The Voice before the Void: Arcana, Story, Poetry

Is the target of Mitchell’s satire Western culture or Muslim culture, or both?

⁓The Voice before the Void

The Last American

John Ames Mitchell

part 2

13th May

A startling discovery this morning.

By landing higher up the river we explored a part of the city where the buildings are of a different character from those we saw yesterday. Nofuhl considers them the dwellings of the rich. In shape they are like bricks set on end, all very similar, uninteresting, and monotonous.

We noticed one where the doors and shutters were still in place, but rotting from the fantastic hinges that supported them. A few hard blows brought down the outer doors in a dusty heap, and as we stepped upon the marble floor within our eyes met an unexpected sight. Furniture, statues, dingy pictures in crumbling frames, images in bronze and silver, mirrors, curtains, all were there, but in every condition of decay. We knocked open the iron shutters and let the light into the rooms sealed up for centuries. In the first one lay a rug from Persia! Faded, moth-eaten, gone in places, it seemed to ask us with dying eyes to be taken hence. My heart grew soft over the ancient rug, and I caught a foolish look in El-Hedyd’s eye.

As we climbed the mouldering stair to the floor above I expressed surprise that cloth and woodwork should hold together for so many centuries, also saying:

“These Mehrikans were not so unworthy as we think them.”

“That may be,” said El-Hedyd, “but the Persian rug is far the freshest object we have seen, and that perchance was ancient when they bought it.”

On this floor we entered a dim chamber, spacious and once richly furnished. When El-Hedyd pushed open the shutters and drew aside the ragged curtains we started at the sight before us.

Upon a wide bed in the centre of the room lay a human form, the long, yellow hair still clinging to the head. It was more a mummy than a skeleton. Around, upon the bed, lay mouldering fragments of the once white sheets that covered it. On the fingers of the left hand glistened two rings which drew our attention. One held a diamond of great price, the other was composed of sapphires and diamonds most curiously arranged. We stood a moment in silence, gazing sadly upon the figure.

“Poor woman,” I said, “left thus to die alone.”

“It is more probable,” said Nofuhl, “she was already dead, and her friends, departing perhaps in haste, were unable to burn the body.”

“Did they burn their dead?” I asked. “In my history ’twas writ they buried them in the earth like potatoes, and left them to rot.”

And Nofuhl answered: “At one time it was so, but later on, as they became more civilized, the custom was abandoned.”

“Is it possible?” I asked, “that this woman has been lying here almost a thousand years and yet so well preserved?”

“I, also, am surprised,” said Nofuhl. “I can only account for it by the extreme dryness of the air in absorbing the juices of the body and retarding decay.”

Then lifting tenderly in his hand some of the yellow hair, he said: “She was probably very young, scarce twenty.”

“Were their women fair?” I asked.

“They were beautiful,” he answered; “with graceful forms and lovely faces; a pleasure to the eye; also were they gay and sprightly with much animation.”

Thereupon cried El-Hedyd: “Here are the first words thou hast uttered, O Nofuhl, that cause me to regret the extinction of this people! There is ever a place in my heart for a blushing maiden!”

“Then let thy grief be of short life,” responded Nofuhl, “for Mehrikan damsels were not of that description. Blushing was an art they practised little.

Explore an ancient, advanced, lost civilization… Lauded by connoisseurs of weird fiction, this fun tale is a superior example of a “Lost World” story.

⁓The Voice before the Void

The Last American

John Ames Mitchell

part 1

A Fragment from the journal of Khan-li, Prince of Yoo-Chur and Admiral in the Persian Navy

TO THOSE THOUGHTFUL PERSIANS WHO CAN READ A WARNING IN THE SUDDEN RISE AND SWIFT EXTINCTION OF A FOOLISH PEOPLE THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED

A FEW WORDS BY HEDFUL

SURNAMED “THE AXIS OF WISDOM”

Curator of the Imperial Museum at Shiraz

Author of “The Celestial Conquest of Kaly-phorn-ya,” and of “Northern Mehrika under the Hy-Bernyan Rulers”

The astounding discoveries of Khan-li of Yoo-Chur have thrown floods of light upon the domestic life of the Mehrikan people. He little realized when he landed upon that sleeping continent what a service he was about to render history, or what enthusiasm his discoveries would arouse among Persian archaeologists.

Every student of antiquity is familiar with these facts.

But for the benefit of those who have yet to acquire a knowledge of this extraordinary people, I advise, first, a visit to the Museum at Teheran in order to excite their interest in the subject, and second, the reading of such books as Nofuhl’s “What we Found in the West,” and Yt-ahl’s “History of the Mehrikans.” The last-named is a complete and reliable history of these people from the birth of the Republic under George-wash-yn-tun to the year 1990, when they ceased to exist as a nation. I must say, however, that Yt-ahl leaves the reader much confused concerning the period between the massacre of the Protestants in 1927, and the overflow of the Murfey dynasty in 1940.

He holds the opinion with many other historians that the Mehrikans were a mongrel race, with little or no patriotism, and were purely imitative; simply an enlarged copy of other nationalities extant at the time. He pronounces them a shallow, nervous, extravagant people, and accords them but few redeeming virtues. This, of course, is just; but nevertheless they will always be an interesting study by reason of their rapid growth, their vast numbers, their marvellous mechanical ingenuity and their sudden and almost unaccountable disappearance.

The wealth, luxury, and gradual decline of the native population; the frightful climatic changes which swept the country like a mower’s scythe; the rapid conversion of a vast continent, alive with millions of pleasure-loving people, into a silent wilderness, where the sun and moon look down in turn upon hundreds of weed-grown cities,—all this is told by Yt-ahl with force and accuracy.

“Here’s Truth. ‘Tis a bitter pill but good physic.”

ABOARD THE ZLOTUHB IN THE YEAR 2951

10th May

There is land ahead!

Til-lah was first to see it, and when he shouted the tidings my heart beat fast with joy. The famished crew have forgotten their disconsolate stomachs and are dancing about the deck. ‘Tis not I, forsooth, who shall restrain them! A month of emptiness upon a heavy sea is preparation for any folly. Nofuhl alone is without enthusiasm. The old man’s heart seems dead.

We can see the land plainly, a dim strip along the western horizon. A fair wind blows from the northeast, but we get on with cruel hindrance, for the Zlotuhb is a heavy ship, her bluff bow and voluminous bottom ill fitting her for speed.

11th May

Sighted a fine harbor this afternoon, and are now at anchor in it. Til-lah thinks we have reached one islands mentioned by

A-Bout. Nofuhl, however, is sure we are further North.

12th May

What a change has come over Nofuhl! He is the youngest man aboard. We all share his delight,

Showing off.

⁓The Voice before the Void

Announcer’s Test

anonymous

One hen

Two ducks

Three squawking geese

Four Limerick oysters

Five corpulent porpoises

Six pairs of Don Alverzo’s tweezers

Seven thousand Macedonians in full battle array

Eight brass monkeys from the ancient, sacred crypts of Egypt

Nine apathetic, sympathetic, diabetic old men on roller skates with a marked propensity towards procrastination and sloth

Ten lyrical, spherical, diabolical denizens of the deep who haul stall around the corner of the quo of the quay of the quivery, all at the same time

“Too Horrible to Describe”

The Voice before the Void

Perhaps if I tell the tale, it will ease my mind. Perhaps if I write it out, or just speak it aloud, it will have a beneficient effect upon my poor mind… my poor, convulsed mind. If I can just scrawl the symbols, squawk the sounds, the universe might stray back into sanity, or something resembling such. But how to describe things that by their nature are indescriptable? But I do have conceptions of the things — loathsome conceptions of the loathsome things — and so, if I have conceptions, I must be able to form words, however approximate and inadequate those words must necessarily be. Perhaps, just perhaps, if I can succeed to marshal the words, the words will ameliorate this horror that has so lately engulfed me.

Or, perhaps not.

St. Valentine’s Day Special:

One of the most famed sonnets of the English language.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“How do I love thee?”

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love with a passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

St. Valentine’s Day Special:

Sweet and silly, a perfect valentine.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“A Valentine”

Eugene Field

Go, Cupid, and my sweetheart tell

I love her well.

Yes, though she tramples on my heart

And rends that bleeding thing apart;

And though she rolls a scornful eye

On doting me when I go by;

And though she scouts at everything

As tribute unto her I bring–

Apple, banana, caramel–

Haste, Cupid, to my love and tell,

In spite of all, I love her well!

And further say I have a sled

Cushioned in blue and painted red!

The groceryman has promised I

Can “hitch” whenever he goes by–

Go, tell her that, and, furthermore,

Apprise my sweetheart that a score

Of other little girls implore

The boon of riding on that sled

Painted and hitched, as aforesaid;–

And tell her, Cupid, only she

Shall ride upon that sled with me!

Tell her this all, and further tell

I love her well.

Abraham Lincoln’s Birthday Special:

Whitman’s wrenching tribute to his president.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“O Captain! My Captain!”

Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up–for you the flag is flung–for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths–for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will.

The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

A brilliant little poem.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“Mors et Vita”

James Edwin Campbell

Into the soil a seed is sown,

Out of the soul a song is wrung,

Out of the shell a pearl is gone,

Out of the cage a bird is flown,

Out of the body, a soul!

Unto a tree the seed is grown,

Wide in the world the song is sung,

The pearl in a necklace gleams more fair,

The bird is flown to a sweeter air,

And Death is half and Life is half,

And the two make up the whole!

Battle of Jarama Anniversary Special:

Germans fighting fascism.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“Thälmann Battalion”

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The Thälmann Battalion was a battalion of the International Brigades in the Spanish Civil War. The International Brigades fought on the side of the Republic against Francisco Franco’s Nationalist forces, which were supported by Nazi Germany and fascist Italy. The Thälmann Battalion was named after the imprisoned German communist leader Ernst Thälmann (born 16 April 1886, executed 18 August 1944) and included approximately 1,500 people, mainly Germans, Austrians, Swiss, and Scandinavians. The battalion fought in the Battle of Jarama and in the defence of Madrid. Amongst the commanders of the battalion were the German writer, historian, and World War I officer Ludwig Renn, later Chief of Staff of the XI International Brigade, and Prussian World War I officer Hans Kahle, later promoted to lead the Republican 45th division for a time. The battalion, like the International Brigades in general, also attracted its share of intellectuals, such as the well-known writer Willi Bredel, who became its commissar.

The German-speaking battalions were one of the first and eventually largest groups that formed in the International Brigades, coalescing out of the “Thälmann Centuria” of the early war days. Most of the Germans volunteering were working-class people, “members of the Weimar Republic’s ‘lost generation’, who had never known stability or regular employment,” and to many, the simple arrival in Spain (through the French blockade) to join the fight on the Republic’s side was their first victory after years of losing their political struggle at home. In their home countries of Germany and Austria, fascism had already conquered, giving their foreign struggle a special grim context. As Robert G. Colodny writes in The International Brigades:

“The history of the Germans in Spain…is the history of strong men who proved and overproved their courage and endurance, their resistance to pessimism and despair. It is the story of men who died or were broken physically in doing this. They brought to the International Brigades an offensive spirit, a bitter desperate courage at rare intervals in war priceless, essential, but always costly. They set an early example of what shock troops could be like. They tried to do the impossible, and paid for it. And during the early days in Aragon, in the futile fighting around Huesca, at Tardienta, the Germans, in countless bayonet charges against fortified positions, took their objectives, buried their dead, and waited with a caged restlessness for the next day’s orders.”

John Cornford, an English communist and poet, echoed these thoughts, describing the Germans as:

“…the finest people in some ways I have ever met. In a way they have lost everything, have been through enough to break most people, and remain strong and cheerful and humorous. If anything is revolutionary it is these comrades.”

Ernest Hemingway went even further in his admiration, calling them representative of the “true Germany” and contrasting them unfavourably with the Germans fighting on Franco’s Nationalist side in the Legion Condor. The respect with which the Germans were accorded—by the others in the International Brigades, as well as by the Republican populace—lifted their spirits as well. Many of them had been stripped of their nationality by the Nazis, and had spent years underground or in exile, and the war gave them the opportunity to reclaim an anti-fascist identity, their vision of a better Germany. For many it was also a time of either communist re-affirmation or political enlightenment (the largest block of all volunteers in the International Brigades was communist or had been recruited by ...

Australia Day Special:

Death. This classic story by the great Australian writer describes—with avowed unsentimentality and blatant sardonicism—a funeral in the bush, with the bushmen’s “disgust for the living and their respect for the dead,” and a dark profundity: “It didn’t matter much—nothing does.”

⁓The Voice before the Void

“The Union Buries Its Dead”

Henry Lawson

While out boating one Sunday afternoon on a billabong across the river, we saw a young man on horseback driving some horses along the bank. He said it was a fine day, and asked if the water was deep there. The joker of our party said it was deep enough to drown him, and he laughed and rode farther up. We didn’t take much notice of him. Next day a funeral gathered at a corner pub and asked each other in to have a drink while waiting for the hearse. They passed away some of the time dancing jigs to a piano in the bar parlour. They passed away the rest of the time skylarking and fighting.

The defunct was a young Union labourer, about twenty-five, who had been drowned the previous day while trying to swim some horses across a billabong of the Darling.

He was almost a stranger in town, and the fact of his having been a Union man accounted for the funeral. The police found some Union papers in his swag, and called at the General Labourers’ Union Office for information about him. That’s how we knew. The secretary had very little information to give. The departed was a “Roman,” and the majority of the town were otherwise—but Unionism is stronger than creed. Liquor, however, is stronger than Unionism; and, when the hearse presently arrived, more than two-thirds of the funeral were unable to follow.

The procession numbered fifteen, fourteen souls following the broken shell of a soul. Perhaps not one of the fourteen possessed a soul any more than the corpse did—but that doesn’t matter.

Four or five of the funeral, who were boarders at the pub, borrowed a trap which the landlord used to carry passengers to and from the railway station. They were strangers to us who were on foot, and we to them. We were all strangers to the corpse.

A horseman, who looked like a drover just returned from a big trip, dropped into our dusty wake and followed us a few hundred yards, dragging his packhorse behind him, but a friend made wild and demonstrative signals from a hotel veranda—hooking at the air in front with his right hand and jobbing his left thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bar—so the drover hauled off and didn’t catch up to us any more. He was a stranger to the entire show.

We walked in twos. There were three twos. It was very hot and dusty; the heat rushed in fierce dazzling rays across every iron roof and light-coloured wall that was turned to the sun. One or two pubs closed respectfully until we got past. They closed their bar doors and the patrons went in and out through some side or back entrance for a few minutes. Bushmen seldom grumble at an inconvenience of this sort, when it is caused by a funeral. They have too much respect for the dead.

On the way to the cemetery we passed three shearers sitting on the shady side of a fence. One was drunk—very drunk. The other two covered their right ears with their hats, out of respect for the departed—whoever he might have been—and one of them kicked the drunk and muttered something to him.

He straightened himself up, stared, and reached helplessly for his hat, which he shoved half off and then on again. Then he made a great effort to pull himself together—and succeeded. He stood up, braced his back against the fence, knocked off his hat, and remorsefully placed his foot on it—to keep it off his head till the funeral passed.

A tall, sentimental drover, who walked by my side, cynically quoted Byronic verses suitable to the occasion—to death—and asked with pathetic humour whether ...