DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Acolyte, v. 2, issue 4, whole no. 8, Fall 1944 |

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Acolyte, v. 2, issue 4, whole no. 8, Fall 1944

first cell that teetered into patterned organization in the steamy primal sea, was dying.
   Ervool, panting, driven by atavistic impulses, had now reached the top of the great stair and slowly made his way through fallen stone and age-old snow, sifted from a sky from which snow would never sift again, past fallen tower walls, which no new frosts would ever crack, no new sleets weather. The cold, crept an eighth of the way from the freezing point of water to absolute zero and still creeping colder, bit his skin--but he scarcely noticed it, for his eye was lifted up to the marvel of the terrible, dizzying stars. They seemed to him for a moment the malign accomplices of time and death. He was lost--so completely lost that he first thought the high musical tinkling but the projection of his vision. Then it came again and seemingly louder than the source of the unearthly crystaline music. It was unbelievable---and yet he saw it, saw it too clearly for any doubt: there was a stirring and a restlessness in the ice about him, a kind of patterned organization come to the ice and snow, a kind of speaking life that had ice for its body. The immortal germ plasm was dying but an earthly restlessness and stirring in the ice would persist for further eons--until all heat and all movement were no more.
******************************************************
              THE GREY MOUSER

     Soft sandaled feet press lightly on the stones
     That cobble Lankhmar's mazy alleyways;
     A greyish cloak melts in the river mist
     That, like the ether of the alchemist,
     Fumes round the corner from the nighted bays
     To chill with sorcery men's blood and bones.
     Only a bat whose sharp ears caught one sound
     Knows that the Mouser is on business bound.

     A jewel from Quarmall or a girl from Kled;
     A caravel said to be docking soon;
     A rune that Sheelba magicked from beyond the moon ---
     What man can name the thing the Mouser seeks
     Or read the smile that links his swarthy cheeks?

                            II
     The City thrusts black towers at the stars
     And bars the forest back with morticed stones
     And seals the scent of flowers in stone jars
     And locks earth's secrets up in brass-clasped tomes.
     No satyr may live there, no faun survive
     The stench and clangor of each crowded street;
     The white-fanged beasts of night cannot contrive 
     To gnaw an entrance through its black concrete.
  
     Yet, 'mongst the gargoyles on its slated roofs,
     One grey masked face leers down with living grin
     That mocks the scurry of the city's floor;
     Two grey gloved hands pry ope the library's door,
     And break the ponderous tomes and scribble in
     Footnotes that give the lie to all proud proofs.
                            ---Fritza Leiber, Jr.
 
                     --16--

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first cell that teetered into patterned organization in the steamy primal sea, was dying. Ervool, panting, driven by atavistic impulses, had now reached the top of the great stair and slowly made his way through fallen stone and age-old snow, sifted from a sky from which snow would never sift again, past fallen tower walls, which no new frosts would ever crack, no new sleets weather. The cold, crept an eighth of the way from the freezing point of water to absolute zero and still creeping colder, bit his skin--but he scarcely noticed it, for his eye was lifted up to the marvel of the terrible, dizzying stars. They seemed to him for a moment the malign accomplices of time and death. He was lost--so completely lost that he first thought the high musical tinkling but the projection of his vision. Then it came again and seemingly louder than the source of the unearthly crystaline music. It was unbelievable---and yet he saw it, saw it too clearly for any doubt: there was a stirring and a restlessness in the ice about him, a kind of patterned organization come to the ice and snow, a kind of speaking life that had ice for its body. The immortal germ plasm was dying but an earthly restlessness and stirring in the ice would persist for further eons--until all heat and all movement were no more. ****************************************************** THE GREY MOUSER Soft sandaled feet press lightly on the stones That cobble Lankhmar's mazy alleyways; A greyish cloak melts in the river mist That, like the ether of the alchemist, Fumes round the corner from the nighted bays To chill with sorcery men's blood and bones. Only a bat whose sharp ears caught one sound Knows that the Mouser is on business bound. A jewel from Quarmall or a girl from Kled; A caravel said to be docking soon; A rune that Sheelba magicked from beyond the moon --- What man can name the thing the Mouser seeks Or read the smile that links his swarthy cheeks? II The City thrusts black towers at the stars And bars the forest back with morticed stones And seals the scent of flowers in stone jars And locks earth's secrets up in brass-clasped tomes. No satyr may live there, no faun survive The stench and clangor of each crowded street; The white-fanged beasts of night cannot contrive To gnaw an entrance through its black concrete. Yet, 'mongst the gargoyles on its slated roofs, One grey masked face leers down with living grin That mocks the scurry of the city's floor; Two grey gloved hands pry ope the library's door, And break the ponderous tomes and scribble in Footnotes that give the lie to all proud proofs. ---Fritza Leiber, Jr. --16--