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Julhi
Smith was stolen away in the night, to be sacrificed to the great Julhi a mysterious being who controlled the denizens of Vonng.
excerpt
The tale of Smith's scars would make a saga. From head to foot his brown and sunburnt hide was scored with the marks of, battle. The eye of a connoisseur would recognize the distinctive tracks of knife and talon and rayburn, the slash of the Martian drylandercrwg, the clean, thin stab of the Venusian stiletto, the crisscross lacing of Earth's penal whip. But one or two scars that he carried would have baffled the most discerning eye. That curious, convoluted red circlet, for instance, like some bloody rose on the left side of his chest just where the beating of his heart stirred the sun-darkened flesh....
In the starless dark of the thick Venusian night Northwest Smith's pale steel eyes were keen and wary. Save for those restless eyes he did not stir. He crouched against a wall that his searching fingers had told him was stone, and cold; but he could see nothing and he had no faintest idea of where he was or how he had come there. Upon this dark five minutes ago he had opened puzzled eyes, and he was still puzzled. The dark-piercing pallor of his gaze flickered restlessly through the blackness, searching in vain for some point of familiarity. He could find nothing. The dark was blurred and formless around him, and though his keen senses spoke to him of enclosed spaces, yet there was a contradiction even in that, for the air was fresh and blowing.
He crouched motionless in the windy dark, smelling earth and cold stone, and faintly-very faintly-a whiff of something unfamiliar that made him gather his feet under him noiselessly and poise with one hand against the chill stone wall, tense as a steel spring. There was motion in the dark. He could see nothing, hear nothing, but he felt that stirring come cautiously nearer. He stretched out exploring toes, found the ground firm underfoot, and stepped aside a soundless pace or two, holding his breath. Against the stone where he had been leaning an instant before he heard the soft sound of hands fumbling, with a queer, sucking noise, as if they were sticky. Something exhaled with a small, impatient sound. In a lull of the wind he heard quite distinctly the slither over stone of something that was neither feet nor paws nor serpent-coils, but akin to all three.
excerpt
The tale of Smith's scars would make a saga. From head to foot his brown and sunburnt hide was scored with the marks of, battle. The eye of a connoisseur would recognize the distinctive tracks of knife and talon and rayburn, the slash of the Martian drylandercrwg, the clean, thin stab of the Venusian stiletto, the crisscross lacing of Earth's penal whip. But one or two scars that he carried would have baffled the most discerning eye. That curious, convoluted red circlet, for instance, like some bloody rose on the left side of his chest just where the beating of his heart stirred the sun-darkened flesh....
In the starless dark of the thick Venusian night Northwest Smith's pale steel eyes were keen and wary. Save for those restless eyes he did not stir. He crouched against a wall that his searching fingers had told him was stone, and cold; but he could see nothing and he had no faintest idea of where he was or how he had come there. Upon this dark five minutes ago he had opened puzzled eyes, and he was still puzzled. The dark-piercing pallor of his gaze flickered restlessly through the blackness, searching in vain for some point of familiarity. He could find nothing. The dark was blurred and formless around him, and though his keen senses spoke to him of enclosed spaces, yet there was a contradiction even in that, for the air was fresh and blowing.
He crouched motionless in the windy dark, smelling earth and cold stone, and faintly-very faintly-a whiff of something unfamiliar that made him gather his feet under him noiselessly and poise with one hand against the chill stone wall, tense as a steel spring. There was motion in the dark. He could see nothing, hear nothing, but he felt that stirring come cautiously nearer. He stretched out exploring toes, found the ground firm underfoot, and stepped aside a soundless pace or two, holding his breath. Against the stone where he had been leaning an instant before he heard the soft sound of hands fumbling, with a queer, sucking noise, as if they were sticky. Something exhaled with a small, impatient sound. In a lull of the wind he heard quite distinctly the slither over stone of something that was neither feet nor paws nor serpent-coils, but akin to all three.
40 pages, Kindle Edition
First published March 1, 1935
1 person is currently reading
7 people want to read
About the author
C.L. Moore
343 books223 followersExcerpted from Wikipedia:
Catherine Lucille Moore was an American science fiction and fantasy writer, as C. L. Moore. She was one of the first women to write in the genre, and paved the way for many other female writers in speculative fiction.
Moore met Henry Kuttner, also a science fiction writer, in 1936 when he wrote her a fan letter (mistakenly thinking that "C. L. Moore" was a man), and they married in 1940.
Afterwards, almost all of their stories were written in collaboration under various pseudonyms, most commonly Lewis Padgett (another pseudonym, one Moore often employed for works that involved little or no collaboration, was Lawrence O'Donnell).
Catherine Lucille Moore was an American science fiction and fantasy writer, as C. L. Moore. She was one of the first women to write in the genre, and paved the way for many other female writers in speculative fiction.
Moore met Henry Kuttner, also a science fiction writer, in 1936 when he wrote her a fan letter (mistakenly thinking that "C. L. Moore" was a man), and they married in 1940.
Afterwards, almost all of their stories were written in collaboration under various pseudonyms, most commonly Lewis Padgett (another pseudonym, one Moore often employed for works that involved little or no collaboration, was Lawrence O'Donnell).
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
July 3, 2022
The general theme of the Northwest Smith stories seems to be about interstellar eldritch vampires of all sorts. Here, our proto-Han Solo becomes prey to yet another sexy vampire. Moore really knows how to write some sensuously steamy stuff, but the majority of this series is just variations of the same theme. This one is particularly long-winded, and by the end, I didn't know what the hell was going on.
July 11, 2022
In this story Northwest is back in typical form, by which I mean he once again thinks that he's here to rescue the beauty. He is not.
I thought that this one was perhaps written a little less beautifully and I certainly didn't feel the same sense of darkness or tangible dread about this scenario as I did in his first three adventures, however I was perhaps a little more drawn in by the question of what was actually going on this time.
A bit of a qualm that I'm developing through these stories is that it violates the "show don't tell" rule specifically in regards to Northwest's character. Each book emphasises Northwest's renown (or notoriety) but does little to advance that idea through his actions. On the other hand the "monsters" get a thorough treatment. It seems obvious to me that Northwest is little more than a passive vessel for showing off these wondrous and terrible creatures, which is fine, but it does little to endear our so called hero to this reader.
In the style of the series this is another example of a psychological horror, but I'm not entirely sure that I understood the situation, at least not very well and not until the climactic latter portion. I could tell that what was going on in Northwest's mind was a struggle for him but I didn't feel it as a reader this time.
I decided to have a little look ahead and there are thirteen of these adventures all up. This is the fifth that I've read and reviewed, slightly out of order, next on my list is 'The Cold Gray God' (Weird Tales, October 1935) but I'm jumping back to 'Dust of Gods' (Weird Tales, August 1934) first. At the time of writing this review there isn't a separate listing for those stories, so I'll add my reviews to their respective Weird Tales issues.
I thought that this one was perhaps written a little less beautifully and I certainly didn't feel the same sense of darkness or tangible dread about this scenario as I did in his first three adventures, however I was perhaps a little more drawn in by the question of what was actually going on this time.
A bit of a qualm that I'm developing through these stories is that it violates the "show don't tell" rule specifically in regards to Northwest's character. Each book emphasises Northwest's renown (or notoriety) but does little to advance that idea through his actions. On the other hand the "monsters" get a thorough treatment. It seems obvious to me that Northwest is little more than a passive vessel for showing off these wondrous and terrible creatures, which is fine, but it does little to endear our so called hero to this reader.
In the style of the series this is another example of a psychological horror, but I'm not entirely sure that I understood the situation, at least not very well and not until the climactic latter portion. I could tell that what was going on in Northwest's mind was a struggle for him but I didn't feel it as a reader this time.
I decided to have a little look ahead and there are thirteen of these adventures all up. This is the fifth that I've read and reviewed, slightly out of order, next on my list is 'The Cold Gray God' (Weird Tales, October 1935) but I'm jumping back to 'Dust of Gods' (Weird Tales, August 1934) first. At the time of writing this review there isn't a separate listing for those stories, so I'll add my reviews to their respective Weird Tales issues.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews