Lin Carter's Simrana Cycle

The Gods of Niom Parma

Lin Carter

The gods of Niom Parma met on a mountaintop near the sea. Tremendous, fierce-eyed, robed in glory, they were come to decide the fate of the alabaster city. And when all were assembled upon the windswept peak under the burning stars, one rose from amongst them, even that Hathrib whom men worship with purple wine poured in ewers of silver, and he spake thus: Brothers, we are met to unleash our wrath upon Niom Parma, which we builded beside the sea when all Simrana was young. Let us whelm and trample down the alabaster city, for its folk have turned from us and worship newer gods.

Then the great Lord Shu lifted his eleven eyes and three arms in solemn agreement, even that Shu to whom men sing little songs of three notes only. And he spake, saying: Brother, your words are full of wisdom. Lo! The men of Niom Parma have forgotten us who raised them to greatness over all the coasts of the Nyranian Sea, and behold our temples are neglected and dust gathers upon our altars. Let us, therefore, arise and smite Niom Parma with our wrath that not one stone shall be left upon another.

A mutter of agreement went up among the gods. Their eyes kindled with sparks of wrath, and in their anger they trampled upon the mountaintop until it trembled beneath their tread. And in the cool ways of the alabaster city far below, men cast uneasy eyes aloft and said that storms were brewing in the hills. But it was only the gods in their wrath.

But bright Thaladir, who is the Lord of the Sixteen Arts and Patron of the Nine Sciences, and to whom the priests of men burn the red cinnabar and the white spikenard upon altars of lemon-yellow jade, arose next and spoke against the doom of Niom Parma. Have patience with our lazy and forgetful children, he said softly. Observe the heights to which their artisans aspire; consider the nobility of their sculpture, their glowing tapestries, and the exquisite idylls their poets compose. Think, ere you destroy a city famous forever in song and make your memories accursed to all men who love the arts of Niom Parma.

Thunder growled among deep-bellied clouds, and Shadrazur the Lord of Warriors appeared. His one central eye blazed like the crater of the fiery volcano, lava-lit; his black beard bristled with rage; and he clenched in one mighty fist a great ax whose bladed edge glimmered with the small restless blue flames of the thunderbolt.

Let us hear no more counsels of weakness, he growled, and his voice was like the roar of the bearded lion in its wrath. For dabbling paints on cloth and stringing pretty words together are toys for childish fools. I say let us grind Niom Parma into the dust, for the people thereof have turned from the red path of war and I love them not.

Thereafter spake each of the gods in his turn, and Phuld and Narabus and Thion the Fair were for sparing the alabaster city, whereas Ladrizel and Gongogar and dark-browed Bal-Sheoth swore that the city should be ground into dust beneath their heel. Thus were they divided, and there was no agreement among the gods of Niom Parma.

At length there stirred a bent form, gray as dust and dark as shadows: It was even Dzelim, the oldest and the wisest of all the gods; aye, Dzelim, who was older than the very moon of Simrana. And the gods fell silent as he arose, for respect of his numberless eons. In a voice slow and rusty he spoke, but his voice echoed with the sound of great winds moving through the mountains.

It is true the iniquities of Niom Parma are many and great, and likewise it is true that her works are proud and beautiful, he said, but as we are divided amongst ourselves as to spare the alabaster city or to wither it before the blast of our rage, let us come to our decision by yet another path, else we may bicker on this peak until the very stars of heaven gutter and go out like exhausted candles.

What, then, do you advise, O Elder Brother? the gods asked.

Choose one from amongst your number whose heart is neither melted with admiration for the artistries of Niom Parma nor hardened with rage at the iniquities thereof. Select one both fair and impartial to go down amongst the folk of the city and to decide their fate from the evidence of his own eyes, and swear ye all to bide his returning thence and to abide by his deciding.

And so it came to pass that the gods chose little Uzolba, the Patron of the Fisherfolk. He was a meek and smiling god, kindly and simple, and he cared for nothing more strenuous than drifting lazily on a small fat cloud sniffing the odors of frying fish, which the Priests of the Sea burnt on his small altars in little temples beside the wharves.

And with this choosing, Dzelim was well pleased. When some of the more fierce-hearted of the gods grumbled at the choice of small Uzolba, saying he was a fat and sleepy fool, old Dzelim gently reminded them that while Uzolba had no fondness for the red murk of war, he had likewise little love for the arts of men. So in the end were they decided.

And thus it came to pass that Uzolba took on mortal form for the first time in all the long eternities of his divinity. And he dwindled from his great and shining self down to a small, fat, sleepy little man with bald head and shining face and kindly eyes. He stood there upon the harsh cold stone peak and shivered to the wintry blasts that blew above the world and under the stars. It felt strange to be mortal after bright eons of godhood. Sharp pebbles cut through the thin sandals wherewith his soft feet were now shod, and the cold wind of the summit took small ribald liberties with the skirts of his tunic.

Above him the colossal forms of his mighty brethren towered tremendously. They seemed now to his mortal eyes to be vast and glorious shapes of awe, like sunset clouds, majestic, golden, full of splendor. Once he too had stood thus, no different from them. Now he cowered in the blaze of their terrific glory.

Then the titanic shape that was Dzelim bent down in all his magnificence and touched Uzolba with a dazzling finger. And as Uzolba blinked against the light, Dzelim spake in a voice like distant thunder moving across the heavens: Go your way, little brother, and make your own decision. We shall bide here, and we promise not to visit our wrath upon the alabaster city until your return thence. Look well, choose wisely. We shall await your coming and this we swear.

This we swear, the gods echoed.

So Uzolba turned from that windy place where cloudy forms of brilliance towered from the naked rock against the burning stars, and he scurried down the slope. His body was old and fat and rather short of breath, and the cold rocks bruised his tender feet, and he was quite winded and weary by the time he reached the foot of the mountain. And there he paused on the shore of the Nyranian Sea to catch his breath.

He stood there and gazed about him with growing wonder. Never before had he looked upon the sea through mortal eyes, and it was very beautiful. The beach was a curve of soft white sand. Here and there across the sand scuttled small red crabs, hurrying to their little caverns. Tufts and clumps of stiff sea grass rose from the dunes of fine sand, and the tangy salt breeze sang through them like a sighing dirge. The emerald waves rolled in slow and stately, gliding with a whisper over wet, smooth sand to foam in a lacy pattern of creamy bubbles about bright, wet shells. Then, slowly, as if reluctant to leave behind the small treasures they had brought up from the bottom of the deeps, they slid back one by one into the bosom of the sea again.

The water was cold and palest blue-green and deliciously wet as it curled hissing about his toes, beaded with a froth of foam.

Above his head the sky was dim and vast. The purple wings of night withdrew slowly to the edges of the world before the golden birth of day. Tremendous masses of high-piled clouds towered in the east, their upper works and buttresses touched to bright flame and incandescent rose by the first shafts of dawn. One by one, great clouds drifted past over his head, cities and galleons and castles and fantastic dragons of dawn-colored vapor borne on mysterious journeys by the young winds of morning through the upper regions of the sky.

Here and there a white gull swooped and hovered or circled with sharp raucous cries like rusty hinges creaking.

Salt spray stung his lips and struck ruddy color into his cheeks.

It was altogether marvelous....

Heretofore he had looked upon the sea through the eyes of a god, and all had seemed quite small and insignificant – for then the supernal glory of his own being had outshone the dawn and his towering height had dwarfed even the very clouds. But now, in the form of a man, and through the dim, small perspective of mortal senses, the wonder of the shore at dawn was breathtaking and humbling to him; he felt small before the glory of the world.

"So this is what it’s like to be a mortal!" he whispered to himself with delight, as he slowly made his splashy way along the wet beach, stopping to stoop over a glistening shell, to brush wet sand away and admire the clear rich coloring.

Ere long he came upon a fisherman drawing his boat ashore, heavy with his morning catch. Uzolba paused half fearfully to watch the strange figure at his task. He found himself timid. Never had he seen a mortal so close. Yet the man did not seem so terrible and wicked – not at all as sinful and depraved as Hathrib and great Lord Shu had declared men to be.

The fisherman was old and lean and leathery. A stringy gray beard hung to his bare brown chest, and a plain gold ring twinkled in one ear. His patched and baggy pantaloons were stiff with salt and the wind tugged at a huge and ragged turban wound around his brows. He hummed a tune as he dragged his boat up the shore, and Uzolba saw that his sunburnt face was kind and wise and humorous. When he glanced up at Uzolba’s hesitant approach, his keen blue eyes twinkled, and when he smiled, it was a good smile.

Peace and plenty, friend! the old fisherman hailed him. ’Twill be a pleasant day, I wager – what say you?

The god made some mumbling reply: Never thereafter could he recall what he said. He stood shyly watching as the lean old man hauled his dripping netful of fish up the sandy shore.

Aye, a good day, and a warm one, too, the fisherman went on. Then, with a cheerful wink, he added, Thanks be to good Lord Uzolba, my nets were full at dawn!

Uzolba flushed crimson and could think of no reply. He was well accustomed to droning ritual solemnities of the priests, but before a simple word of honest thanks he was struck dumb. But he took courage from the obvious harmlessness of the good-natured old fisherman and edged closer. He even essayed a question in a voice that quavered just a little.

What – ah – what do you think of Niom Parma, fisherman?

The city? The fisherman stopped as if nonplussed. Then: Well, friend, ’tis a goodly place for them as likes being cooped up behind walls. A bit crowded for such as me. I like to see the land and sky and sea round me. But still, a fair, proud town; aye, fine as anything this side of Yanathloë on the river Thool, so they say. The city folk are good enough. Chorb Zalim, now, the fish merchant, he gives me a fair price for my catch. And there’s a snug warm inn by the harborfront where they don’t ask your last coin for a drop of ale. The great bazaar is a wondrous fine place, and the harbor is filled with strange ships and foreign sailors with perfumed beards and little gems woven in their hair. ’Tis a fine place to visit when the great ships are in from the isles, and the sailors – why, it’s worth your life to hear the tales they tell of the things they’ve seen, the queer little yellow men, the stone gods, the cities full of blue pagodas, the jungle rivers full of pearls! He chuckled, shaking his head at his memories.

But come, he said, I’m forgetful of my manners. I am Chandar the fisherman. Yourself?

Uzolba faltered. Then he gave his name as Zabulo, saying the first thing that came into his head, which happened to be his own name, but slightly twisted about.

Be you a fisherman?

No... but I have long been associated with the trade, he faltered.

Well, come along then, friend Zabulo, help me drag my catch up to yonder cottage where I dwell, and you can share the morning meal with me. ‘Tis no feast, but I’ve a flagon of old wine put aside against the winter damps... eh?

So the god and the fisherman went up the dunes to the small snug cottage nestled under the leafy branches of a great zoonabar tree, and all that day they talked and sang songs, and Uzolba was shown the nets spread out to dry in the sun and the small back garden and the bright flowers that grew thick about the door. Chandar demonstrated the art and science of hooks and oars and lines and how to read the currents and the winds and tell tomorrow’s weather from tonight’s moon. Evening darkened over Simrana: The red sun sank behind the lofty alabaster towers of Niom Parma, and a cold wind came lashing up from the bosom of the dark sea.

But all was warm and cozy within the low-roofed thatched cottage where a fire crackled lustily on the stone hearth, filling the room with cheerful light. They ate the evening meal together, fish and fruit and coarse black bread with the last of the red wine. Before that day, Uzolba had never tasted mortal food. The warm rich glow this simple meal sent coursing through him was curious and comfortable. The drowsy feeling that came from a full middle was vastly more satisfying than was dining on the vaporous viands that had for ages sated his divine appetites.

All that evening, while a young gale shouted about the eaves, they stretched out before the roaring fire and the fisherman spun tales he had caught from the bearded lips of the sailors. In his turn, the god haltingly told some of the wonders of the sea, its marvels and its mysteries.

In bed that night on the brink of sleep, Uzolba determined that on the morrow he must rise early and start out for the city and the fulfillment of the task set upon him by the gods. But somehow, when day came, when they rose and Chandar went forth to fish, there were too many things to be done. He had tasted of the hospitality of Chandar the fisherman, and now he should help with the work by way of recompense. For there were fish to clean, nets to repair, and knives to sharpen. And he could not just walk away and leave the work undone. So he lingered for a time to hoe the garden, water the flowers, pluck ripe fruit from the spreading branches of the zoonabar tree, and gather up driftwood from the shore to feed their fire.

In this fashion, one day drifted into the next, as one wave blends with the waters of another. Uzolba found his new life rich and busy, filled with small homely tasks and brightened with small homely joys. And there were new tastes and sounds and sights to every hand. Everywhere he turned, he looked upon things new and fresh and wonderful. He came to know the sea as he had never known her – he who had been one of the gods of the sea. He saw her in her hundred moods, her thousand faces, her myriad of colors. And then there was the wonder of flowering spring, the marvel of rich autumn sunsets, the miracle of summer rain. The great, slow rhythm of the cycle of the seasons turned like a mighty wheel, and with each turning came a new marvel to be wondered at. The golden moon. Her pearly light upon silken dark waters. The magnificence of stars.

Weeks passed like swift strokes of a gull’s wing. Memory of his life among the gods faded, dimmed, and died. There were so many things to see and do and taste and know. Old memories and old purposes were crowded out of mind.

The years passed, and Uzolba, or Zabulo, became a fisherman with Chandar. The two were as brothers, sharing the same boat and roof and fire through cold nights and windy days. Together they enjoyed the pleasures and endured the hardships of this life... and it came to pass that Chandar and Zabulo the fishermen lived together all the days of their lives.

High above the alabaster spires of Niom Parma, the gods waited upon that mountaintop under the burning stars. Yea, long and long they waited, for they could not leave that place and were bound by their vow not to smite the alabaster city until the Lord Uzolba came back to them once more with his decision. For thus went their oath; and they say in Simrana that the oath of the gods cannot be broken.

All this was very long ago, and no man knoweth the ending of the story. Yet Niom Parma riseth yet beside the Nyranian Sea... I know, for I walked her alabaster ways but yestereve within a dream. And as for the lord Uzolba, to whom the Priests of the Sea burn fish on small altars in little temples beside the wharves, why, I cannot but suppose that never did he come again to his brethren on the lonely peak, but lived all his days in the snug small cottage nestled beneath the spreading zoonabar tree.

And as for the gods of Niom Parma, for all I know or care, they may still be waiting upon that windy mountaintop near the sea, tremendous, fierce-eyed, robed in glory.

The Whelming of Oom

Lin Carter

They say that once in Simrana the Dreamworld there dwelt in the Lands About Zuth an idolatrous folk who turned from the Gods, saying: Let us fashion a God all our own, that we alone of all nations may worship him.

Now there rose near Zuth a mighty mountain all of pure and perdurable emerald, stronger than granite, more lovely than marble. And looking upon it the folk said: Let us hew our God from this green stone, that he may tower above the works of men lesser than we.

So they set about their labor, to cut and carve the mountain into the likeness of the God they had invented, whom they had named OOM, for that there was no other God with that name known amongst the lands of men. And they did toil for generations in the fashioning of Oom, and little by little he emerged from the glistening emerald as they hacked and hewed, a finger here, there an eyebrow, a nostril, a curve of flank or cheek.

When that their toil was done, this was the likeness of Oom. The peak of the mountain was carven into his head whereon were four faces. The face that looked to the north was grim and foreboding of mien. The face toward the south was benign and smiling. The eastern face howled with a fury of rage. The face turned to the west was closed in sleep.

Eight arms had Oom, folded each two together against his chest.

He sat with his legs thus and so, in the manner of tailors, and in his lap they builded a city magnificent with gems and ivories and glittering marbles; a sacred city that was named On The Knees of Oom. Then they were finished and could rest.

Now the Eight Hundred Gods Who Watch Over Simrana care but little for the doings of men, despite what the priests will say. But that the folk who dwelt about Zuth turned from them to a God of their own devisal was an affront that they could not ignore. And they moved from their accustomed tranquility and were urged to wrath against this new God, Oom, and all they that worshipped him.

And the Highest God said to the least and littlest amongst them: Go up against Oom and throw him down, yea, and all those that call upon his name. For he is as a stench in Our nostrils and an abomination in Our sight; therefore whelm ye him and cast him down utterly in the dust.

And the Lesser Gods came unto those lands wherein Oom sat smiling upon the south, howling against the east, sternly glowering to the north, and dreaming at the west. And they unleashed against him the forces over which they had the mastering of, and these were the lesser powers of Nature.

SHAMMERING the Sunlight poured upon Oom the fierce blaze of noon, and THUTHOOL the Snow sheathed him in numb whiteness.

UMBALDROOM the Thunder smote him, and SHISH the Rain lashed his emerald flanks.

CHEEL, the God of Morning Dew, pearled him with chilling wetness. KAZANG the Lightning flickered about his crest. HASHOOVATH the Wind howled about his folded arms and tore at them with impalpable fingers.

Yet Oom sat unshaken and unchanged.

So it came to pass that the Seven Little Gods withdrew in defeat. But they say in Simrana that the Gods yield not to Necessity, and behold, they who were the Lesser raised a loud cry, beseeching the aid of Gods greater than they.

And the Greater Gods came unto Oom and set their forces up against him as the waves of Ocean go up against the bastions of the great cliffs that front the main.

GLAUN CHELID the Lord of Wintry Cold clasped his bitter cloak of glittering ice about Oom and froze him with that iron grip whereof the rocks are made to cry out and great trees are broke asunder.

RŪZ THANNA the Lord of Summery Heat baked him in blasts of withering flame such as sear the burnt and cindery deserts of the ultimate south in scorching light of molten and fiery suns.

THOOZ LASHLAR the Lord of Mighty Rains hurled against Oom his raging torrents from full-bellied clouds, in roaring floods such as drown kingdoms and wash cities to rubble and feed rivers into gorged and swollen monsters that ravish the earth.

VOSHT THONDAZOOR the Lord of the Tempest set upon Oom his savage servants, the raging Thunderstorm, the ferocious Whirlwind, the screaming Hurricane, and all the legions of the nine and ninety Winds.

But naught availeth against Oom.

In their desperation, the Greater Gods roused even their dread and terrible brother, yea, even SKAGANAK BELBADOOM the Earthquake, from his surly and ominous chambers in the deeps of the clefts of the earth. And he came and shook Oom with all his thunders such as make the very hills to tremble, but he whelmed him not.

Then came forward one whose shadowy face was hidden and whose voice was low and monotonous, who spake softly, saying: I will whelm Oom, even I, TATOKTA the Lord of Passing Moments.

And they laughed and mocked him, for Time is the least and smallest servant of the Gods.

But he set upon Oom the measureless passing moments, whereof are builded the millions of years. And each small moment, as it went past, bore away from Oom one single grain of dust.

And, lo! Oom crumbled. Before the assault of Time his vast four-featured visage wore smooth until he frowned no longer, neither did he smile, nor howl, nor dream any more.

His limbs fell from him as dust falls, grain by impalpable grain. His massive and perdurable torso eroded and even his knees whereon was builded The City Sacred To Oom, they were no more, and the city itself was but scattering dust. And the people thereof fled by night, saying: Oom is fallen, Oom is overthrown, let us call no longer upon Oom, for behold the Gods are stronger than he.

And Oom was not. In his place stretched away a barren and desolate desert. And the sands of this desert were green as