The Word Cloud

I rediscovered this story in the bottom of one of my box files. It's the earliest surviving fing wot I've wrote. It's not very good (cringe) but do you think there's anything worth saving in it?

Publishers' note: These three pieces were translated and submitted for publication by Professor Cleary shortly before his mysterious disappearance last year. Although their authenticity has not been definitely proven, scholars agree that these pieces are probably the work of the lost German genius Hermain Rozenkrugh. Although reported to be one of the most prolific authors of the early 17th century, none of Rozenkrugh's work has survived to the present, with the possible exception of these three fragments unearthed by Professor Cleary after nine years of research. We include here an abridged extract from Professor Cleary's notes on the translation of the text.

The following is a free translation of three passages, probably from the same book; the handwriting certainly shows that they are by the same author, whom I have every reason to believe to have been Hermain Rozenkrugh, the prolific German author whose works were thought to have vanished forever, however inexplicably, until the discovery of these documents. The exact circumstances of their discovery are not known to me, and I regret that I am unable to reveal how they came into my possession. A literal translation from the idiosyncratic mixture of archaic German and debased Latin of the original would not be possible, but I hope that I have managed to preserve the sense and character of the text despite its fragmentary nature.

I. Cleary, May 1991


The Grey Warrior looked up from his sword and whetstone as a thin pallid hand pulled the heavy purple drape aside and Dr. Hotep entered with an oriental philosopher.
"Greetings, Grey One," came his odd breathy voice, which issued from somewhere about his person other than his thin, white-lipped mouth. His tight-fitting black suit betrayed no lump of hidden gadget, and as usual the Grey Warrior was distracted by his compulsive effort to pinpoint the source of Dr. Hotep's voice.
"It is my privilege," continued the voice, "to introduce this oriental philosopher whom I chanced to meet at the Feast of the Dark Tongue. He insists that he bears knowledge of the most important and secret kind, which he feels obliged to inflict upon your good self." Dr. Hotep leaned against a damp wall and began idly prodding at various ancient cobwebs with his silver-tipped cane.
The Grey Warrior turned to the resplendent philosopher who proclaimed rather pompously: "I have been endowed of a knowledge that is vast and powerful, and of which the most insignificant scrap pertains to you. As it is of no importance to me, but much to you, I must increase its power by giving it into your custody. This is my vocation, since I know so many things."
Dr. Hotep's voice sniffed. "Only an ignorant man knows anything," he commented. He had awakened the sort of spider that could only be the product of many years of lurking in dark and mouldy corners. The oriental philosopher bristled.
"I have secret wisdoms so majestic and fearsome that they make of life a mockery," he snorted, glaring at the cadaverous sorcerer. Dr. Hotep was derisive.
"Wisdom lies not in knowledge, nor even in understanding, but in the ability to cope with them," he replied quotably. He peered at his new-found arachnid friend, which peered hairily back at him. The Grey Warrior picked up his sword and whetstone and looked from one mystic to the other.
"Certainly this intellectual posturing does little to advance either knowledge or wisdom," he observed, and returned to his sharpening. The oriental philosopher patted his robes and endeavoured to smile expansively.
"Nevertheless, this particular knowledge is rightfully your heritage, my precipitous friend."
"Well?" the Grey One grunted. The oriental philosopher held out a small battered scroll.
"It is this."
The Grey Warrior unrolled it without putting down his oiling cloth.



"What is it?" he inquired of Dr. Hotep, who took it and raised his eyebrows. At this rare expression of emotion the Grey One was suddenly more interested. "Have you seen this before?" he asked.
"I have not, yet I recognise it. I can say nothing, however, my friend. This is Power." He passed the scroll back to the Grey Warrior. The oriental philosopher had vanished.


Louis Beliale de Kaditha, youngest son of Le Comte de Santa Hexica, and the black sheep of the de Kaditha line, stood before the Howling Castle in the Cloudsnares tapping his foot. The mountains loomed dark and close in the rainy air, and de Kaditha was drenched from riding miserably through the constant stormy showers that prowled between the peaks. The massive doors beyond the portcullis groaned open, and a misshapen guard lurched out to peer through the elaborately wrought, rusty iron-work. De Kaditha eyed the slobbering face with distaste.
"My good fellow," he said, "kindly admit me before I die of exposure."
A beautiful young woman in flowing, though deteriorating, black silk stepped up to the portcullis. Her bearing was regal, though her fresh-faced good looks prevented her fully carrying that effect.
"Louis, my dear! Hammer, raise the portcullis immediately. Louis, how was your journey?"
He smiled ironically. "Well enough, darling Liolitha, if somewhat aquatic."
De Kaditha was delighted to discover that he had arrived just as dinner was being served in the Lord's hall. The hall was dark and massive, a long rectangle served by double doors at the one end and a grand staircase at the other. A great log fire roared in the vaulted fireplace in the centre of one long wall, and de Kaditha was directed to a place before it at the long table. The floor was puddled with stagnant water and strewn with rotting rushes. Water dripped, and in places ran down the green-slimed walls. Rats scrabbled in dim recesses and the vaulted ceiling was strange with the billowing cobwebs of centuries.
The Lord of the Howling Castle rose to grace the food:
"All life exists in spite of Thee, Everlasting enemy of all things. Bless then Thy enemies here, Who acknowledge Thee both openly
And in secret.
Make firm our allegiance to Thee, And let us bear witness to the world Thy doctrine of Holy Unreason."
The diners chorused the response:
"Ab insomni non custodita draconi."
De Kaditha laid into the meats with a will, spurning the various vegetables clustered between the spit-roasted carcasses. After a while, he leaned back, replete, and Liolitha beckoned him from the remote staircase end of the table. He rose and bade good health to the diners in his immediate vicinity, strolled down the hall and seated himself at the place which Liolitha had reserved for him on her immediate left, two places from the head of the table where the Lord of the Howling Castle and his ageing wife were seated. De Kaditha was careful to hold his face in an expression of slightly bored good humour as he noticed that the Lady of the Howling Castle wore a dress which left her ancient sagging breasts bare. As he tried to avoid seeing the wrinkled, flaccid udders, he regretted having wolfed down so much meat so quickly. Liolitha turned to speak to him, and an evil shrieking howl shivered the castle.
"Your pardon?"
"I said," she repeated, "I have had a vision concerning you." The Lord of the Howling Castle beamed with fatherly pride, though seeming no less terrifying of visage than ever to de Kaditha.
"Dear daughter!" he boomed, waving a chicken carcass in one massive hairy hand. "Tell us your vision, extraordinary Liolitha!" The table hushed, for the Lord was violently proud of his daughter, particularly with regard to her clairvoyance. She turned her solemn liquid gaze upon de Kaditha.
"If you would live to see another day," she said, "you must rub into your left eye a paste of eel-meat." De Kaditha realised he was in trouble - Liolitha's father was already beckoning a kitchen-maid.
"How delightful, gracious seeress," he said lightly, "such exquisite imagery. So obscure a metaphor must conceal a fascinating truth. What means it?"
"Don't be an idiot, boy," roared the Lord, tossing the chicken over his shoulder, "the meaning is perfectly clear. The kitchen will prepare the paste forthwith."
De Kaditha cast about desperately for some polite way to decline the favour. He turned to the smiling Liolitha, but before he could speak, a steaming bowl was placed before him. Hell's sweetbreads, he thought, hot eel-paste! However, bowls were placed before all, and his face relaxed again somewhat from its moment of open-mouthed horror as he realised that this was merely a soup; a reprieve, perhaps, if he could be long enough about eating it. As he picked up his spoon there was a 'Plop!' and a large spider struggled in the thick soup, having forsaken its home in the rafters. De Kaditha fiddled with his spoon, perilously close to finally letting slip the remains of his composure.
"Eat your soup now, dear," creaked the Lady of the Howling Castle. "Such a thin, pale young man," she confided to her husband, who grunted in an automatic way.
"Thank you, dear Lady," replied de Kaditha, "I have eaten heartily at your table, and could touch not another mouthful, however tempting." He pushed the soup and its wriggling occupant away.


Jenny Greenteeth gasped as she turned the last corner of the tunnel, which opened immediately into a vast cavern. From the roof of the cave hung an inverted castle, like some titanic, gothic wasps' nest. A path zig-zagged up the cave wall to a suspended bridge which crossed a quarter-mile of roof to reach the portcullis. The subterranean immensity was suffused with murky light reflected from the lake-bound cave floor. The origin of that light was the mystery, since the granite roof and walls seemed unbroken. Jenny Greenteeth turned to her shivering band of apprentices, who like herself wore nothing but sword and belt.
"It is here, vicious sisters, I feel it in my teeth." Her apprentices licked their fangs in agreement. Jenny Greenteeth extended her claws and regarded them archly. "My bloodsense," she continued, "scents no life within the castle, unless I should count the throb of the Heart of Darkness." The apprentices hissed softly. "Somewhere in that castle it rests on a pyramid of dark stone, beating cold and invisible, cloaked in its own black rays."
"O violent and learned Mistress, is there then no guardian?"
Jenny Greenteeth smiled and ran a claw lightly through the girl's hair.
"Of course it is guarded. This will be a struggle the like of which even we have never known. Sister Songdaemon, our Battle Hymn."
Sister Songdaemon led them in the Song of the Strange Visitors:

"We who wait in the long shadows
And ride upon the cold night wind;
We who follow in the dark And rise up in glory in lonely dreams;
We are not cruel, not evil;
We are not kind, nor merciful;
Our power is like that of running water.

"We gain entry through mirrors,
And take our shapes from the fears of those who wander
Alone in the wild places.
We are sent by those whose purposes are beyond your imagining."

As the whispering echoes of the chant scuttled off into the shadows, Jenny Greenteeth opened her black leathery wings with a snap.
"I will fly ahead, and you, Afanc Lyn Glass, will lead the others along the path. Blessed be, my apprentices."
"Blessed be, Benefactress," they replied as she leapt into the air with one great wingbeat.

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This is definitely my new favourite quote of your's Wrathy: "He peered at his new-found arachnid friend, which peered hairily back at him." For some reason, that really tickled me!

There's a lot of mythology in here (I liked the inclusion of Jenny Greenteeth), and it's interesting to see how your style has moved away from a more fantastical bent. I love 'forgotten works' books, and with some polishing, I would say this would be an intriguing work!

One suggestion - to make it seem more like a translation and less like a 'story', maybe you could add in a few author notes? So we get the professor's own ideas as to what he thinks is going on / his opinions of events?

"with some polishing" - only 'some'?! When I rediscovered this naive adverb-fest, I was very tempted to do a bit of editing before posting it, but I thought it would be interesting to see what you thought of my earliest efforts. The idea behind this was to try to communicate with the reader at a subconscious level, using metaphor to encode the same message three times over. It sort of seems worth a rewrite, but I hardly know where to start!

Oh, fuck you, internet... where's my reply?! *grumbles because internet AND her keyboard are fecking around right now. BEHAVE!)

Remember, I am High Queen Adverb-Fiddler, and so have quite a high tolerance for them. I don't think this is half as bad as you make out - it's definitely in the spheres of fantasy rather than horror, made so by the more OTT language. I will admit that I didn't get the metaphor on first reading (I was enjoying the little tales!) - maybe there is a way to make that more explicit, but at the same time, keep it encoded? Stripping it back to the 'meta-message' and then building it from there might help get you back into it...