Most stories that appeared in Weird Tales received accompanying artwork, usually on the title page. Clark Ashton Smith's "The End of the Story" is no different, featuring this illustration, which depicts the confrontation between Hilaire, abbot of Périgon, and the lamia, Nycea. I can't quite make out the signature of the artist at the bottom right, so I'm unable to identify him with certainty. I think the initials are "HR," which, if so, suggests the artist is Hugh Rankin, who illustrated several of H.P. Lovecraft's during the same time period.

Regardless, it's a very odd illustration. From the text of the story itself, I assume it depicts the abbot brandishing his aspergillum, which Smith calls (incorrectly) an aspergillus – the world's tiniest aspergillum, it would seem! 

When I was writing my three-part series on the worlds of Clark Ashton Smith, I realized that I had somehow never written a Pulp Fantasy Library post about “The End of the Story,” the very first tale of the Averoigne cycle, appearing in the May 1930 issue of Weird Tales. In retrospect, perhaps I shouldn’t have been so surprised. “The End of the Story” is frequently overlooked, probably because, unlike most other entries in the cycle, it is set not in the Middle Ages but in 1789, on the eve of the French Revolution. [Note: The text linked above gives the date as 1798, which I believe is simply a typographical error. —JDM]

Even so, I feel a little sheepish about this, as it's an excellent story, both within the Averoigne cycle and within Smith's larger body of work. It's also one of his earliest fiction works, written just a few years after "The Abominations of Yondo." Though still a relative amateur at prose, the story nevertheless presents a clear expression of Smith’s decadent sympathies and his esthetic rebellion against conventional morality. Consequently, it is less a horror story than a parable of temptation and the lingering bitterness that follows salvation.

The story is framed as a manuscript discovered after the mysterious disappearance of a young law student, Christophe Morand. The manuscript contains his confession, written at his father’s estate near Moulins in the province of Averoigne. What Morand recounts there is not a description of an ordeal escaped, but of a paradise glimpsed and lost.

Caught in a violent storm while riding through the forest, Christophe stumbles upon the abbey of Périgon, where he is warmly received by its abbot, Hilaire. The abbot is no ascetic but rather a cultivated Epicurean. He is well-fed, well-read, proud of his wine cellar, and even prouder of his astonishing library. The abbot’s library is a treasure trove of lost antiquities, holding lost fragments of Sappho, an unknown dialog of Plato, and many other unique literary and philosophical curiosities. 

Also present is a hidden volume that the abbot fears – an anonymous text written in archaic French, which he claims is cursed. Hilaire's warning is melodramatic, full of signs of the Cross and invocations of Satan. Unfortunately, it's precisely for this reason that Christophe is so tempted by it. Smith handles the temptation represented by the forbidden text beautifully. It is not lust, ambition, or even greed that drives Christophe, but pure esthetic curiosity. It is the scholar’s hunger for forbidden beauty.

When Christophe eventually does read the manuscript, he finds that it tells of Gérard de Venteillon, a medieval knight who, on the eve of his wedding, encounters a satyr in the forest. The creature whispers a secret so powerful that Gérard abandons his faith, his fiancée, and the world itself. He then follows a hidden path to the ruins of Château des Faussesflammes, presses a triangular stone, and descends into the earth, never to return.

The satyr says that

The power of Christ has prevailed like a black frost on all the woods, the fields, the rivers, the mountains, where abode in their felicity the glad, immortal goddesses and nymphs of yore. But still, in cryptic caverns of the earth, in places far underground, like the hell your priests have fabled, there dwells pagan loveliness, there cry the pagan ecstasies."

Though the words are those of a satyr, it seems clear to me that they're also the words of Smith himself, who had little use for formal religion of any kind, least of all medieval Christianity.

Later, from his window at the abbey, Christophe recognizes nearby ruins. Like Gérard before him, he feels irresistibly drawn to them. Ignoring every warning, he slips away, finds the triangular stone, and descends into the vaults beneath Faussesflammes. Instead of the horror he was promised, Christophe discovers a radiant pastoral world – a classical paradise of laurel groves, flowing rivers, marble palaces, satyrs, and nymphs. This is no hellscape but Arcadia restored, the world Christianity erased.

At the heart of this paradise waits Nycea. She is one of Smith’s most memorable creations: a lamia, an ancient vampire-serpent whom Christophe perceives only as a goddess of beauty. Their meeting is neither violent nor coercive. It is, in fact, strangely tender, luxurious, and, above all, intoxicating. Yet Christophe’s response goes beyond simple lust, just as his desire for the forbidden manuscript in the abbey was more than mere curiosity. Nycea represents recognition, the sense that he has always loved her without knowing it. Smith presents their union not as corruption but as fulfillment. The reader is meant to understand why Christophe would risk damnation for her.

It is at this point that Hilaire bursts in, brandishing holy water. Nycea flees, and the paradise Christophe has discovered collapses into dust. The vision vanishes, and he comes to his senses amid the rubble of the vaults beneath Faussesflammes. Hilaire explains that Nycea is an ancient demon who lures men to their doom, drains them, and devours them. The manuscript was her bait, her carefully laid trap. Gérard and countless others met their deaths this way, and Christophe, the abbot insists, is fortunate to have escaped the same fate.

Christophe feels no gratitude. He feels only rage. He does not believe he has been rescued; he believes he has been robbed.

Unheedful whether or not he had rescued me from dire physical and spiritual perils, I lamented the beautiful dream of which he had deprived me. The kisses of Nycea burned softly in my memory, and I knew that whatever she was, woman or demon or serpent, there was no one in all the world who could ever arouse in me the same love and the same delight.

The true end of the story comes when Christophe vows to return. He swears that he will seek out the ruins of Faussesflammes again and descend once more into the vaults below. He has chosen to risk death and damnation, because he cannot unsee paradise and cannot accept a world without it.

“The End of the Story” is among Smith’s finest tales. Though it differs in many respects from later Averoigne stories, I have always found it especially compelling. Those later entries lean more overtly into the grotesque, but this one is strangely moving and elegiac. It mourns not only the loss of one man’s vision of paradise but also the passing of an older, pagan world – a realm of beauty, sensuality, and wonder erased by the march of Christianity and history.

Among the more interesting aspects of Clark Ashton Smith’s literary output is the way many of his best-known stories fall into a series of loosely connected “cycles.” Each cycle is defined by a shared setting, one that all the stories belonging to it inhabit, even if those stories are separated by vast stretches of time or only lightly connected by recurring names, places, or legends. While these cycles share certain common elements – decadence, black magic, sardonic humor, and a pervasive sense of decline – each nevertheless possesses a character and atmosphere all its own. A story set in Hyperborea feels different from one set in Zothique or Averoigne, not merely in geography but also in tone, mood, and underlying assumptions about history, magic, and humanity’s place in the cosmos.

Since I plan to write about several of Clark Ashton Smith’s settings over the course of the coming month, it seems worthwhile to begin with a short series of introductory posts outlining these worlds for readers who may not yet be familiar with them. Each post will offer a brief overview of a particular setting, highlighting its distinctive features and thematic concerns. I’ll also include a selective bibliography of some of the key stories associated with each setting, many of which I’ve already examined in earlier Pulp Fantasy Library posts. This is by no means meant to be an exhaustive or encyclopedic survey. Rather, I simply wish to establish a shared foundation, one that will make it easier to explore these settings in greater depth in later posts devoted to Smith’s most enduring and influential creations.

In this first installment, I’ll focus on two of Smith’s best-known settings – Averoigne and Hyperborea –with additional settings to follow in Parts II and III of the series.

Averoigne

Averoigne is a fictional region in southern France, with its own unique geography and history. It's a land of walled cities like Vyones (home to a grand cathedral and a scheming archbishop), winding rivers such as the Isoile, dense sinister forests, and ruined castles like Fausseflammes and Ylourgne. Set during the Middle Ages and early modern period, supernatural elements abound in the tales of Averoigne, like sorcery (often practiced covertly, even by clergy), vampires, werewolves, ghouls, and demonic intrusions. The Church holds sway but is frequently helpless or corrupt against these forces, which enables Smith to blend religious satire with elements of horror. The Averoigne stories often explore themes of lust, forbidden knowledge, and the clash between faith and paganism. 

The major stories in this cycle are:

• "The End of the Story" (1930): The earliest written story of Averoigne, it takes place in the 18th century. In it, a law student uncovers a forbidden tome at Périgon Abbey, leading to a romantic encounter with a lamia in a ruined chateau.
• "A Rendezvous in Averoigne" (1931): A troubadour and his lover stumble into a vampire-infested castle, blending romance with gothic horror.
• "The Maker of Gargoyles" (1932): A lustful stonemason's creations come alive to terrorize Vyones, serving as karmic punishment.
• "The Holiness of Azédarac" (1933): A bishop-sorcerer uses time magic to send a monk back to pagan times, where he finds love and questions his faith.
• "The Colossus of Ylourgne" (1933): A necromancer assembles a giant corpse to ravage the land, stopped by a heroic wizard in an epic tale of dark sorcery.
• "The Beast of Averoigne" (1933): An alien serpent creature arrives via comet, pitting science against religion as a sorcerer battles it.
• "Mother of Toads" (1938): A grotesque witch seduces a young man with potions, leading to horrific revenge.
• "The Enchantress of Sylaire" (1941): A dreamer enters a fairy realm, defeats a werewolf, and chooses eternal love over mortal life.

Hyperborea

Hyperborea is an ancient, lost land roughly where Greenland stands today, existing in a warm prehistoric era (possibly the Miocene or Pleistocene) before glaciers engulfed it. It's a jungle-clad realm of ebony mountains, opulent cities like Commoriom (abandoned due to dire prophecies) and Uzuldaroum, as well as northern locales like Mhu Thulan. Dinosaurs roam alongside mammoths and saber-tooths, while wizards, thieves, and elder gods like Tsathoggua dominate. The themes of cosmic indifference, ironic comeuppance, and the encroaching ice-doom of the land permeate the stories, often with black humor amid the horror. Smith's Hyperborean stories are the most sword-and-sorcery in content and tones of his work.

The key stories of this cycle are:

• "The Tale of Satampra Zeiros" (1931): A pair of thieves raid a ruined temple, awakening a monstrous guardian in ironic horror.
• "The Door to Saturn" (1932): Sorcerer Eibon flees to an alien planet, encountering bizarre creatures in a comedic quest.
• "The Testament of Athammaus" (1932): An executioner fails to kill a regenerating criminal tied to ancient gods.
• "The Weird of Avoosl Wuthoqquan" (1932): A greedy lender chases cursed gems into a monster's lair.
• "The Ice-Demon" (1933): Treasure hunters face a malevolent glacier in a tomb city.
• "The Seven Geases" (1934): A hunter endures escalating curses, bouncing through underworlds to a punchline end.
• "The Coming of the White Worm" (1941): A wizard confronts a deceptive iceberg-entity enslaving others.

Of Clark Ashton Smith's three main cycles of fiction – Zothique, Hyperborea, and Averoigne – I encountered Averoigne first, thanks to the Dungeons & Dragons module, Castle Amber. Consequently, I've retained a great affection for that "sorcery-ridden province" of pre-modern France, even though my estimation of Zothique has since eclipsed it. Averoigne is a place of sinful passions run amok, where pride, envy, wrath, and, above all, lust are given full vent, with frequently horrific results. 

H.P. Lovecraft's career as a writer was seriously hampered by the fact that he would regularly withhold publication of his stories unless they were printed without alteration. His friend and colleague, Clark Ashton Smith, whose 130th birthday is this coming Friday – Friday the 13th, appropriately enough – had no such qualms. He understood well that, if one were to make a living as a writer of pulp fiction, one had to be both prolific and willing to acquiesce to even the most whimsical of editorial alterations. Consequently, Smith saw a phenomenal number of his stories published during his lifetime. Weird Tales alone published fifty-three of his tales, more even than Robert E. Howard, another of HPL's friends who understood the compromises necessary to make money as a writer.

Smith's willingness to compromise extended not only to the content of his writing, but also to the markets to which he'd peddle his work. In the case of "The Satyr," one of the earliest stories in his Averoigne cycle, he made concessions to both. After repeated rejections from his usual publishers, who regarded it as "overly risqué," he sold it to La Paree Stories, a "spicy" pulp, whose pages were filled with erotic fiction and nude photography. Further, he changed the story's original ending to make it less ambiguous – a man's gotta eat, after all! The link above, sadly, goes to the version that appeared in the July 1931 issue of La Paree Stories; the original ending would not be restored until 2006.

As so many of Smith's tales do, "The Satyr" opens amusingly:

Raoul, Comte de la Frenaie, was by nature the most unsuspicious of husbands. His lack of suspicion, perhaps, was partly lack of imagination; and, for the rest, was doubtless due to the dulling of his observational faculties by the heavy wines of Averoigne. At any rate, he had never seen anything amiss in the friendship of his wife, Adele, with Olivier du Montoir, a young poet who might in time have rivalled Ronsard as one of the most brilliant luminaries of the Pleiade, if it had not been for an unforeseen but fatal circumstance. 

The references to Pierre de Ronsard and La Pléiade place the story in the mid-16th century, which is later than most of his Averoigne stories, whose time period is more clearly medieval. Count Raoul, despite his usual trusting nature, somehow begins to suspect that perhaps there is something untoward in the relationship of his wife and the handsome young poet who composes "melodious villanelles and graceful ballades ... in celebration of Adele's visible charms." 

it is hard to know just why M. le Comte became suddenly troubled concerning the integrity of his marital honour. Perhaps, in some interim of the hunting and drinking between which he divided nearly all his time, he had noticed that his wife was growing younger and fairer and was blooming as a woman never blooms except to the magical sunlight of love. Perhaps he had caught some glance of ardent or affectionate understanding between Adele and Olivier; or, perhaps, it was the influence of the premature spring, which had pierced the vinous muddlernent of his brain with an obscure stirring of forgotten thoughts and emotions, and thus had given him a flash of insight.

So, when he discovers that his wife and Olivier had recently left his chateau to go "for a promenade in the forest," he sets off after them – armed with his rapier.

Even ignorant of what her husband has planned, Countess Adele is worried. 

Adele and Olivier had wandered beyond the limits of their customary stroll, and were nearing a portion of the forest of Averoigne where the trees were older and taller than all others. Here, some of the huge oaks were said to date back to pagan days. Few people ever passed beneath them; and queer beliefs and legends concerning them had been prevalent among the local peasantry for ages. Things had been seen within these precincts, whose very existence was an affront to science and a blasphemy to religion; and evil influences were said to attend those who dared to intrude upon the sullen umbrage of the immemorial glades and thickets.

Olivier, however, is not concerned, claiming that Adele's worries are based on "stories to frighten babes and beldames." He reassures her, "There is enchantment here, but only the enchantment of beauty." The pair proceed deeper into the forest, until at last they come upon a beautiful clearing that possessed both "an air of antique wisdom" and "tranquil friendliness." "Was I not right?" Olivier queried. "Is there ought to fear in harmless trees and flowers?"

I doubt it will come as a surprise to anyone that Adele's fears are well grounded. Even as "the spell of their desire" is upon them and "everything beyond their own bodies, their own hearts" is "vaguer than a dream," they nevertheless become aware that they are being watched.

The apparition was incredible; and, for the space of a long breath, they could not believe they had really seen it. There were two horns in a matted mass of coarse, animal-like hair above the semi-human face with its obliquely slitted eyes and fang-revealing mouth and beard of wild-boar bristles. The face was old - incomputably old; and its lines and wrinkles were those of unreckoned years of lust; and its look was filled with the slow, unceasing increment of all the malignity and corruption and cruelty of elder ages. It was the face of Pan, as he glared from his, secret wood upon travellers taken unaware.

In both versions of the story, the leering vision serves as a catalyst for Adele to fling herself into the arms of Olivier and, at long last, they give into the unspoken ardor that they had long felt for one another. Later, their passion consummated, they lie together in the clearing, at which point Raoul finds them. In the published 1931 version, the Count prepares to impale both lovers with a thrust of his blade, but is prevented from doing so by the sudden appearance of the titular satyr, who grabs Adele and carries her off while laughing maniacally. In Smith's original version, Raoul succeeds in slaying the adulterers as he had planned. The satyr never appears in the flesh; instead, the count only hears his laughter.

Both endings have their merits. For myself, I prefer Smith's version, as there is some ambiguity as to whether or not the satyr exists at all or whether it might instead be a manifestation of Raoul's own bloodlust. In any case, "The Satyr," though a lesser work within the Smithian oeuvre, is a quite effective tale of horror and passion – fitting perhaps, given its title. 

"Mother of Toads," which first appeared in the July 1938 issue of Weird Tales is a short but very disturbing story by Clark Ashton Smith. Like most of the tale set in the fictitious French province of Averoigne, this one touches upon sexual themes but in a way that's far removed from the prurience and titillation that were hallmarks of the pulps. Here, Smith uses sex – and the regret it can engender – as the basis for revulsion, horror, and, ultimately, doom. 

The titular Mother of Toads is a witch called Mère Antoinette who dwells in the swamps not far from the village of Les Hiboux. Pale, obese, and possessing "eyes full-orbed and unblinking," she is also knowledgeable in the ways of potion making. It's for this reason that the villagers sometimes call upon Antoinette, including Pierre Baudin, the hapless apprentice of the apothecary Alain le Dindon. 

Pierre's master had sent him to obtain from Antoinette a "vial contain[ing] a philtre of curious potency." He'd done this many times before, but he hated it, for the old woman clearly harbored a lust for him and regularly propositioned him: "Stay awhile tonight, my pretty orphan. No one will miss you in the village." Pierre was repulsed by such amorousness and hoped to finish his business with Antoinette as quickly as possible.

The witch was more than twice his age, and her charms were too uncouth and unsavory to tempt him for an instant. Also, her repute was such as to have nullified the attractions of a younger and fairer sorceress. Her witchcraft had made her feared among the peasantry of that remote province, where belief in spells and philtres was still common. The people of Averoigne called her La Mère des Crapauds, Mother of Toads, a name given for more than one reason. Toads swarmed innumerably about her hut; they were said to be her familiars, and dark tales were told concerning their relationship to the sorceress, and the duties they performed at her bidding. Such tales were all the more readily believed because of those batrachian features that had always been remarked in her aspect.

During his latest visit, Antoinette offers Pierre "a goodly measure of red wine" that she has mulled specifically for him. The youth is suspicious.

"I'll drink it," said Pierre a little grudgingly. "That is, if it contains nothing of your own concoction."

"'Tis naught but sound wine, four seasons old, with spices of Arabia," the sorceress croaked ingratiatingly. "'Twill warm your stomach … and …"  She added something inaudible as Pierre accepted the cup.

Pierre drinks and declares that it is truly good wine but, having quaffed it quickly, he explains that he must be off to his master. Too late, he realizes the mistake he has made.

Even as he spoke, he felt in his stomach and veins the spreading warmth of the alcohol, of the spices … of something more ardent than these. It seemed that his voice was unreal and strange, falling as if from a height above him. The warmth grew, mounting within him like a golden flame fed by magic oils. His blood, a seething torrent, poured tumultuously and more tumultuously through his members. 

Smith is a master of subtlety and suggestion, making excellent use of innuendo to make his points. He is equally adept at bluntness, often in service of horror. In what follows next, he employs both approaches, describing the "philterous ardor" that overtakes Pierre's senses as he suddenly sees in Mère Antoinette – and her propositions – in a new and disturbing light.

She led him to her couch beside the hearth where a great cauldron boiled mysteriously, sending up its fumes in strange-twining coils that suggested vague and obscene figures. The couch was rude and bare. But the flesh of the sorceress was like deep, luxurious cushions …

"The Mother of Toads" is an unsettling tale, not solely for the events it depicts or the frightful luxuriance Smith deploys in describing them but more for the realization that inevitably dawns on Pierre, as he understands what has transpired. It's that psychological element that I think elevates the story and stays with the reader after the story reaches its tragic, inevitable conclusion.

January is upon us and so I bid farewell to Pulp Science Fiction Library (though it may return in the future). For the first installment of Pulp Fantasy Library of 2012, it seems only fitting to turn to my favorite pulp fantasist, Clark Ashton Smith, and my favorite of his recurring settings, Averoigne. This time, the story in question is "The Maker of Gargoyles," which appeared in the August 1932 issue of Weird Tales. The short story walked a difficult road to publication, having been rejected multiple times by both Weird Tales and its competitor, Strange Tales. It was only after several revisions, the most significant of which was suggested to Smith by August Derleth that it was at last accepted for publication.

As its name suggests, "The Maker of Gargoyles" is about a stone-carver named Blaise Reynard who had been commissioned by the archbishop of Vyônes to carve a pair of gargoyles for the city's new cathedral. Smith describes the circumstances of Reynard's employment, as well as the popular reaction to both his work and his person in the opening of the story:

Among the many gargoyles that frowned or leered from the roof of the new-built cathedral of Vyônes, two were pre-eminent above the rest by virtue of their fine workmanship and their supreme grotesquery. These two had been wrought by the stone-carver Blaise Reynard, a native of Vyônes, who had lately returned from a long sojourn in the cities of Provence, and had secured employment on the cathedral when the three years' task of its construction and ornamentation was well-nigh completed. In view of the wonderful artistry shown by Reynard, it was regretted by Ambrosius, the archbishop, that it had not been possible to commit the execution of all the gargoyles to this delicate and accomplished workman; but other people, with less liberal tastes than Ambrosius, were heard to express a different opinion.

This opinion, perhaps, was tinged by the personal dislike that had been generally felt toward Reynard in Vyônes even from his boyhood; and which had been revived with some virulence on his return. Whether rightly or unjustly, his very physiognomy had always marked him out for public disfavor: he was inordinately dark, with hair and beard of a preternatural bluish-black, and slanting, ill-matched eyes that gave him a sinister and cunning air. His taciturn and saturnine ways were such as a superstitious people would identify with necromantic knowledge or complicity; and there were those who covertly accused him of being in league with Satan; though the accusations were little more than vague, anonymous rumors, even to the end, through lack of veritable evidence.

However, the people who suspected Reynard of diabolic affiliations were wont for awhile to instance the two gargoyles as sufficient proof. No man, they contended, who was so inspired by the Arch-Enemy, could have carven anything so sheerly evil and malignant, could have embodied so consummately in mere stone the living lineaments of the most demoniacal of all the deadly Sins.

The two gargoyles were perched on opposite corners of a high tower of the cathedral. One was a snarling, murderous, cat-headed monster, with retracted lips revealing formidable fangs, and eyes that glared intolerable hatred from beneath ferine brows. This creature had the claws and wings of a griffin, and seemed as if it were poised in readiness to swoop down on the city of Vyônes, like a harpy on its prey. Its companion was a horned satyr, with the vans of some great bat such as might roam the nether caverns, with sharp, clenching talons, and a look of Satanically brooding lust, as if it were gloating above the helpless object of its unclean desire. Both figures were complete, even to the hindquarters, and were not mere conventional adjuncts of the roof. One would have expected them to start at any moment from the stone in which they were mortised.

Ambrosius, a lover of art, had been openly delighted with these creations, because of their high technical merit and their verisimilitude as works of sculpture. But others, including many humbler dignitaries of the Church, were more or less scandalized, and said that the workman had informed these figures with the visible likeness of his own vices, to the glory of Belial rather than of God, and had thus perpetrated a sort of blasphemy. Of course, they admitted, a certain amount of grotesquery was requisite in gargoyles; but in this case the allowable bounds had been egregiously overpassed.

As the story begins, Vyônes is being terrorized by a series of terrible murders of reputable and respectable citizens, including members of the clergy. In time, these murders are joined by a series of attacks upon the young women of the city, leading many to believe that demons are at work. This, in turn, inspires equal parts superstitious fear and blasphemous abandon in Vyônes, as some of its inhabitants look to God for salvation while others see recent events as evidence that Satan holds sway over their home.

In the midst of this tumult, Blaise Reynard spends his time in a tavern, where he lustily eyes the serving girl, Nicolette. For her part, Nicolette shows little interest in Reynard, which only inflames his passion for her:

There were few people in the tavern that evening. The girl Nicolette was serving wine to a mercer's assistant, one Raoul Coupain, a personable youth and a newcomer in the neighborhood, and she was laughing with what Reynard considered unseemly gayety at the broad jests and amorous sallies of this Raoul. Jean Villom was discussing in a low voice the latest enormities and was drinking fully as much liquor as his customers.

Glowering with jealousy at the presence of Raoul Coupain, whom he suspected of being a favored rival, Reynard seated himself in silence and stared malignly at the flirtatious couple. No one seemed to have noticed his entrance; for Villom went on talking to his cronies without pause or interruption, and Nicolette and her companion were equally oblivious. To his jealous rage, Reynard soon added the resentment of one who feels that he is being deliberately ignored. He began to pound on the table with his heavy fists, to attract attention.

Villom, who had been sitting all the while his back turned, now called out to Nicolette without even troubling to face around on his stool, telling her to serve Reynard. Giving a backward smile at Coupain, she came slowly and with open reluctance to the stone-carver's table.

She was small and buxom, with reddish-gold hair that curled luxuriantly above the short, delicious oval of her face; and she was gowned in a tight-fitting dress of apple-green that revealed the firm, seductive outlines of her hips and bosom. Her air was disdainful and a little cold, for she did not like Reynard and had taken small pains at any time to conceal her aversion. But to Reynard she was lovelier and more desirable than ever, and he felt a savage impulse to seize her in his arms and carry her bodily away from the tavern before the eyes of Raoul Coupain and her father.

I don't think I'm giving anything away when I say that the resolution of Reynard's unfulfilled desire and the horrific events in Vyônes are connected. Neither do I think the nature of connection will come as a surprise to anyone. Despite that, "The Maker of Gargoyles" is nevertheless an enjoyable tale well told. As ever, Smith is a master of prose poetry and his descriptions of both people and events are terrifically suggestive without ever lapsing into luridness. Just as important is Smith's portrait of the psychology of Reynard, for the success of the whole story depends heavily on it. Some might find it unsatisfying, but I think, in a tale as brief as this one, one can only reasonably expect a certain amount of depth. Even given that criticism, Reynard is a quite well realized character and a solid foundation on which to build this tale of obsession in a fantastical medieval France.

First published in the April/May 1931 issue of Weird Tales, Clark Ashton Smith's "A Rendezvous in Averoigne" is probably one of the author's most widely reprinted -- and thus read -- stories. There are likely many specific reasons why this is so, but I suspect that they all boil down to a single one: accessibility. Unlike many of Smith's other efforts, even within the Averoigne cycle, this story of the troubadour Gérard de l'Automne and his lady-love Fleurette is extremely accessible to the casual reader. Its fairy tale medieval setting, its cast of characters, its antagonists, and indeed its general subject matter are all well within the bounds of mainstream fantasy or historical romance literature.

Consequently, a lot of Smith fans, who are drawn to him for evocations of the weird and extra-terrene, find "A Rendezvous in Averoigne" boring, or at least a lesser effort. Personally, I think that's a mistake as, despite its conventionality, it's one of Smith's best prose works, an opinion CAS himself shared in a 1930 letter to H.P. Lovecraft. It's easy to see why; Smith's descriptive passages are truly moving, such as this one setting the scene for the woodland tryst of Gérard and Fleurette:

The grass and tress had assumed the fresh enamel of a medieval May; the turf was figured with little blossoms of azure and white and yellow, like an ornate broidery; and there was a pebbly stream that murmured beside he way, as if the voices of undines were parleying deliciously beneath its waters. The sun-lulled air was laden with a wafture of youth and romance; and the longing the welled from the heart of Gérard seemed to mingle mystically with the balsams of the wood.

As you can see, Smith is still very much himself here, crafting passages of verbal beauty, but he also seems more restrained, toning down his penchant for archaisms and unduly exotic words without undermining his literary alchemy.

That aside, this is a Clark Ashton Smith story. The wood where Gérard and Fleurette agree to meet

possessed an ill-repute among the peasantry. Somewhere in in this wood, there was the ruinous and haunted Château des Faussesflammes; and, also, there was a double tomb within which the Sieur Hugh du Malinbois and his chatelaine, who were notorious for sorcery in their time, had lain unconsecrated for more than two hundred years. Of these and their phantoms, there were grisly tales; and there were stories of loupgarous and goblins, of fays and devils and vampires that infested Averoigne. But to these tales Gérard had given little heed, considering it improbable that such creatures could fare about in open daylight.

At first, it seems as if Gérard is correct, for, as he travels on his way to meet Fleurette, he instead finds a mysterious woman accosted by "three ruffians of exceptionally brutal and evil aspect." Entering the fray to defend, he discovers too that the ruffians are in fact an illusion and they, like the woman they were attacking, disappear as he gets close to them, leaving Gérard to feel that "there was something after all in the legends he had heard."

Confused by this turn of events and worried that he will miss his rendezvous with Fleurette, Gérard tries to return to his original path, but instead learns that he is lost in the wood, which was "a maze of bafflement and eeriness." Frightened and tired, he finds himself moving in circles, returning again and again to a tarn on whose shores he finds a many-turreted castle.

There was no sign of life about the castle; and no banners flew above its turrets or its donjon. But Gérard knew, as surely as if a voice had spoken aloud to warn him, that here was the fountain-head of the sorcery by which he had been beguiled.

It'll come as no surprise to anyone that Gérard eventually finds himself with no choice but to approach the castle and enter it, in the process learning the truth about his present circumstances and about the fate of Fleurette. What he finds there and how he deals with it form the bulk of "A Rendezvous in Averoigne," which is, I think, both an excellent tale in its own right but also an excellent reminder that not all weird tales need be dark or vicious, even if they deal with dark and vicious things.

It's an important reminder in my opinion, especially given the renewed interest in pulp fantasies in gaming circles. Much as I think this older tradition of fantasy has something unique to offer contemporary readers (and gamers), I think it'd be a mistake to see amoral grimness as that offering. Just as often there's happiness, even joy, and that's as much a part of the pulp fantasy heritage as anything else. We forget that at our peril.

Robert E. Howard died in 1936 and H.P. Lovecraft followed him a year later. By some reports, Clark Ashton Smith was deeply -- and adversely -- affected by the deaths of his colleagues and frequent correspondents and he largely withdrew from the field of weird fiction. He made a few exceptions, one of the more memorable being 1941's The Enchantress of Sylaire, which, while not explicitly intended as such, proved to be the last tale of medieval Averoigne that he'd ever write.

Interestingly, The Enchantress of Sylaire represents something of a departure from previous Averoigne stories. Unlike the majority of its predecessors, it's notably lacking in cynicism. Indeed, it's a strangely positive, even optimistic fantasy that verges on fairy tale romance in both its content and presentation. It tells of an idealistic, love-besotted young man named Anselme, the object of whose current affections is a beautiful but empty-headed woman named Dorothée des Flèches, who does not share his feelings.

"Why, you big ninny! I could never marry you," declared the demoiselle Dorothée, only daughter of the Sieur des Flèches. Her lips pouted at Anselme like two ripe berries. Her voice was honey — but honey filled with bee-stings.

"You are not so ill-looking. And your manners are fair. But I wish I had a mirror that could show you to yourself for the fool that you really are."

"Why?" queried Anselme, hurt and puzzled.

"Because you are just an addle-headed dreamer, pouring over books like a monk. You care for nothing but silly old romances and legends. People say that you even write verses. It is lucky that you are at least the second son of the Comte du Framboisier — for you will never be anything more than that."

"But you loved me a little yesterday," said Anselme, bitterly. A woman finds nothing good in the man she has ceased to love.

"Dolt! Donkey!" cried Dorothée, tossing her blonde ringlets in pettish arrogance. "If you were not all that I have said, you would never remind me of yesterday. Go, idiot — and do not return."

Dejected, Anselme resolves to leave the world -- and women -- behind by becoming a hermit in the woods of Averoigne. A year into his new life, he spies a mysterious woman bathing in a forest pool. Though taken with her beautiful nakedness, he is not so distracted that he fails to notice "a huge wolf, appearing furtively as a shadow from the thicket" making its way toward her. Fearing more for the woman's safety than his own embarrassment at being a voyeur, Anselme reveals himself and cries out to her. Showing no signs of concern, the woman turns to answer him: "'There is nothing to fear,' she said, in a voice like the pouring of warm honey. 'One wolf, or two, will hardly attack me.'"

The woman dresses and introduces herself to Anselme as Sephora, an enchantress who dwells in a magical Otherworld known as Sylaire, reachable through an ancient collection of standing stones. She asks that Anselme accompany her there, to which he agrees and finds

the grass on which they lay was not the sparse and sun-dried grass of the moor, but was deep, verdant and filled with tiny vernal blossoms! Oaks and beeches, huger even than those of the familiar forest, loomed umbrageously on every hand with masses of new, golden-green leafage, where he had thought to see the open upland. Looking back, he saw that the gray, lichened slabs of the cromlech itself alone rearmed of that former landscape.

Even the sun had changed its position. It had hung at Anselme's left, still fairly low in the east, when he and Sephora had reached the moorland. But now, shining with amber rays through a rift in the forest, it had almost touched the horizon on his right.

The pair make their way to Sephora's tower, where she departs to rest. While she is asleep, Anselme takes the opportunity to explore Sylaire and again encounters the wolf he'd seen earlier. As it turns out, he is no wolf but rather a sorcerer cursed by Sephora to take the form of an animal -- or so he claims, as Anselme finds it hard to believe that the enchantress could ever be so cruel. The wolf-man, whose name is Malachie du Marais, says that he was once, like Anselme, a favorite of Sephora and became her lover but she grew tired of him and used dark magic to transform him into a wolf. Malachie further claims that Sephora is not a woman at all but a foul lamia and her servants are vampires; a bad end will come to Anselme if he does not flee Sylaire now and never return.

Anselme, of course, does not wish to believe Malachie's claims but the werewolf has nevertheless sowed the seeds of doubt in his mind. If Saphora's servants were not vampires who only appear at night, where were they? Likewise, Malachie claimed that, as a lamia, Saphora is afraid of mirrors, which reveal her true face to the world. If she is not the evil creature he claims, then why is that there are no mirrors anywhere in Saphora's home or among her possessions? And once Anselme returns to Sephora's home, her attitude toward Malachie has changed from her earlier nonchalance to genuine concern, saying that the werewolf is in fact a threat to her, as Anselme had suggested earlier -- a threat about which something must be done.

I won't spoil the ending of The Enchantress of Sylaire except to say that it's conclusion is at once quite different than those of most CAS tales and yet still very much in line with the worldview espoused in most of his fiction and poetry. Both Sephora and Malachie du Marais appears as NPCs in Tom Moldvay's Castle Amber, although Sylaire itself is portrayed not as a fey otherworld but merely as a location with the province of Averoigne.

First appearing in the May 1933 issue of Weird Tales, Clark Ashton Smith's "The Beast of Averoigne" is, in many ways, very similar to another CAS-penned Averoigne tale, "The Colossus of Ylourgne," which appeared immediately after it in June 1933. Both stories concern themselves with a "man of science" whose superior knowledge enables him to deal with a dark threat that the ignorant, religion-besotted inhabitants of 14th century France simply cannot. What sets "The Beast of Averoigne" apart from its successor is that it might be called a science fiction tale rather than a fantasy one, for the titular Beast is not some demon from Hell or a necromantic abomination but an alien invader.

The short story is divided into three parts, each one told from the perspective of a different character. This structure allows Smith to demonstrate his skill in characterization, as each part is colored strongly by the personality and worldview of its narrator. The end result is quite interesting and, while not wholly satisfying as a tale in and of itself, is nevertheless a delight to read. CAS does a superb job in conjuring up the inhabitants of medieval Averoigne and much of the story's tension stems from the fact that the reader likely has a clearer sense of what is going on than do some of its narrators, who simply cannot comprehend the truth of it all.

The first narrator is Brother Gérôme, "the humblest monk of the Benedictine Abbey of Périgon," who tells of the "a strange evil that is still rampant, still unquelled," which may have come to Earth from a red comet.

The horror stood erect, rising to the height of a tall man, and it moved with the swaying of a great serpent, and its members undulated as if they were boneless. The round black head, having no visible ears or hair, was thrust forward on a neck of snakish length. Two eyes, small and lidless, glowing hotly as coals from a wizard's brazier, were set low and near together in the noseless face above the serrate gleaming of bat-like teeth.

Brother Gérôme tells of the Beast's depredations and of efforts to stop them, particularly prayer, whose efficacy proves insufficient, as is revealed in the next narrator's tale, that of Théophile, abbot of Périgon, in his letter to his niece. Frightened by the Beast's increasing boldness, Théophile turns to ever more extreme rituals and mortifications of his flesh in the hope that they might drive away the alien creature and save the lives of his brother monks, many of whom have fallen victim to it.

And I know not where the horror will end; for exorcisms and the sprinkling of holy water at all doors and windows have failed to prevent the intrusion of the Beast; and God and Christ and all the holy Saints are deaf to our prayers.

The story concludes with narration by Luc le Chaudronnier, an alchemist and sorcerer to whom the authority, secular and religious, turn for help when faith proves insufficient:

"You, Messire le Chaudronnier," said the marshal, "are reputed to know the arcanic arts of sorcery, and the spells that summon or dismiss evil demons and other spirits. Therefore, in dealing with this devil, it may be that you shall succeed where all others have failed. Not willingly do we employ you in the matter, since it is not seemly for the church and the law to ally themselves with wizardry. But the need is desperate, lest the demon should take other victims. In return for your aid, we can promise you a goodly reward of gold and a guarantee of lifelong immunity from all inquisition and prosecution which your doing might otherwise invite.

Luc agrees to help them, using his superior knowledge, which his contemporaries deem magic, to deal with the Beast and the terror it has unleashed on the province of Averoigne. He concludes the tale of his involvement by stating

Indeed, it were well that none should believe the story: for thin is the veil betwixt man and the godless deep. The skies are haunted by that which it were madness to know; and strange abominations pass evermore between earth and moon and athwart the galaxies. Unnamable [sic] things have come to us in alien horror and will come again. And the evil of the stars is not as the evil of earth.

It's a terrific ending, one that calls to mind both Lovecraft and the concluding line of the 1951 film, The Thing from Another World. I'm a big fan of the classic "alien invaders" story and placing such a story within a medieval setting only heightens its effectiveness in my opinion. As regular readers know, I'm increasingly fond of including literally otherworldly beings in my fantasy games, a fondness that has only increased since re-reading this Smith short story. It's worth a read if you've ever toyed with the idea of adding extraterrestrials to your fantasy campaigns.

The illustration to the left isn't from the first appearance of Clark Ashton Smith's June 1933 short story, "The Colossus of Ylourgne," but from a Dutch anthology bearing the same name. I included it with this post because I liked the look of it and because, as I've noted previously, Smith stories so rarely received cover art in the issues of Weird Tales in which they were published; this story is no different. Interestingly, we know from extant letters that "The Colossus of Ylourgne" is one of two stories (along with "The Dark Eidolon") that Smith offered to Universal Studios for adaptation into movies when they contacted him in 1935 about obtaining film rights to some of his work. Alas, nothing ever came of it.

Set in late 13th century France, "The Colossus of Ylourgne" is one of the longest pieces Smith ever wrote. It's also one of his more straightforwardly "adventurous" tales, which isn't to say the story diverges much from his usual approach, since it still retains all the characteristics one would expect from its author, including mordant satire and luxurious language. Nevertheless, the story is one that could easily be turned into a D&D adventure -- and indeed was, in the form Tom Moldvay's Castle Amber, which includes characters and events taken directly from "The Colossus of Ylourgne."

Nathaire, a "thrice-infamous ... alchemist, astrologer and necromancer, with his ten devil-given pupils" suddenly and secretly departs from the town of Vyônes for reasons unknown, although it is commonly believed "that his departure had been prompted by a salutary fear of ecclesiastical thumbscrews and fagots." In point of fact, the dwarfish, deformed necromancer has bigger things in mind, as soon becomes apparent:

Nightly, for a period of two weeks, the cemeteries of Vyônes, and also those of other towns, of villages and hamlets, gave up a ghastly quota of their tenants. From brazen-bolted tombs, from common charnels, from shallow, unconsecrated trenches, from the marble-lidded vaults of churches and cathedrals, the weird exodus went without cessation.

Worse than this, if possible, there were newly ceremented corpses that leapt from their biers and catafalques, and disregarding the horrified watchers, ran with great bounds of automatic frenzy into the night, never to be seen again by those who lamented them.

Only one person in all of Averoigne, Gaspard du Nord, "himself a student of the proscribed sciences, who had been numbered for a year among the pupils of Nathaire but had chosen to withdraw quietly from the master's household after learning the enormities that would attend his further initiation," has any inkling of what is transpiring -- and what is necessary to stop it.

The resulting story, while lacking the blood and thunder approach of more conventional pulp fantasies, is nevertheless a gripping adventure tale. Gaspard du Nord is neither a Howardian stalwart nor a Lovecraftian antiquarian, but rather a peculiar mix of the two. He's a man of action and integrity who uses "science" -- in this case, forbidden magic -- to protect people who would otherwise revile and fear him as a servant of the Devil. There's an almost Western "necessary barbarian" quality to Gaspard's portrayal, although I'm not sure Smith intended such a reading, preferring instead to use him and his former master as opportunities to poke fun at the medieval Church and religious sensibilities generally.

"The Colossus of Ylourgne" is definitely one of Smith's most accessible works. Its narrative structure and content are more in line with those of lesser pulp fantasy works, which probably explains why it was so well received by the readers of Weird Tales. Yet Smith sacrifices very little of his distinctive voice in this tale. Indeed, one could reasonably argue that, because its structure is more conventional, it affords Smith a greater opportunity to demonstrate his unique gifts as a writer. Regardless, "The Colossus of Ylourgne" is a classic and perhaps the crowning achievement of his Averoigne stories. It's well worth reading by lovers of weird fantasy generally and gamers in particular.