“A
stairway led down into the pit!”
“A
stairway!” we cried.
“A
stairway,” repeated the crawling man as patiently as before.
..…“A
stairway built into the wall of a precipice and leading down into a bottomless
pit!”
“Not
bottomless,” said the crawling man quietly.
There was a bottom. I reached
it.”
“Reached
it?” we repeated.
“Yes,
by the stairway,” answered the crawling man.
“You see—I went down it!”
Scintillating
dialogue like this mars an otherwise interesting story by Abraham Merritt, The People of the Pit, published in the All-Story Weekly in 1918. The text also contains a generous supply of
exclamation points, which gives the impression that the narrator is either
manic or hysterical. Another fairly
obvious weakness is the overuse of obscure metaphors and allusions. These misfire as efforts to enliven the description
of various scenes or emotional experiences in the story. Here are a few examples:
“My
mouth was as dry as though Lao T’zai had poured his fear dust down my throat.”
“It
makes me think of the frozen hand of cloud that Shan Nadour set before the Gate
of Ghouls to keep them in the lairs that Eblis cut for them.”
And
my favorite: “It was not the rustling of
the aurora, that rushing, crackling sound like the ghosts of winds that blew at
Creation racing through the skeleton leaves of ancient trees that sheltered
Lilith.”
(It
was not like that, not even close.)
These
three examples occur on the first page
of the story. The language is vivid, but
incomprehensible and unfocused. After an
attention grabbing opening, the story begins to slow and bog down in
verbiage. This is one of the hazards of
using sentence length similes and metaphors descriptively. Less is always more.
Maybe
you remember creative writing classes where students were encouraged to insert
more color and sensation into their writing by liberally sprinkling it with artful
figures of speech. But metaphor—which is
essentially a comparison of some sort with varying degrees of explicitness—is a
very inefficient means of communicating detail.
Basically one is mixing poetry with prose—oil and water—and creating a
big mess.
One
strategy for cutting the verbiage that metaphors and similes create is to
convert them into verbs: “I shot him an angry look” instead of “My
sharp look was like an arrow fired in his direction.” Or some such.
But a little of this goes a long way. One more example from Merritt’s The People of the Pit:
“A
few feet beneath me the stairway jutted out into a Titanic arch, unearthly as
the span that bridges Hell and leads to Asgard.”
A.
Merritt was considered by some to be a master of the “lost race fantasy”. He was a very successful journalist and
editor, and his wealth allowed him to travel widely. His real estate in Jamaica and Ecuador
probably helped support his hobby of collecting and cultivating orchids and a
variety of plants associated with witchcraft, (because of their hallucinogenic
properties). He also collected artifacts
of various kinds from around the world, and reportedly maintained an occult
library of over 5000 books.
To be
fair, The People of the Pit was one
of the earliest of Merritt’s stories to be published. He often appeared in Munsey magazines—All-Story, Argosy All-Story and Argosy—along
with Francis Stevens and occasionally H.P. Lovecraft, among others. Merritt’s stories began appearing in print in
1917, right around the time Lovecraft was able to publish juvenilia like The Beast in the Cave and The Alchemist.
Who
would have guessed that a forgotten civilization, fearfully avoided by Native
Americans, could be found in a remote area of Alaska? This is the setting for The People of the Pit. The site
is at the base of a row of mountains that resemble the fingers of an enormous
hand, raised as if in warning to unwary travelers. The story opens with the narrator and his
fellow explorer not far from the opening of this enormous cleft in the earth,
comparable to the Grand Canyon. They
feel strangely drawn to its perimeter, subliminally called by a strange
vertical shaft of bluish light emerging from the pit.
A man
stumbles into their camp. He is terribly
mutilated by some ordeal—“The wrists were covered with torn rags of a heavy
shirt. The hands themselves were stumps.” He has been fleeing from the pit where he had
been ensnared by strange, nearly all powerful creatures that may be of extraterrestrial
origin—“Things that the Devil made before the Flood and that somehow have escaped
God’s vengeance.” The man is dying, but
before he expires he tells the narrator and his friend of his experiences in ‘the
Pit’.
What
is appealing about the story is the author’s creation of a landscape or region
permeated with an evil force, as well as a richly conceived city of bizarre
architecture and plant life. This is
basically an adventure story. Merritt is
effective when he sticks with straight graphic description of what his hapless
explorer finds in the pit. Readers can
easily visualize the arduous descent, the fearful wandering in the cyclopean
streets, and the frantic attempt to escape later. The author wisely leaves several questions unanswered, which contributes a feeling of mystery and other-worldliness to the tale.
The story is also interesting insofar as it
marks a transition point between weird fiction and science fiction. While there are numerous Biblical allusions, “lost
world” architectural details, and a climactic scene by an altar, the description
of the creatures and their activities has a more technical and “sci-fi” feel.
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