s world of fancy, and many places are given brief characterisations, which must be of interest to those who wish to form a coherent view of Conan’s universe.
The Cimmerian himself changes from a fleeing person on a tradeboat to a swashbuckler with a busty ivory dame, for a while living his la dolce vita. The characters are all-round flat freaks of passion, but I am happy that Howard made Belît such an avaricious creature, and did not schmalz down the whole love affair. She was portrayed with particular vividness and viciousness, which though ridiculous, was at times very palpable.
Like in Tower of the Elephant, the temporal perspective is broadened quite massively, when primordial creatures are brought in to the scene. However, while the dream sequence was most arresting, Conan’s way of intuitively understanding its import, which is shown by the statement that the last of the winged monsters had died after the duel, is not warranted. And if this statement was not Conan’s but the narrator’s, the latter stepped out of its set bounds quite efficaciously.
The battle scenes were greatly marred by the unskilled treatment of the prose I pointed out above, so at best they provided sudden spikes of excitement. The common reaction to these scenes tended to be one of glutted irritation.
The final chapter ends the story in a pleasantly somber note. Gone is the sense of mystery from the sea: the barbarian sees no more potential in that blue wasteland after his loss. The final scene of the farewell pyre is quite effective as it is, even though the reverberating clangor of the preceding chapters still rings jarringly in one’s ears.
So, all in all, it is a step up. But still Robert leaves a sour taste in one’s mouth.