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Complete Short Fiction
Thomas Burnett Swann
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Jerry eBooks
Title Page
About Thomas Burnett Swann
Bibliography: Novels
Bibliography: Magazine-published Novels
Bibliography: Serials
Bibliography: Collections
Bibliography: Omnibus
Short Fiction Bibliography
Fiction Series
Winged Victory
Viewpoint
The Dryad-Tree
The Painter
Where is the Bird of Fire?
The Sudden Wings
The Dolphin and the Deep
The Murex
The Blue Monkeys (Part One)
The Blue Monkeys (Part Two)
The Blue Monkeys (Conclusion)
Vashti
The Weirwoods (Part One)
The Weirwoods (The Second of Two Parts)
The Manor of Roses
Bear
The Goat Without Horns (First of Two Parts)
The Goat Without Horns (2nd of 2 Parts)
Love Is A Dragonfly
The Stalking Trees
Will-o-the-Wisp (Part One)
Will-o-the-Wisp (Conclusion)
The Night of the Unicorn
Thomas Burnett Swann was born on October 12, 1928 in Tampa, Florida who taught English Literature at the University of Florida until turning to writing full-time in the early 1960s.
As an academic, Swann published a number of books on mythology, poetry and literary writers. He began writing fiction in 1958 with “Winged Victory”, a science fiction story based on the famous headless statue known as the Winged Victory of Samothrace. In Swann’s story the statue’s head is discovered and found to have been modeled upon an alien visitor whom the sculptor took for a goddess.
Most of Swann’s fiction was outright fantasy. The early story “The Dryad-tree” is set in contemporary Florida and features a woman’s reaction to the knowledge that her new husband’s garden contains a tree possessed by a jealous dryad. The story was adapted as a short film in 2017.
Thomas Burnett Swann died of cancer in Winterhaven, Florida on May 5, 1976. Several of his novels were published posthumously.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
NOVELS
Day of the Minotaur (1966)
The Weirwoods (1967)
Moondust (1968)
The Forest of Forever (1971)
The Goat Without Horns (1971)
Green Phoenix (1972)
Wolfwinter (1972)
How Are the Mighty Fallen (1974)
The Not-World (1975)
The Gods Abide (1976)
Lady of the Bees (1976)
The Minikins of Yam (1976)
The Tournament of Thorns (1976)
Will-O-the-Wisp (1976)
Cry Silver Bells (1977)
Queens Walk in the Dusk (1977)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
MAGAZINE-PUBLISHED NOVELS
The Manor of Roses, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, November 1966
Love is a Dragonfly, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, March 1972
The Stalking Trees, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, January 1973
BIBLIOGRAPHY
SERIALS
The Blue Monkeys, Science Fantasy, September/October 1964-January/February 1965
The Weirwoods, Science Fantasy, October-November 1965
The Goat Without Horns, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, August-September 1970
Will-o-the-Wisp, Fantastic Stories, September-November 1974
BIBLIOGRAPHY
COLLECTIONS
The Dolphin and the Deep (1968)
Where Is the Bird of Fire? (1970)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
OMNIBUS
The Minotaur Trilogy (1996)
SHORT FICTION BIBLIOGRAPHY
Winged Victory, Fantastic Universe, July 1958
Viewpoint, Nebula Science Fiction, May 1959
The Dryad-Tree, Science Fantasy, August 1960
The Painter, Science Fantasy, December 1960
Where is the Bird of Fire?, Science Fantasy #52, April 1962
The Sudden Wings, Science Fantasy, October 1962
The Dolphin and the Deep, Science Fantasy, August 1963
The Murex, Science Fantasy, February 1964
The Blue Monkeys (Part One), Science Fantasy, September/October, September 1964
The Blue Monkeys (Part Two), Science Fantasy, December 1964/January 1965, December 1964
The Blue Monkeys (Conclusion), Science Fantasy, January/February, January 1965
Vashti, Science Fantasy, May 1965
The Weirwoods (Part One), Science Fantasy, October 1965
The Weirwoods (The Second of Two Parts), Science Fantasy, November 1965
The Manor of Roses, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, November 1966
Bear, Where is the Bird of Fire?, 1970
The Goat Without Horns (First of Two Parts), The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, August 1970
The Goat Without Horns (2nd of 2 Parts), The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, September 1970
Love Is A Dragonfly, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, March 1972
The Stalking Trees, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, January 1973
Will-o-the-Wisp (Part One), Fantastic Stories, September 1974
Will-o-the-Wisp (Conclusion), Fantastic Stories, November 1974
The Night of the Unicorn, Nameless Places, 1975
FICTION SERIES
[N] = Novel
[O] = Omnibus
[SER] = Serial
[SF] = Short Story/Novelette
John & Stephen
The Manor of Roses [SF]
The Stalking Trees [SF]
Latium
Where Is the Bird of Fire? [SF]
Green Phoenix [N]
Love Is a Dragonfly [SF]
Lady of the Bees [N]
Queens Walk in the Dusk [N]
Minotaur
The Blue Monkeys (Part 1 of 3) [SER]
The Blue Monkeys (Part 2 of 3) [SER]
The Blue Monkeys (Part 3 of 3) [SER]
The Forest of Forever [N]
Cry Silver Bells [N]
Day of the Minotaur [N]
The Minotaur Trilogy [O]
Winged Victory
Demetrius Poliocretes, ruler of Samothrace, could be quite difficult. Sculptors who irritated him had been executed.
Have you ever wondered who stood model for “The Winged Victory of Samothrace,” and who was responsible for the graceful sweep of the lines, both visible and invisible, of which you are so conscious? Thomas Burnett Swann, Tennessee poet and writer who now lives in Florida, answers the question.
THE ARCHEOLOGICAL
RECORD, July, 1963:
From its pedestal in the Louvre, the Winged Victory of Samothrace has greeted visitors for almost a century and inspired them to draw, paint, photograph, and scrutinize. Till seven months ago, however, the goddess lacked arms and a head, and few could see her without secretly wishing for the restoration of such vital appendages.
Last year an archeological field expedition to Samothrace uncovered a marble head not far from the original location of the Winged Victory. At first no one associated head and statue, since the head was decidedly non-human. True, it had eyes, nose, mouth, and somewhat dishevelled hair. But the “ears” resembled the antennae of a wasp. Such an object was unique in the annals of archeology. Three months later, a second discovery not only solved the enigma of the head and linked it to the Winged Victory, but hinted that the earth had been visited by extra-terrestrials in the year 306 B.C. The discovery was a papyrus manuscript written by a sculptor of Samothrace. The Archeological Record is proud to publish the first English translation of that manuscript. For the convenience of our readers, the Greek gods have been designated by their more familiar Roman names.
MANUSCRIPT OF SOSICLES,
SCULPTOR OF SAMOTHRACE
Patara reclined in a nest of purple cushions while I chiseled a nose on my latest statue, Venus Couchant. Suddenly a young man burst into the room.
“Mercury!” Patara shrieked, and concealed her opulence behind a cushion. She was not being superstitious. Strange lights had lit the sky recently, and rumor had it that they were the flying chariots of the gods.
The young man, however, introduced himself as an emissary from Demetrius Poliocretes, King of Macedonia and Samothrace. Demetrius was a redoubtable and willful monarch and his recent naval victory over Ptolemy of Egypt had added to his self-esteem. Last year I had sculpted some Venuses for him and been well rewarded, but sculptors who disappointed him were exiled or executed.
“The king wants a statue to commemorate his victory,” said the messenger in a rude voice. He had the look of brash confidence which often characterizes the very young or the very stupid.
“Oh?” I said. “How about a statue of Venus, who fills the hearts of the king’s subjects with love?” Most of my life I had carved Venuses. The women I preferred as models were invariably of a Venus-like voluptuousness. I was an indoor type myself. Though under thirty, I preferred
“He wants a statue of Victory. With wings, torch, and robe.”
I was silent.
“Well?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“And I will return at the end of the week to see what you’ve done.”
He left without a good-bye. Patara tossed aside the purple cushion and resumed her pose.
“I’m afraid,” I said to her, “that Venus will have to sit up for awhile.”
Sighing, she got to her feet. Like most hetaerae, she was pink and white with artfully applied cosmetics and redolent of sweet lotions. Her sable hair swirled upward into elaborate curlicues which held, as the black earth holds greenery, a cluster of tiny jade apples. Patara was an intoxicating woman, but could I make her into Victory? I draped a stark white robe around her shoulders. Then I tilted her head back so that she would seem to be gazing down triumphantly on a defeated host, and thrust a torch into her hand. Perhaps I could rig artificial wings out of hawk feathers.
“Look victorious,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Look as if you had just made a conquest in love. I want you to pose for Victory.”
“I make a better Venus,” she sniffed. She was right. Her softness, her curves, her expression could not have been less appropriate for a goddess of battles.
“Yes,” I sighed. “I’m afraid you do. Run along into the next room, dear. I have some work to do.”
Palaeopoli, chief city of Samothrace, was a poor source for models of Victory. Its hetaerae were soft and languorous, like Patara. Its peasant folk, who farmed and fished for sponges, were robust without being regal. And there was no time to go hunting on the mainland. I wandered into the streets, knowing very well that I would not find what I sought, but loathe to remain in the house and do nothing. I must have walked for an hour when a man ran toward me shouting: “They’ve landed, they’ve landed!”
I stepped in front of him. “Who’s landed?” I asked.
“One of those lights we’ve been seeing,” he said. “We think it’s the gods in a sky-chariot.”
“Where?”
“On top of Mt. Saoce.” And he was off to spread the news.
So the gods had landed. Somehow, I was not impressed. I was too much occupied with the problem of finding a Victory. Then it came to me how the arrival of the gods could solve my own dilemma. I wanted to sculpt a goddess. Why not engage a goddess as my model? Oh, I knew well enough that deities were capricious beings who turned men into crickets or stags at the drop of a helmet. On the other hand, they could be gracious and accommodating. Had not Venus accommodated Anchises to the point of bearing him Aeneas? If you approached them with humility and unfeigned admiration; if you remembered that they were human enough to like a neatly turned compliment, you could often as not get whatever you wanted. The very act of asking a goddess to pose for you was the highest of compliments. I refreshed my memory on divine genealogies and set off for the top of Mt. Saoce.
I met people along the way, curiosity seekers who wanted a peep at the gods. But one by one they fell victim to tired feet or timidity, and when the cyclopean walls and painted temples of Palaeopoli had become toy-sized in the blue haze of afternoon, I found myself alone. Minutes later I reached the summit of the mountain.
The sky-chariot of the gods was a great bronze ball which almost blinded me with its reflected light. But where were the divine pilots of this marvelous machine? I crouched behind a rock and awaited their appearance, half fearful, half expectant. I had not long to wait. A round door opened in the side of the chariot, and a god and goddess descended a ladder to the ground. They must have been seven feet tall, and they had translucent red wings which fluttered picturesquely in the wind, and fetching red antennae in place of ears. Whatever the goddess’ name, she was Victory incarnate. She had everything: strength, poise, regality, even a pair of wings (everything except clothes, that is, and I could supply her with a suitable robe in my studio). If I could only engage her to sit for me!
They began to shuffle along the ground and poke around their feet. At first I thought that they had dropped something from the ladder. Then the god leaned down and picked a nondescript flower, which he dropped into a bag at his side. The goddess seemed to be collecting stones. Pretty soon they faced each other and exchanged words. Their language was unfamiliar to me, but their meaning was clear. They were having a quarrel. Angrily they separated and resumed their search. Before long the goddess began to throw looks at the god which seemed to say, “Let’s make up,” but he refused to meet her gaze, and she wandered disconsolately toward my rock. At close range, I saw that she was less than perfect. Her hair was so dishevelled that her feelers suggested barley stalks in a clump of weeds. And her cheeks looked as pale and lifeless as chalk. She was still a superb woman, but a somewhat untidy one.
“Hisst,” I whispered.
She looked around her in panic.
I stepped from behind the rock and fell onto my knees.
“Victory, Venus, Juno,” I said, “whatever your name, incomparable goddess, I salute you.”
She stared and strained her feelers toward me as if she had trouble understanding my Greek. I remembered that the gods had worshipers in many lands and could not be expected to speak our language exclusively.
“Please stand up,” she said finally in a slow, precise manner. “You make me nervous down there.”
I stood up and continued my speech.
“In fact, fair goddess, your beauty so beguiles me that I would like nothing better than to capture it in marble for all the world to honor. By the way, what is your name?”
“Victory will do,” she said, looking pleased, and tried to smooth her hair. “I’m afraid I look a mess. I wish you had seen me before I started my trip.”
“You have an elegant, windblown look,” I said, “which is exactly what I want in my statue.”
“But not what he wants,” she muttered, and hurried to add: “I’m afraid I haven’t time to pose, young man, though I appreciate your invitation.”
I debated whether or not to abduct her. She seemed a gentle, even a shy goddess, and it might be that all she needed was a little coaxing. No pretty woman wants to seem over-zealous to have her statue made. Tentatively I reached toward her wrists.
I did not hear her companion steal up behind me.
He caught my arms in a metalstrong grip and I was powerless to loose myself. The goddess spoke to him in their foreign tongue, and for once they seemed to agree.
“We’ll have to keep you with us for awhile,” he growled.
“I’m sorry but that’s impossible,” I said. I told him my problem.
“We have a problem too. Orders from—Jupiter—not to be seen. When we blast off for Olympus, you can go home. If we let you go now, you might tell your friends about us.”
The delay of several days could prove fatal. When Demetrius’ emissary came to look in on me at the end of the week, he would think that I had run away and summon the soldiers. And even when released, I doubted that I could remember Victory’s features well enough to translate them into marble. My situation was desperate.
They led me up the ladder and into the sky-chariot. Corridors branched in all directions, and each beckoned with a magical array of gadgets and colors. But my captors hurried me straight ahead into a small storeroom laden with boxes. The god glared at Victory as if she were to blame for my intrusion and left us alone together.
“I will fetch you some food,” she said, and locked me in the room. I examined my cell. It was without windows, candles, or lanterns, but a light which seemed to emanate from the walls turned my white himation to a luminous purple. It was a cold light and I began to shiver. Enough, I told myself. I must think, not brood. My thoughts, naturally, turned to escape, and I did not intend to escape without Victory. Force would be useless. She would scream for help. But enticement might succeed. At first I considered offering myself as bait. Patara had often told me that I was irresistible (if a little plump from too much time with my Venuses). But I lacked wings and antennae and, besides, Victory seemed devoted to her lover (for so I judged him to be). What other enticements might persuade her?
