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Sea Curse

By Robert E. Howard

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And some return by the failing light
And some in the waking dream.
For she hears the heels of the dripping ghosts
That ride the rough roofbeam.
—Kipling

THEY were the brawlers and braggarts, the loud boasters and hard drinkers, of Faring town, John Kulrek and his crony Lie-lip Canool. Many a time have I, a tousle-haired lad, stolen to the tavern door to listen to their curses, their profane arguments and wild sea songs; half fearful and half in admiration of these wild rovers. Aye, all the people of Faring town gazed on them with fear and admiration, for they were not like the rest of the Faring men; they were not content to ply their trade along the coasts and among the shark-teeth shoals. No yawls, no skiffs for them! They fared far, farther than any other man in the village, for they shipped on the great sailing-ships that went out on the white tides to brave the restless grey ocean and make ports in strange lands.

Ah, I mind it was swift times in the little sea-coast village of Faring when John Kulrek came home, with the furtive Lie-lip at his side, swaggering down the gang-plank, in his tarry sea-clothes, and the broad leather belt that held his ever-ready dagger; shouting condescending greeting to some favored acquaintance, kissing some maiden who ventured too near; then up the street, roaring some scarcely decent song of the sea. How the cringers and the idlers, the hangers-on, would swarm about the two desperate heroes, flattering and smirking, guffawing hilariously at each nasty jest. For to the tavern loafers and to some of the weaker among the straightforward villagers, these men with their wild talk and their brutal deeds, their tales of the Seven Seas and the far countries, these men, I say, were valiant knights, nature’s noblemen who dared to be men of blood and brawn.

And all feared them, so that when a man was beaten or a woman insulted, the villagers muttered—and did nothing. And so when Moll Farrell’s niece was put to shame by John Kulrek, none dared even to put into words what all thought. Moll had never married, and she and the girl lived alone in a little hut down close to the beach, so close that in high tide the waves came almost to the door.

The people of the village accounted old Moll something of a witch, and she was a grim, gaunt old dame who had little to say to anyone. But she minded her own business, and eked out a slim living by gathering clams, and picking up bits of driftwood.

The girl was a pretty, foolish little thing, vain and easily befooled, else she had never yielded to the shark-like blandishments of John Kulrek.

I mind the day was a cold winter day with a sharp breeze out of the east when the old dame came into the village street shrieking that the girl had vanished. All scattered over the beach and back among the bleak inland hills to search for her—all save John Kulrek and his cronies who sat in the tavern dicing and toping. All the while beyond the shoals, we heard the never-ceasing droning of the heaving, restless grey monster, and in the dim light of the ghostly dawn Moll Farrell’s girl came home.

The tides bore her gently across the wet sands and laid her almost at her own door. Virgin-white she was, and her arms were folded across her still bosom; calm was her face, and the grey tides sighed about her slender limbs. Moll Farrell’s eyes were stones, yet she stood above her dead girl and spoke no word till John Kulrek and his crony came reeling down from the tavern, their drinking-jacks still in their hands. Drunk was John Kulrek, and the people gave back for him, murder in their souls; so he came and laughed at Moll Farrell across the body of her girl.

“Zounds!” swore John Kulrek; “the wench has drowned herself, Lie-lip!”

Lie-lip laughed, with the twist of his thin mouth. He always hated Moll Farrell, for it was she that had given him the name of Lie-lip.

Then John Kulrek lifted his drinking-jack, swaying on his uncertain legs. “A health to the wench’s ghost!” he bellowed, while all stood aghast.

Then Moll Farrell spoke, and the words broke from her in a scream which sent ripples of cold up and down the spines of the throng.

“The curse of the Foul Fiend upon you, John Kulrek!” she screamed. “The curse of God rest upon your vile soul throughout eternity! May you gaze on sights that shall sear the eyes of you and scorch the soul of you! May you die a bloody death and writhe in hell’s flames for a million and a million and yet a million years! I curse you by sea and by land, by earth and by air, by the demons of the swamplands, the fiends of the forest and the goblins of the hills! And you”—her lean finger stabbed at Lie-lip Canool and he started backward, his face paling—”you shall be the death of John Kulrek and he shall be the death of you! You shall bring John Kulrek to the doors of hell and John Kulrek shall bring you to the gallows-tree! I set the seal of death upon your brow, John Kulrek! You shall live in terror and die in horror far out upon the cold grey sea! But the sea that took the soul of innocence to her bosom shall not take you, but shall fling forth your vile carcass to the sands! Aye, John Kulrek”—and she spoke with such a terrible intensity that the drunken mockery on the man’s face changed to one of swinish stupidity—”the sea roars for the victim it will not keep! There is snow upon the hills, John Kulrek, and ere it melts your corpse will lie at my feet. And I shall spit upon it and be content.”

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Kulrek and his crony sailed at dawn for a long voyage, and Moll went back to her hut and her clam-gathering. She seemed to grow leaner and more grim than ever and her eyes smoldered with a light not sane. The days glided by and people whispered among themselves that Moll’s days were numbered, for she faded to a ghost of a woman; but she went her way, refusing all aid.

That was a short, cold summer and the snow on the barren inland hills never melted; a thing very unusual, which caused much comment among the villagers. At dusk and at dawn Moll would come up on the beach, gaze up at the snow which glittered on the hills, then out to sea with a fierce intensity in her gaze.

Then the days grew shorter, the nights longer and darker, and the cold grey tides came sweeping along the bleak strands, bearing the rain and sleet of the sharp east breezes.

And upon a bleak day a trading-vessel sailed into the bay and anchored. And all the idlers and the wastrels flocked to the wharfs, for that was the ship upon which John Kulrek and Lie-lip Canool had sailed. Down the gang-plank came Lie-lip, more furtive than ever, but John Kulrek was not there.

To shouted queries, Canool shook his head. “Kulrek deserted ship at a port of Sumatra,” said he. “He had a row with the skipper, lads; wanted me to desert, too, but no! I had to see you fine lads again, eh boys?”

Almost cringing was Lie-lip Canool, and suddenly he recoiled as Moll Farrell came through the throng. A moment they stood eyeing each other; then Moll’s grim lips bent in a terrible smile.

“There’s blood on your hand, Canool!” she lashed out suddenly—so suddenly that Lie-lip started and rubbed his right hand across his left sleeve.

“Stand aside, witch!” he snarled in sudden anger, striding through the crowd which gave back for him. His admirers followed him to the tavern.

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Now, I mind that the next day was even colder; grey fogs came drifting out of the east and veiled the sea and the beaches. There would be no sailing that day, and so all the villagers were in their snug houses or matching tales at the tavern. So it came that Joe, my friend, a lad of my own age, and I, were the ones who saw the first of the strange things that happened.

Being harum-scarum lads of no wisdom, we were sitting in a small rowboat, floating at the end of the wharfs, each shivering and wishing the other would suggest leaving, there being no reason whatever for our being there, save that it was a good place to build air-castles undisturbed.

Suddenly Joe raised his hand. “Say,” he said, “d’ye hear? Who can be out on the bay upon a day like this?”

“Nobody. What d’ye hear?”

“Oars. Or I’m a lubber. Listen.”

There was no seeing anything in that fog, and I heard nothing. Yet Joe swore he did, and suddenly his face assumed a strange look.

“Somebody rowing out there, I tell you! The bay is alive with oars from the sound! A score of boats at the least! Ye dolt, can ye not hear?”

Then, as I shook my head, he leaped and began to undo the painter.

“I’m off to see. Name me liar if the bay is not full of boats, all together like a close fleet. Are you with me?”

Yes, I was with him, though I heard nothing. Then out in the greyness we went, and the fog closed behind and before so that we drifted in a vague world of smoke, seeing naught and hearing naught. We were lost in no time, and I cursed Joe for leading us upon a wild goose chase that was like to end with our being swept out to sea. I thought of Moll Farrell’s girl and shuddered.

How long we drifted I know not. Minutes faded into hours, hours into centuries. Still Joe swore he heard the oars, now close at hand, now far away, and for hours we followed them, steering our course toward the sound, as the noise grew or receded. This I later thought of, and could not understand.

Then, when my hands were so numb that I could no longer hold the oar, and the forerunning drowsiness of cold and exhaustion was stealing over me, bleak white stars broke through the fog which glided suddenly away, fading like a ghost of smoke, and we found ourselves afloat just outside the mouth of the bay. The waters lay smooth as a pond, all dark green and silver in the starlight, and the cold came crisper than ever. I was swinging the boat about, to put back into the bay, when Joe gave a shout, and for the first time I heard the clack of oar-locks. I glanced over my shoulder and my blood went cold.

A great beaked prow loomed above us, a weird, unfamiliar shape against the stars, and as I caught my breath, sheered sharply and swept by us, with a curious swishing I never heard any other craft make. Joe screamed and backed oars frantically, and the boat walled out of the way just in time; for though the prow missed us, still otherwise we had died. For from the sides of the ship stood long oars, bank upon bank which swept her along. Though I had never seen such a craft, I knew her for a galley. But what was she doing upon our coasts? They said, the far-farers, that such ships were still in use among the heathens of Barbary; but it was many a long, heaving mile to Barbary, and even so she did not resemble the ships described by those who had sailed far.

We started in pursuit, and this was strange, for though the waters broke about her prow, and she seemed fairly to fly through the waves, yet she was making little speed, and it was no time before we caught up with her. Making our painter fast to a chain far back beyond the reach of the swishing oars, we hailed those on deck. But there came no answer, and at last, conquering our fears, we clambered up the chain and found ourselves upon the strangest deck man has trod for many a long, roaring century.

“This is no Barbary rover!” Joe muttered fearsomely. “Look, how old it seems! Almost ready to fall to pieces. Why, ’tis fairly rotten!”

There was no one on deck, no one at the long sweep with which the craft was steered. We stole to the hold and looked down the stair. Then and there, if ever men were on the verge of insanity, it was we. For there were rowers there, it is true; they sat upon the rowers’ benches and drove the creaking oars through the grey waters. And they that rowed were skeletons!

Shrieking, we plunged across the deck, to fling ourselves into the sea. But at the rail I tripped upon something and fell headlong, and as I lay, I saw a thing which vanquished my fear of the horrors below for an instant. The thing upon which I had tripped was a human body, and in the dim grey light that was beginning to steal across the eastern waves I saw a dagger hilt standing up between his shoulders. Joe was at the rail, urging me to haste, and together we slid down the chain and cut the painter.

Then we stood off into the bay. Straight on kept the grim galley, and we followed, slowly, wondering. She seemed to be heading straight for the beach beside the wharfs, and as we approached, we saw the wharfs thronged with people. They had missed us, no doubt, and now they stood, there in the early dawn light, struck dumb by the apparition which had come up out of the night and the grim ocean.

Straight on swept the galley, her oars a-swish; then ere she reached the shallow water—crash!—a terrific reverberation shook the bay. Before our eyes the grim craft seemed to melt away; then she vanished, and the green waters seethed where she had ridden, but there floated no driftwood there, nor did there ever float any ashore. Aye, something floated ashore, but it was grim driftwood!

We made the landing amid a hum of excited conversation that stopped suddenly. Moll Farrell stood before her hut, limned gauntly against the ghostly dawn, her lean hand pointing sea-ward. And across the sighing wet sands, borne by the grey tide, something came floating; something that the waves dropped at Moll Farrell’s feet. And there looked up at us, as we crowded about, a pair of unseeing eyes set in a still, white face. John Kulrek had come home.

Still and grim he lay, rocked by the tide, and as he lurched sideways, all saw the dagger hilt that stood from his back—the dagger all of us had seen a thousand times at the belt of Lie-lip Canool.

“Aye, I killed him!” came Canool’s shriek, as he writhed and groveled before our gaze. “At sea on a still night in a drunken brawl I slew him and hurled him overboard! And from the far seas he has followed me”—his voice sank to a hideous whisper—”because—of—the—curse—the—sea—would—not—keep—his—body!”

And the wretch sank down, trembling, the shadow of the gallows already in his eyes.

“Aye!” Strong, deep and exultant was Moll Farrell’s voice. “From the hell of lost craft Satan sent a ship of bygone ages! A ship red with gore and stained with the memory of horrid crimes! None other would bear such a vile carcass! The sea has taken vengeance and has given me mine. See now, how I spit upon the face of John Kulrek.”

And with a ghastly laugh, she pitched forward, the blood starting to her lips. And the sun came up across the restless sea.

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Host Commentary

PseudoPod 938

September 13th 2024

The Sea Curse by Robert E. Howard

Narrated by Tad Callin

Audio Production by Chelsea Davis

Hosted by Alasdair Stuart

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Hi everyone, welcome to PseudoPod, the weekly horror podcast. I’m Alasdair and this week’s story comes to us from classic genre author, Robert E. Howard. Most famous for inventing the modern sword & sorcery tale with his Conan stories, Howard often introduced horror elements as the threat but the evocation of supernatural dread is only incidental in most of his tales; the chronicling of titanic adventure is the primary purpose. When he later switched from fantasy to westerns, Howard made the transition with the tale presented here. Howard’s major horror genre reputation rests with three stories (sadly, all of which are a bit too long for the podcast): “Black Canaan” (Weird Tales, 1936) was praised by Lovecraft for its “genuine, regional background and its compelling picture of the horror that stalks through the moss-hung, shadow-cursed, serpent-ridden swamps of the American far south”; “Pigeons from Hell” (Weird Tales, 1938) was praised by Stephen King as “one of the finest horror stories of our century” and “Worms of the Earth” (Weird Tales, 1932) is thought by many Howard fans to be his best story.

To dive into more of Howard’s impressive oeuvre, consider the Del Rey series of Howard books, which includes Horror, Historical Adventures and Desert Adventures collections, in addition to the “standard” Conan, Kull and Solomon Kane ones.

If you want to know more about Howard, visit the REH Foundation as well as Project Pride, who are the caretakers of the REH House and Museum in Cross Plains, TX.

Our narrator this week is Tad Callin. Tad Callin is an Associate Editor at Pseudopod and the Wikia Wrangler for Escape Artists, Inc. He has had many adventures over the years, serving as a linguist in the U.S. Air Force, failing at truck driving, and raising his family. He published most of those stories in his 2016 memoir/novel Tad’s Happy Funtime. Other previous published work includes an urban fantasy story, “Silver,” published on the Dunesteef Audio Fiction Magazine podcast. His current projects include finishing his family history, drafting a sci-fi novel, and completing his long-dormant music degree.

I’m Alasdair, your host and Chelsea is your designated audio wizard. So let’s go down to the harbour. Because a true story is on the tide.

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‘Moll Farrell’s girl came home.’

 

That’s how you do it. Five words, the offhand lyricism and romanticism of a maritime community and abject, total horror. Howard’s use of language in this story really stands out to me for choices like this. Look at the first couple of paragraphs too, how the density and speed of the language is used to paint a picture of the bustling port town. This is ridiculously clever stuff, and it’s not close to done.

Howard trusts his readers here, trusts them to read what he’s writing around. The toxic, curdled masculinity of the sailors. The fact the curse is taken seriously. The fact the curse is accepted. This is a story about what’s accepted and left unsaid, and what happens when it’s said so loud it can no longer be ignored. And that brings us to just six words.

 

‘The sea would not keep his body.’

 

The nature of the curse is where the horror really lies for me. Because it’s grounded in that honesty that so many communities and industries pay lip service to and precious little else. So much so in fact that whenever you’re listening to this, chances are, there’ll be an incident you think of when I say that. Speaking up is lonely and dangerous and never benefits you before it takes from you. But it has to be done and when it’s done here, I read the story at any rate, as telling the truth. The sailors’ dreadful, toxic personalities laid bare so perfectly they can’t help but recognize the truth of it. Until the tide brings Lie-Lip’s victim home.

And even then, Howard isn’t quite done. Because the town and what it’s suffering under from the men is horrifying. Because the curse is horrifying. But what’s truly horrifying is the acceptance. Overt supernatural horror is the order of the day for the third act and while it’s horrific you can’t help but feel this is no one’s first time at this particular shoreline. From Lie-Lip’s horror at the initial curse to the final reveal, this is a a story where horror is omnipresent but passive. Until it isn’t. Because sooner or later, the tide always comes in. What a lovely, economic, gut punch of a story.

 

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Onto the subject of subscribing and support: PseudoPod is funded by you, our listeners, and we’re formally a non-profit. One-time donations are gratefully received and much appreciated, but what really makes a difference is subscribing. A $5 monthly Patreon donation gives us more than just money; it gives us stability, reliability, dependability and a well-maintained tower from which to operate, and trust us, you want that as much as we do.

If you can, please go to pseudopod.org and sign up by clicking on “feed the pod”. If you have any questions about how to support EA and ways to give, please reach out to us at donations@escapeartists.net.

If you can’t afford to support us financially, then please consider leaving reviews of our episodes, or generally talking about them on whichever form of social media you… can’t stay away from this week. We now have a Bluesky account and we’d love to see you there: find us at @pseudopod.org. If you like merch, you can also support us by buying hoodies, t-shirts and other bits and pieces from the Escape Artists Voidmerch store. The link is in various places, including our pinned tweet.

We’re back next week with Controlling Your Weeds by EA alum and Eugie award winner Rachael K. Jones, produced by Chelsea and hosted by me. Then as now it will be a production of the Escape Artists Foundation and distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International license.

We leave you this week with this quote from All This Time by Sting, from arguably his best album, The Soul Cages:

One to learn, one to teach
Which way the cold wind blows
And fussing and flapping
In priestly black like a murder of crows

We’ll see you next week, folks. Until then, have fun!