David Drake - John The Balladeer

John the Balladeer

Table of Contents

Introduction to the

Electronic Publication

ofJohn the Balladeer

O Ugly Bird!

The Desrick on Yandro

Vandy, Vandy

One Other

Call Me From the Valley

The Little Black Train

Shiver in the Pines

Walk Like a Mountain

On the Hills and Everywhere

Old Devlins Was A-Waiting

Nine Yards of Other Cloth

Wonder as I Wander:

Farther Down the Trail

Trill Coster's Burden

The Spring

Owls Hoot in the Daytime

Can These Bones Live?

Nobody Ever Goes There

Where Did She Wander?

John the Balladeer

Manly Wade Wellman

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

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ISBN: 0-671-65418-7

First printing, July 1988

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

Introduction to the

Electronic Publication

ofJohn the Balladeer

Manly Wade Wellman was one of the most successful fantasy and SF writers of the '30s and '40s. His

SF was generally of a juvenile nature, popular at the time but of limited interest today. His fantasy,

however, was thoroughly adult. While Lovecraft and Howard were writing, Manly was in the second

rank ofWeird Tales authors; after they died, he became one of the magazine's mainstays.

Despite the high quality of his earlier fantasies, Manly didn't really hit his stride in the field until in 1949

appearedThe Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction —a digest magazine which would publish

fantasy of the highest literary quality. ForF&SF Manly created John the Balladeer, drawing on his

existing knowledge of folk music and folklore and his growing love of the North Carolina mountains.

The stories of John the Balladeer are some of the best American fantasies ever written. They were

powerful influences on me before I moved to North Carolina and met Manly; and it was in conscious and

deliberate awareness of them that I wroteOld Nathan as my homage and memorial to my friend after his

death.

Dave Drake

david-drake.com

Foreword

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Manly in the Mountains

Music brought Manly to the North Carolina mountains.

Folk music—the old songs, real songs—had been an interest of Manly's since the 1920s when he

tramped the Ozarks with Vance Randolph, the famed folklorist. He was drawn by the folk festival that he

found when he moved with his family to Chapel Hill in 1951; became a friend of the organizer, Asheville

native Bascom Lamar Lunsford; and traveled with Lunsford to meet "the best banjo player in the

country."

That was Obray Ramsey of Madison County, high in the Smokies where they divide North Carolina

from Tennessee. It was the start of a life-long friendship, and the genesis as well of this book: the tales of

John the Balladeer, hiking the hills of North Carolina with his silver-strung guitar.

Manly and his wife Frances visited the mountains staying in the Ramseys' house when they were alone

and in a tourist cabin father down on the French Broad River if they had their son or another friend with

them. By the early '60s they had a little cabin of their own, next to the Ramseys and built in fits and starts

over the years by them and their friends.

It wasn't fancy, but it was a place to sleep and eat; and a place to have friends in to pick and sing and

pass around a bottle of liquor, tax-paid or otherwise. That was where they were when my wife and I

visited the mountains with them and with Karl Wagner in the Fall of 1971.

The Ramseys' house is close by the road, Highway 25-70, which parallels the course of the French

Broad River snaking through hard rock. The mountains lowered down behind the house, and the river

dropped away sharply on the other side of the road.

One statistic will suffice to indicate the ruggedness of the terrain. There were seven attorneys in practice

in Madison County when 25-70 was the direct route from Asheville to Knoxville. Shortly after Interstate

40 was completed, cutting off the business that had resulted from auto accidents on 25-70, six of the

lawyers left.

The seventh was the District Attorney.

Manly's cabin was a little farther back from the road and a little higher up the mountain he called

Yandro. The water system was elegant in its simplicity, a pipe that trailed miles from a high, clear spring

to a faucet mounted four feet up above a floor drain in the cabin. There was a pressure-relief vent and

settling pond partway down the mountainside. The vent could become blocked with debris, especially if

the water hadn't been run for a time, The way you learned that it was plugged was—

"Let me fix you a drink, Dutch," Manly said to Karl as we settled into the cabin. He poured bourbon into

a plastic cup, held it under the spigot, and just started to open the tap.

The water, with over a thousand feet of head, blew the cup out of his hand to shatter on the drain

beneath.

Nobody said anything for a moment.

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We stumbled up the Mountainside in the dark—there was a moon, but the pines and the valley's steep

walls blocked most of its light as they did the sun in daytime. Manly went part way, but when Obray

guided Karl and me off the road-cut, he decided he'd wait. Wisely: he was 68 even then, though that was

hard to remember when you saw him.

He had fresh drinks waiting for those as used it when we got back—and fresh laughter as he always did,

this time because Karl had slipped off the catwalk into one of Obray's trout ponds as we neared the

cabin.

Manly was in his element that evening, watching the incredible fingerings of Obray and a neighbor while

lamplight gleamed from the gilded metalwork of the banjo and guitar; pouring drinks; singing "Will the

Circle be Unbroken" and "Birmingham Jail" and "Vandy, Vandy." . . .

Which brings up a last point about Manly and the mountains. I said he called the mountain Yandro, but I

don't know you'd find that name on a map. Manly blended past reality with new creations in his life as

well as his writing. Many of the songs he sang and quoted in this volume are very old; he once claimed to

have written "Vandy, Vandy" himself.

And that may be part of the magic of these stories. They were written by a man who knew and loved the

folkways he described so well that he became a part of them, weaving in his own strands and keeping the

fabric alive instead of leaving it to be displayed behind the sterile glass of a museum.

May you read them with a delight as great as that of the man who wrote them.

Dave Drake

Chapel Hill, North Carolina

Introduction

Just Call Me John

There are moments in literature—very rare and very marvelous—when a writer creates a unique

character. One such moment occurred in 1951 when Manly Wade Wellman began to write stories about

John the Balladeer.

He had no last name, no other name: he was known only as John. Some reviewers suggested that

Wellman intended John to be a Christ figure. Manly firmly denied this, but be often hinted that there might

exist some mystic link to John the Baptist (cf. Mark 1. 2-3).

We never knew a lot about John's past. He was born in Moore County, North Carolina, and Manly said

he sort of pictured John as a young Johnny Cash. He also told us that John was a veteran of the Korean

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War, and that he could hold up his end of things in a barroom brawl. John had a profound knowledge of

Southern folklore and folksongs—as did Manly. John had a guitar strung with silver strings, a

considerable knowledge of the occult, and his native wit. He needed all three as he wandered along the

haunted ridges and valleys of the Southern Appalachians—sometimes encountering supernatural evil,

sometimes seeking it out.

John first appeared in the December 1951 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, but

Wellman had given us foreshadowings. He sometimes liked to claim that two stories from Weird Tales,

"Sin's Doorway" (January 1946) and "Frogfather" (November 1946), were stories about John before he

got his silver-strung guitar, but usually he grouped them instead with his other regional fantasies. Not

coincidentally, following his move from New Jersey to Moore County, North Carolina after the War,

Wellman began to make use of Southern legends and locales in his stories. When he moved to Chapel

Hill in 1951, his subsequent acquaintance with folk musicians of the Carolina mountains combined with

Manly's lifelong interest in folklore to generate the stories of John. The transition can be seen in

Wellman's abandonment of his then-popular series character, John Thunstone, an urbane occult detective

who worked the New York night-club set. Thunstone's final appearance in Weird Tales ("The Last

Grave of Lill Warran" in the May 1951 issue) finds him in hiking gear and stomping through the Sand

Hills in search of a backwoods vampire. Seven months later John the Balladeer made his first appearance

in "O Ugly Bird!" The difference was the mountains-and the music.

There hadn't been anything like the John stories at that time, and there hasn't been since. No one but

Manly Wade Wellman could have written these stories. Here his vivid imagination merged with authentic

Southern folklore and a heartfelt love of the South and its people. Just as J. R. R. Tolkien brilliantly

created a modern British myth cycle, so did Manly Wade Wellman give to us an imaginary world of

purely American fact, fantasy, and song.

Between 1951 and 1962 Wellman wrote eleven stories about John, in addition to a grouping of seven

short vignettes. These were collected in the 1963 Arkham House volume, Who Fears the Devil?. The

original magazine versions were somewhat revised (Manly grumbled that this was done to give the

collection some semblance of a novel), and four new vignettes were added. When I first met Manly in the

summer of 1963, he gave me the grim news that he was all through writing about John. Fortunately, this

wasn't to be true. Manly loved his character too much.

John would next appear on film, with folksinger Hedge Capers miscast as John. The film was partially

shot in Madison County, North Carolina (the general setting for the John stories) in October 1971.

Despite a surprisingly good supporting cast and the incorporation of two of the best stories "O Ugly

Bird!" and "The Desrick on Yandro"), the film was an embarrassment-largely due to its shoestring budget

and stultifying script. It was released in 1972 as Who Fears the Devil and flopped at the box office. It

was then re-edited and re-released the following year as The Legend of Hillbilly John, with equal

success. Sometimes it turns up on videocassette.

But it would take more than a bad film to finish off John. Renewed interest in his earlier fantasy work

coupled with summer trips to his cabin in Madison County soon had Wellman writing about the

mountains again. John returned—this time in a series of novels.

In 1979 Doubleday published The Old Gods Waken, the first of five John novels. This was followed by

After Dark (1980), The Lost and the Lurking (1981), The Hanging Stones (1982), and The Voice of the

Mountain (1984). A sixth John novel, The Valley So Low, was planned but never started due to

Wellman's final illness; instead it was published by Doubleday in 1987 as a collection of Wellman's recent

mountain stories.

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But there was more to be heard from John. Wellman always maintained that he preferred to write about

John in short-story form rather than in novel length. And to prove he could still do both, Manly wrote six

new John stories in between work on his novels. Shortly after completing his final novel for Doubleday

(Cahena, 1986), Manly wrote a new John story, "Where Did She Wander?". This was to be his final

story. A few days after completing it, Wellman suffered a crippling fall, shattering his shoulder and elbow.

Despite the weakness and pain, he managed to revise and polish the final draft of "Where Did She

Wander?"

Five years before Manly would have been back at his desk before the plaster cast hardened, but at age

82 complication followed complication. Death came on April 5, 1986, a few weeks short of his 83rd

birthday.

John will live on, as long as there are readers who love good stories—and good storytelling.

John the Balladeer is the complete collection of all of the short stories of John. All of the stories in this

book are Manly Wade Wellman's original versions, reprinted from their initial magazine or anthology

appearances. To approximate as closely as possible the order in which they were written, I have

arranged these stories according to date of original publication. I regret a certain awkwardness in the

clustering of the vignettes between two stories which are directly connected (albeit having been written

twenty-one years apart). Think of this as an interlude, perhaps, between the old and the new.

While the John stories can be read in any order one wishes, I chose this method of presentation

deliberately. John is one of the most significant characters in all of fantasy literature. For thirty-five years

John lived in the marvelous imagination of Manly Wade Wellman, one of fantasy's foremost authors. As

such it is desirable to provide a definitive, orderly text so that we may consider the growth and

development of both character and creator over those three-and-one-half decades.

On the other hand, if you're simply looking for a good read, you're holding one of the best. Dip into it

anywhere. These stories are chilling and enchanting, magical and down-to-earth, full of wonder and

humanity. They are fun. They are like nothing else you've ever read before.

Savor this book. Treasure it to reread in years to come.

I wish you the joy and wonder I have found here.

Karl Edward Wagner

Chapel Hill, North Carolina

O Ugly Bird!

I swear I'm licked before I start, trying to tell you all what Mr. Onselm looked like. Words give out—for

instance, you're frozen to death for fit words to tell the favor of the girl you love. And Mr. Onselm and I

pure poison hated each other. That's how love and hate are alike.

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He was what country folks call a low man, more than calling him short or small; a low man is low

otherwise than by inches. Mr. Onselm's shoulders didn't wide out as far as his big ears, and they sank

and sagged. His thin legs bowed in at the knee and out at the shank, like two sickles point to point. On

his carrot-thin neck, his head looked like a swollen pale gourd. Thin, moss-gray hair. Loose mouth, a bit

open to show long, even teeth. Not much chin. The right eye squinted, mean and dark, while the hike of

his brow twitched the left one wide. His good clothes fitted his mean body like they were cut to it. Those

good clothes were almost as much out of match to the rest of him as his long, soft, pink hands, the hands

of a man who never had to work a tap.

You see what I mean, I can't say how he looked, only he was hateful.

I first met him when I came down from the high mountain's comb, along an animal trail—maybe a deer

made it. Through the trees I saw, here and there in the valley below, patch-places and cabins and yards.

I hoped I'd get fed at one of them, for I'd run clear out of eating some spell back. I had no money. Only

my hickory shirt and blue duckin pants and torn old army shoes, and my guitar on its sling card. But I

knew the mountain folks. If they've got ary thing to eat, a decent spoken stranger can get the half part of

it. Towns aren't always the same way.

Downslope I picked, favoring the guitar in case I slipped and fell, and in an hour made it to the first

patch. Early fall was browning the corn out of the green. The cabin was two-room, dog-trotted open in

the middle. Beyond was a shed and a pigpen. In the yard the man of the house talked to who I found out

later was Mr. Onselm.

"No meat at all?" said Mr. Onselm. His voice was the last you'd expect him to have, full of broad low

music, like an organ in a town church. I decided against asking him to sing when I glimpsed him closer,

sickle-legged and gourd-headed and pale and puny in his fine-fitting clothes. For he looked mad and

dangerous; and the man of the place, though he was a big, strong old gentleman with a square jaw,

looked afraid.

"I been short this year, Mr. Onselm," he said, begging like. "The last bit of meat I fished out of the brine

on Tuesday. And I don't want to have to kill the pig till December."

Mr. Onselm tramped over to the pen. The pig was a friendly one, it reared its front feet against the

boards and grunted up to him. Mr. Onselm spit into the pen. "All right," he said, "but I want some meal."

He sickle-legged back to the cabin. A brown barrel stood in the dog trot. Mr. Onselm lifted the cover

and pinched some meal between his pink fingertips. "Get me a sack," he told the man.

The man went indoors and brought out the sack. Mr. Onselm held it open while the man scooped out

meal enough to fill it. Then Mr. Onselm held it tight shut while the man lashed the neck with twine. Finally

Mr. Onselm looked up and saw me standing there.

"Who are you?" he asked, sort of crooning.

"My name's John," I said.

"John what?" Then, without waiting for my answer, "Where did you steal that guitar?"

"It was given to me," I replied. "I strung it with silver wires myself."

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"Silver," he said, and opened his squint eye by a trifle.

With my left hand I clamped a chord. With my right thumb I picked a whisper from the silver strings. I

began to make a song:

Mister Onselm,

They do what you tell 'em—

"That will do," said Mr. Onselm, not so musically, and I stopped playing. He relaxed. "They do what I

tell em," he said, half to himself. "Not bad."

We studied each other a few ticks of time. Then he turned and tramped out of the yard in among the

trees. When he was out of sight the man of the place asked, right friendly, what he could do for me.

"I'm just walking through," I said. I didn't want to ask right off for some dinner.

"I heard you name yourself John," he said. "So happens my name's John too, John Bristow."

"Nice place you've got," I said, looking around. "Cropper or tenant?"

"I own the house and the land," he told me, and I was surprised; for Mr. Onselm had treated him the

way a mean boss treats a cropper.

"Then that Mr. Onselm was just a visitor," I said.

"Visitor?" Mr. Bristow snorted. "He visits everybody here around. Lets them know what he wants, and

they pass it to him. Thought you knew him, you sang about him so ready."

"Shucks, I made that up." I touched the silver strings again. "I sing a many a new song that comes to

me."

"I love the old songs better," he said, and smiled, so I sang one:

I had been in Georgia

Not a many more weeks than three,

When I fell in love with a pretty fair girl,

And she fell in love with me.

Her lips were red as red could be,

Her eyes were brown as brown,

Her hair was like' the thundercloud

Before the rain comes down.

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You should have seen Mr. Bristow's face shine. He said: "By God, you sure enough can sing it and play

it."

"Do my possible best," I said. "But Mr. Onselm don't like it." I thought a moment, then asked: "What

way can he get everything he wants in this valley?"

"Shoo, can't tell you way. Just done it for years, he has."

"Anybody refuse him?"

"Once Old Jim Desbro refused him a chicken. Mr. Onselm pointed his finger at Old Jim's mules, they

was plowing. Them mules couldn't move ary foot, not till Mr. Onselm had the chicken. Another time,

Miss Tilly Parmer hid a cake when she seen him come. He pointed a finger and dumbed her. She never

spoke one mumbling word from that day to when she died. Could hear and understand, but when she

tried to talk she could just wheeze."

"He's a hoodoo man," I said, "which means the law can't do anything."

"Not even if the law worried about anything this far from the county seat." He looked at the meal back

against the cabin. "About time for the Ugly Bird to fetch Mr. Onselm's meal."

"What's the Ugly Bird?" I asked, but he didn't have to answer.

It must have hung over us, high and quiet, and now it dropped into the yard like a fish hawk into a pond.

First out I saw it was dark, heavy-winged, bigger than a buzzard. Then I saw the shiny gray-black of the

body, like wet slate, and how it seemed to have feathers only on its wide wings. Then I made out the thin

snaky neck, the bulgy head and long stork beak, the eyes set in front of its head—man-fashion in front,

not to each side.

The feet that taloned onto the sack showed pink and smooth with five graspy toes. The wings snapped

like a tablecloth in a wind, and it churned away over the trees with the meal sack.

"That's the Ugly Bird," said Mr. Bristow. I barely heard him. "Mr. Onselm has companioned with it ever

since I recollect."

"I never saw such a bird," I said. "Must be a scarce one. You know what struck me while I watched it?"

"I do know, John. Its feet look like Mr. Onselm's hands."

"Might it be," I asked, "that a hoodoo man like Mr. Onselm knows what way to shape himself into a

bird?"

He shook his head. "It's known that when he's at once place, the Ugly Bird's been sighted at another."

He tried to change the subject "Silver strings on your guitar—never heard of any but steel strings."

"In the olden days," I told him, "silver was used a many times for strings. It gives a more singy sound."

In my mind I had it the subject wouldn't be changed. I tried a chord on my guitar, and began to sing:

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You all have heard of the Ugly Bird

So curious and so queer,

That flies its flight by day and night

And fills folks' hearts with fear.

I never come here to hide from fear,

And I give you my promised word

That I soon expect to twist the neck

Of the God damn Ugly Bird.

When I finished, Mr. Bristow felt in his pocket.

"I was going to bid you eat with me," he said, "but—here, maybe you better buy something."

He gave me a quarter and a dime. I about gave them back, but I thanked him and walked away down

the same trail Mr. Onselm had gone. Mr. Bristow watched me go, looking shrunk up. My song had

scared him, so I kept singing it.

O Ugly Bird! O Ugly Bird!

You snoop and sneak and thieve!

This place can't be for you and me,

And one of us got to leave.

Singing, I tried to remember all I'd heard or read or guessed that might help toward my Ugly Bird study.

Didn't witch people have partner animals? I'd read and heard tell about the animals called

familiars—mostly cats or black dogs or the like, but sometimes birds.

That might be the secret, or a right much of it, for the Ugly Bird wasn't Mr. Onselm's other self. Mr.

Bristow had said the two of them were seen different places at one time. Mr. Onselm didn't turn into the

Ugly Bird then. They were just close partners. Brothers. With the Ugly Bird's feet like Mr. Onselm's

hands.

I awared of something in the sky, the big black V of a flying creature. It quartered over me, half as high

as the highest woolly scrap of cloud. Once or twice it seemed like it would stoop for me, like a hawk for

a rabbit, but it didn't. Looking up and letting my feet find the trail, I rounded a bunch of bushes and there,

on a rotten log in a clearing, sat Mr. Onselm.

His gourd-head sank on his thin neck. His elbows set on his knees, and the soft, pink, long hands hid his

face, as if he was miserable. His look made me feel disgusted. I came toward him.

"You don't feel so brash, do you?" I asked.

"Go away," he sort of gulped, soft and sick.

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David Drake - John The Balladeer

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