Ancient Lights, by Algernon Blackwood (1912)

 A walk in the woods with Algernon Blackwood (1869-1951) must have been quite the thing.  I often wonder to myself if he was a man who truly loved the outdoors, or feared them.  Much has been made of his fascination with the outdoors, and his horror tales dealing with natural forces, forests, natural phenomena, and the beings that call the wilds their home are without question the finest ever written, but how did the man himself truly feel about being surrounded by trees, by desolate silence, or by the near endless expanses of wilderness we know he saw during his time here in Canada?  Modern readers suggest that Lovecraft had an aversion to seafood tantamount to a phobia, that he allegedly feared the sea, and that gazing at the endless stars simply must have filled him with dread based on his writings (though these opinions are rarely, if ever, bolstered by reading his actual letters or looking up his true feelings of things).  If that’s the case, then how must Blackwood have felt about a walk in the woods?  Or the wind in the trees?  Or the babble of a brook?

We may never truly know, as surely his own letters wouldn’t give us any insight (…), but based on today’s story it may as well have been a laugh as a shriek.

Ancient Lights (1912) continues themes Blackwood previously visited in The Willows (1907) and The Man the Trees Loved (also 1912), that of a potential sentience among plant life that may or may not be hostile towards man, but invariably is willing to protect itself should it need to.  That’s not to say the stories are in any way connected, nor do they seem to suggest any overarching mythology, but rather an interesting fascination the author had with the outdoors and the seemingly innocent, though massively outnumbering denizens which sway with the breeze and just may have an intellect all their own.

In this very short tale (a “ten minute” tale written by Blackwood for magazines) a surveyor is called to the English countryside to meet with a homeowner about having a copse of trees removed that is blocking the view from his home.  Upon arriving the surveyor is in a gay mood and, seeing that the stand of trees seems a little less than an acre, is set between two large fields, and offers a full view of the man’s house on the other side, decides to take the path through the trees to see what he’ll soon be dealing with.

At first all is good and fun, the sun is shining and the little wood seems to be a lovely spot full of flowers, sweet smells, and a charming atmosphere.  He bends to pick at some flowers and a stray oak branch knocks off his hat – then does it again when the hat is replaced.  From there the forests seems to take on a sinister air as the man becomes hopelessly lost, sees odd shapes moving in the sun-dappled glades, and is continually turned around, being pushed further and further away from the fields and the red house that stands beyond the woods.

Blackwood does an expectedly amazing job of bringing the forest to life, turning everyday natural occurrence sinister, breathing life into shadows and rustling leaves and the fear that we all experience at becoming lost, even in so small a space.  He introduces potentially spectral figures, footsteps, and even the suggestion of the fae as the man is forced from the woods and told, in no uncertain terms, that “Trespassers will be Prosecuted”.

A message that becomes all the more true when we learn from the homeowner at the end of the tale that the ancient copse is known locally as “The Fairy Wood”.

There’s also a great line within the story as the surveyor reads his note from the homeowner stating:  “There is a short cut through the wood – the wood I want cut down – if you care to take it.”  The “c” in care, of course, is smudged and could be read as a “d”.

Blackwood does a masterful job with Ancient Lights, blending some subtle humor with increasing terror as he once again turns the innocent and prosaic sinister.  Too short to really reach the heights of the likes of The Willows or The Wendigo, Ancient Lights is nevertheless a great addition to Blackwood’s nature stories and the clever bits with the signage and the surveyor’s note stick with the reader long after.

The story ends with the homeowner asking the surveyor (who has just arrived at his home after the ordeal) if he’s quite ready to go out and have a look at the stand of trees, inviting the reader as well along for another walk in the woods with Algernon Blackwood, for good or evil.

Man-Size in Marble, by Edith Nesbit (1887)

 Edith Nesbit’s (1858-1924) Man-Size In Marble (1887) has become something of a highlight for Gothic short horror fiction, particularly for non-haunting, non-traditional short horror fiction.  Frequently anthologized and pondered with modern sensibilities, it falls comfortably into what may be considered rural or folk horror, having an atmosphere almost of local legend about it.  The sort of tale that may have been handed down from an aunt or uncle, or perhaps around the campfire by a woodsman or a Scout leader.

Nesbit does an amazing job creating the small, utterly normal world in which her story takes place.  The forested glen and surrounding areas where the short story happens, as well as the dilapidated buildings that play as strong a role as the human characters all come to life and one might be excused for thinking she was speaking of real places, rather than just drawing on the inspiration of fairly typical architecture of the time.  Suggestions are that the church in the tale is actually St Eanswith’s, though nothing can be said with certainty.

Where the story falls short for me, however, is in the actual telling.  Man-Size definitely has one foot squarely in the tales of the legendary M.R. James (though pre-dating James, the comparison still stands, though perhaps the other way around), using similar motifs and methods as the master, as well as pacing that is surely Jamesian in execution, though it’s missing the subtlety of most of James’ better works, instead laying nearly everything on the table and in many ways ruining the illusion that Nesbit’s prosaic landscape creates throughout the early part of the tale.

For those who haven’t read the story, which I still suggest any fan of classic horror literature do, here is a brief summary.  Spoilers abound. 

A young couple, recently married, are looking for a home.  They are both artistic types, a wrtier and a painter, and on meagre funds decide to look about for a cottage-style home that their lower income can accommodate.  After seeing a few shanties that are either too-rustic or not rustic enough, they decide on a seemingly perfect little house situated somewhere between the forest and an older church, well off the beaten path and seemingly with few neighbours (only one is really mentioned, and while he appears, he’s largely unimportant to the story).  They hire on a local woman to do their chores and go about their lives in happiness.

Approaching All Saints’ Eve, their hired help feigns a need to leave for a sick niece, rousing suspicion in the husband until he gets the true story from the peasant woman.  It seems the local church has a pair of statues near the altar - two knights, she tells us, who were wicked in life and only became interred (or at least remembered in stone) in the church due to the finances of their progeny.  These monuments, it has been said, come alive on All Saints’ Eve and return to their home, killing anyone they find there.

Quite naturally their former home is the site of our young lovers’ cottage.

At first scoffing about such things, the husband finds himself soon without a housekeeper and later out for a walk in the gathering dusk of All Saints’ Eve, his young wife at home with a feeling of apprehension she’s been unable to shake.  He heads to the church and sees both statues missing and, aware that the fable has become reality, races home.  He’s stopped in the field, his eyes taken by the light in his home, by his neighbour who convinces him he’s carrying on.  They return to the church and see both statues there, though one now has a broken hand.

Convinced he’s been chasing ghosts he heads home, neighbour in tow, for a drink and a laugh, only to discover his little wife dead, strangled it seems, with a marble finger at her throat.

Very little is done to make the tale reach any level of horror once the supernatural pokes a stony head into the otherwise placid story of two young people very much in love.  Nesbit does very well in creating the folklore of the knights, and the housekeeper’s version of the tale and her belief in the mythology are easily the best part of Man-Size in Marble (aside from, perhaps, the environs themselves).  Unlike James, the villains of the story are entirely too realized, and the trauma entirely too avoidable.  There is no reason for the husband not to return, no reason for them to ignore all the forewarnings, and further no reason to ignore the obvious fears of the housekeeps and seemingly everyone local to the area.

This lack of concern (though one could say it is a statement on the modern man’s thinking versus the more old fashioned, or perhaps even modern thinking versus nature and folklore) removes the reader from any real concern for the victims, while the entirely terrestrial nature of the creatures (which are never really explained nor seen outside of their stationary forms) removes any threat they may pose in the reader’s mind.  They become unironically like a speeding train, deadly certainly but utterly avoidable and posing no real threat to anyone who is not on the rail before them.

Many latter day readers and students of weird fiction take the time to examine the wife’s position in the story, how she’s left unguarded and ultimately killed because a) her husband was elsewhere and b) they again refused to heed any warnings, but for me this is largely a moot point and ultimately a service to modern thinking, perhaps even suggesting things that aren’t there and aren’t meant to be.  The wife plays a pivotal role in the story, as does the doctor, and the housekeeper, and the husband as narrator.  So to do the evil knights, whatever they may be.

At its core though the tale seems more concerned with the loss of natural knowledge, forgetting where we came from, and ignoring nature’s warnings (or at least those more in-tune with nature) because we’re modern.  And smarter.  Not smart enough to avoid a slow moving, well known threat that can’t seem to deviate its course, but still, smarter than we perhaps should be.

Lovecraft said it was mercy that humanity could not correlate their thoughts, that doing so would ultimately lead to our destruction.  Nesbit, at least in this tale, seems to suggest otherwise.  Maybe sometimes a little knowledge will save us, or at least a little common sense.