bring to light fine stories that had been accepted for other markets, but for one reason or another had never appeared at the time; to reprise classic stories too long out-of-print; and to actively solicit brand new stories that might otherwise never have been written. This latter strand eventually became the most important.
Gradually, as the series became established, in addition to works by Bounds, Fearn, High, and Tubb, new stories by other veteran UK writers, including Brian Ball, John Glasby, and Tony Glynn, were added, all of whom wrote excellent new stories for Fantasy Adventures. One highlight was the posthumous first publication of “Something in the Air” by Gordon Landsborough, a novelette I had actually commissioned from Gordon for my earlier SF magazine, Vision of Tomorrow, in 1970. It was a beautifully written and subtle satire, its central character being a science fiction editor working for an uncaring publisher (based on Gordon himself and his days at Hamilton’s editing Authentic!) I was also proud to have been favoured with new stories by rising star Eric Brown, and the noted Italian author and editor Antonio Bellomi.
As with most early POD ventures, sales were disappointing—but I was able to resell the Fearn novels appearing in it to UK publishers, which more than recouped my editorial outlay. I had hoped to continue in this vein, soliciting more new stories from Eric Brown and other emerging younger British writers, but it was not to be.
In 2006, first Philip E. High, and then Sydney J. Bounds, died. Both men were born storytellers who loved to write, and although they knew they were dying from cancer, they continued to write for me as long as they were able. Their final stories were truly inspirational, remarkably good, and completely free from any trace of bitterness or self-pity.
After their deaths I decided to discontinue the magazine, and to instead concentrate all my energies on selling their backlists to other publishers on both sides of the Atlantic, and throughout Europe. My still living clients continued to write new stories, but—now that their names were known again—I was now able to sell them to wider and better markets, including original story anthologies.
Fantasy Adventures had achieved its objective when I ended it after thirteen issues. Quite a number of its stories have since been anthologized or included in single author collections.
Now my current publisher has suggested that I might edit a generous selection of its best stories for the latest fast-developing new market—that of the e-book. In this way it is hoped that these fine stories and their writers might be brought to the attention to a new generation of readers who are unaware of their existence.
I hope that these new readers might enjoy work by authors who may not be familiar to them—and to want to seek out their many other works which are now available both as paperbacks and e-books!
—Philip Harbottle, 27 August 2013
THE CALL OF THE GRAVE, by Brian Ball
The Celts believe that if you call on a man’s soul long enough, strongly enough, the call will be answered. I am a Celt, a Welshwoman. Part of my difficulty in deciding just what happened at the time of the Bryn Cynon disaster is that I knew no English until I was well into my teens. As a child, I knew nothing of that harsh tongue.
I was eight years old when my father and two older brothers, along with a hundred and seven other men, were caught by the raging explosions in the deep galleries. Coal was won with blood then.
My mother wept at the pithead with the other white-faced women. I suppose I wept too, but I can’t remember too well. I was interested in everything I saw. I watched it all, even when the sturdy rescue teams came up with a few of the bodies. They did weep. There was no hope for any of the miners.
The minister spoke of souls released from this life’s cares, but we children thought of fire and water, smoke and stunning blast. The shaft was abandoned and sealed up after a week. Nearly a hundred men still lay in the choking darkness, quietly swayed by black waters. The disaster numbed the village. Even though the pithead buildings were no longer in use, the old men and the widows, the grandmothers and sweethearts, still came there. They spoke to their dead menfolk, little everyday Welsh phrases that the dead would know well. They comforted the dead and relieved their own grief. We came too, the children of the village, but we were driven away. My mother was bitterly angry with me when I persisted.
“Your father is dead, and your brothers too! Dead! The minister spoke the words. Don’t disturb them now. Don’t trouble the dead!”
She had never looked so angry.
I learned the reason for that anger from the other children. She did not believe in the old ways. But, child-like, I was fascinated by the idea that you could call on the dead. I suppose I thought of it as a form of macabre telephoning. How I wanted to communicate with my dead father and brothers!
So strong was my morbid wish that I disobeyed my mother. It was of no use hanging about the pithead. My mother would soon hear of it if I began calling down the blocked-up shaft. Instead, I went to one of the many ventilation outlets that dotted the upper reaches of the valley. On the day of the disaster, they had spumed black smoke and red flame for hours.
No one saw me. I would slip away after school before my younger brothers realized I was gone. I talked, often for an hour, of the day’s trivial happenings:
‘Dad!’ I would whisper. ‘Can you hear? I’ve done well at arithmetic today! We had dripping toast for breakfast again, and Gareth has a black eye!’
How simple and innocent it was! I kept up my one-sided conversations for nearly two weeks. I tried to pretend that Dad or David or Rhys answered, but there was nothing but a thin whistling sound from the deep, black hole. I was careful not to get my dress soiled on the smoke-encrusted brick when I peered down. Nothing! Only the iron ladder and a distant, cold whistling.
One afternoon I arrived later than usual, for I was losing interest in my macabre game. It was to be given fresh interest, for a most unusual thing occurred.
Mr. Jackson, the English under-manager of the colliery, was there. I almost called out to him, but I remembered that he spoke little Welsh. In his bowler hat and dark suit, he was an imposing figure to a young girl. I said nothing.
He peered into the depths. And then he began to speak in his guttural English. Of course, I did not understand him, as I have said, but I was fascinated. Here was another who conversed with the dead! I almost called out, but my shyness stopped me. I was sure he did not wish for company.
To my delight kind Mr. Jackson came the next day. And the next. He would call down lengthy, impassioned messages for up to half-an-hour. I listened, but for several days I could make no sense of his words. I caught one word, then two, with much difficulty. And I knew them! ‘Morgan’ and ‘Lewis’!
Morgan Lewis! Mr. Jackson was trying to call on the soul of one of the young colliers who had died three weeks before! I knew Morgan well.
Poor Mr. Jackson, I thought, poor Mr. Jackson to be so sad now that his friend was dead! I almost called to him that Morgan would hear and come. I had no need.
Mr. Jackson had just finished his conversation when it happened. He turned and I hid. He was grinning. I am sure that he did not see the long thin arms that rested on the brickwork behind him, nor the long emaciated and blackened fingers. I saw them. To this day I swear that I saw them. A child’s vision is more than twice as acute as an adult’s. I did see the arms.
They drew him back. Mr. Jackson’s hat fell off. He made an effort to reach the skeletal arms and hands, but he was already off-balance.
I got up,
