The Motion Demon Read online

  THE MOTION DEMON

  Stefan Grabinski

  Translated by

  Miroslaw Lipinski

  First Polish Edition published in 1919

  First English translation published in 2005 by Ash-Tree Press

  E-book edition published in 2011

  Introduction and translation copyright 2005 by Miroslaw Lipinski

  Cover painting: Peter Helck

  Please note: This translation uses British punctuation and spelling

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  ENGINE-DRIVER GROT

  THE WANDERING TRAIN

  THE MOTION DEMON

  THE SLOVEN

  THE PERPETUAL PASSENGER

  IN THE COMPARTMENT

  SIGNALS

  THE SIDING

  ULTIMA THULE

  INTRODUCTION

  ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT VOICES in fantastique literature, Stefan Grabinski, was born in the small town of Kamionka Strumilowa, Poland on 26 February 1887. Not part of any literary clique or movement, he suffered for his originality and the limitations imposed on him by being a writer in a country that did not fully recognize his work or take it seriously. Sickly and suffering from bone tuberculosis at an early age, Grabinski became seduced by the supernatural and introverted explorations into the mysteries of life. For his daily bread, he worked as a teacher in a secondary school, but his passion was writing strange fictions that focused on his atypical concerns and interests.

  In ‘O tworczosci fantastycznej’ (Lwowskie Wiadomosci Muzyczne i Literackie, no. 10, 1928), Stefan Grabinski proposed calling his fiction work ‘psychofantasy’ or ‘metafantasy’. Unlike straightforward, conventional fantasy that displayed the outward and ornamental, this type of fantasy would source psychological, philosophical, or metaphysical concerns. Most of Grabinski’s fiction shares this inner-investigatory drive, with added impulses. ‘Wonder and fear—these are my guiding motives,’ Grabinski wrote in ‘Wyznania’ (Polonia, no.141, 1926). Also unmistakable in his work is a keen sense of individualism, even an unapologetic misanthropy, and a resultant predilection to choose as his protagonists solitary men who travel along little explored paths and are proud of doing so. An opponent of mechanism, Grabinski alerted the modern world to forces supernatural and unexpected that would never go away, no matter how materially advanced and spiritually disregardful the world would become. For Grabinski, one of the most puzzling forces, equally dangerous and liberating, was the human mind itself, and the Polish writer became a master at tracing neurotic constructs, insane theorems, and hyper phobias. Yet whatever the madness, Grabinski loved his lunatics, for they shared with him a maverick quality that was born of the spirit and of an individualistic, albeit at times wayward, intellect.

  A short self-published volume of stories, Z wyjaktow. W pomrokach wiary (From the Unusual. In the Shadows of Belief, Lwow, 1909), under the pseudonym Stefan Zalny, went unnoticed, but Grabinski’s official debut, Na wgorzu roz (On the Hill of Roses, 1918), caught the attention of a renowned Polish critic, Karol Irzykowski, who wrote: ‘Rarely in our country does an artistic debut exhibit so distinct an individuality.’ (‘Fantastyka’, Maski, no. 33, 1918). The six-story collection showcased splendidly Grabinski’s unique themes centered on aberrant psychology and the supernatural forces that lie in wait for vengeance or malicious notice. Indeed, nothing like this had appeared in Polish literature before—nor in supernatural fiction worldwide had anyone bothered with the analysis.

  With rail travel being the dominant mode of quick transportation at the time, it was Grabinski’s next short story collection, Demon ruchu (The Motion Demon, 1919), which made the most impact in Poland, though the book’s influence could not extend farther due to a lack of Polish translators and an international lack of interest in Polish literature. Compiling train stories that he had written for magazines and newspapers, Grabinski used the train world as a metaphor for life’s energies and impulses, as he merged the ‘vital energy’ theories of Henri Bergson with the theories of motion promoted by scientists like Newton and Einstein. Memorable mavericks people these stories, where even a simple thing such as a train ride can offer telling clues to the metaphysical and the beyond.

  Grabinski’s next collection, Szalony patnik (The Insane Pilgrim, 1920), further explored the wayward consciousness and included Grabinski’s supreme artistic statement, ‘The Area’. In the story, Grabinski’s alter-ego, Wrzesmian, secludes himself in a lonely house at the outskirts of town. His eyes and spirit fixated on a deserted mansion opposite him, he dreams to life peculiar people who inhabit the building, and who, one night, compel him to step outside the safety of his abode and fully enter into a dream world of his creations—with tragic results. The activation of thought, its source as the seed of reality, is key to understanding the power Grabinski gave to ideas and the supernatural. Unlike many a fantasist, he believed in the supernatural meanings of what he wrote. None of his works were simple entertainments; they all carried the power of an idea and the expression of a sincere, yearning soul.

  Ksiega ognia (The Book of Fire, 1922) returned Grabinski to a collection centered on a single subject matter—fire this time. Though the book didn’t have the success of his earlier volume of train stories, in many ways it can be considered an equal, if not greater, masterpiece. Reading these gems, so artfully constructed, it is impossible not to be affected by them and consider the fire element from a primal, respectful, and fearing perspective, which was, in part, Grabinski’s intent.

  In the 1920s Grabinski sought newer creative horizons in longer formats, and his short story output began to decrease considerably after the publication of Niesamowita opowiesc (A Weird Tale, 1922), which continued Grabinski’s precise and perceptive journeys into the mind and the supernatural. His first novel, Salamandra (The Salamander), written in the fall and winter of 1922, but appearing in print two years later, in 1924, contains a flavourfully bold description of the Sabbath, yet modern tastes may have difficulty with the book’s heavy dependency on the occult and its terminology.

  Cien Bafometa (Baphomet’s Shadow, 1926) is probably Grabinski’s most fully realized and successful longer work. It deals with the traditional subject of Good vs. Evil, but introduces an original compendium of sinister, seemingly disjointed events to comment powerfully on moral responsibility. Pawelek Kuternozka, the devilish seller of religious objects, takes his place as one of the most memorable characters in supernatural fiction, and Wrzesmian, the master fantasist of ‘The Area’, turns up in a chapter to render service to his creator by countering superficial critics who were already attacking Grabinski’s work with snobbish glee. Grabinski’s subsequent novels, Klasztor i morze (The Cloister and the Sea, 1928) and Wyspa Itongo (Itongo Island, 1936), failed to make an impression on the book market, though they contained unique concepts and highly original passages. His final short story collection, Namietnosc (Passion, 1930), was maturely full-bodied, but likewise failed to make a mark.

  Grabinski’s fragile health began seriously to affect his output in these later years. He died of complications from tuberculosis on 12 November 1936, in poverty and neglected by society and the literary establishment. Before he died, he complained bitterly about having been misunderstood and forgotten in his native land. Yet vindication would come.

  Interest in ‘the Polish Poe’ began to rise in Poland in the late 1950s and increase in the 1960s and 1970s, with reprints of many of his stories, including a collection edited by the Polish science-fiction master, Stanislaw Lem. Several films based on his work were produced for Polish television, and a feature film based on Grabinski’s early short story ‘At the Villa by the Sea’ was exhibited in theatres. West Germany picked u
p on the fascination with German translations. In the United States, my home-manufactured journal, The Grabinski Reader (1986–90), heralded the first translations of Grabinski’s work in English and became favorably noticed by such writers as Robert Bloch and Colin Wilson. These translations, and other stories translated by me for horror fiction magazines, were collected in The Dark Domain (Dedalus/ Hippocrene), published in England at the end of 1993.

  Grabinski’s influence increased when young film-makers outside Poland began adopting the author’s stories for noteworthy short films. One such film-maker, Holger Mandel, even held a Stefan Grabinski evening at the Museum of Literature at Oberrhein, Germany on 12 June 2004. His two Grabinski short films were exhibited, and readings and a musical performance were held. Surely, this was the first such literary event in Grabinskiana.

  The growing, steady recognition of Stefan Grabinski means that the future looks bright for an author who was once dismissed in his own country and then forgotten, and whose work was, at one point, completely unknown outside Poland. As with the creations who blossomed to life from pure thought in Grabinski’s ‘The Area’, the stories of Grabinski, emerging from his imagination nearly a century ago, are ready to live again and impress with their wonderments and instruct with their thrilling, tenacious suggestions.

  MIROSLAW LIPINSKI

  August 2005

  ENGINE-DRIVER GROT

  FROM THE RAILWAY STATION at Brzan came the following dispatch to the stationmaster of Podwyz: ‘Be on the alert for express number ten! The engine driver is either drunk or insane.’

  The stationmaster, a tall, bony blond with sandy sideburns, read the roll once, twice; he cut off the thin white ribbon that had spun out from the block and, coiling it in a ring around his finger, slipped it into his pocket. A quick glance thrown at the station clock informed him that there was still enough time for the train in question. So he yawned in boredom, nonchalantly lit up a cigarette, and went over to the adjoining room of the cashier, the fair-haired, squat Miss Feli, a casual ideal in moments of boredom and in anticipation of a better morsel.

  While the stationmaster was so suitably preparing himself for the reception of the announced locomotive, the suspect train had already travelled a considerable distance beyond the Brzan station.

  The hour was most wonderful. The hot June sun had past its zenith and was sowing golden rays throughout the earth. Villages and hamlets with flowery apple and cherry trees flashed by, meadows and haystacks were flung backward in green sheets. The train sped along at full steam: here it was snatched up by the arms of rustling pine and spruce forests, there, emerging from the embrace of trees, it was greeted by bowing grain fields. Far in the horizon, a misty blue line indicated a range of mountains….

  Leaning against the flank of the engine, Grot set a steady glance through the little oval window at the space unreeling in a lengthy, grey course framed by the dark rails. The train crept along these rails lightly, predatorily, straddling them with an iron system of wheels and eagerly sweeping them underneath.

  The engine driver felt an almost physical pleasure from this continual conquest, which, never satiated, lets go of the already fallen prey with disregard and speeds on to new conquests. Grot loved to vanquish space!

  Looking intently at the line of track, he would frequently become thoughtful, contemplative, forgetful of the world, until his stoker had to tug at his arm and give notice that the pressure was too great for the station already close at hand. Yet Grot was a first-class engine driver.

  He loved his occupation above all and would not have changed it for anything in the world. He had entered railway service relatively late, when he was thirty, but, despite this, he immediately displayed such a sure hand at running a locomotive that he quickly surpassed his more experienced comrades.

  What he had been before, no one knew. When questioned, he would reluctantly answer this and that, or else remain stubbornly silent.

  His colleagues and the railway authorities held him in evident respect, singling him out from others. In his brief words, parsimoniously distributed among people, he revealed an uncommon intelligence, a compelling sense of honour.

  There were various, frequently contradictory rumours afloat about him and his past. Yet everyone held the unanimous opinion that Christopher Grot was a so-called stray individual, something of a fallen star, one of those who should have gone along a higher path, but, thanks to the fatalism of life, became stranded on the rocks.

  He seemed unaware of this situation, however, and did not feel sorry for himself. He performed his duties willingly and never asked for vacations. Whether he had forgotten about what had once occurred, whether he did not feel called upon to attain higher aims—no one knew.

  Two facts had been established from Grot’s past: the first, that he had served in the army during the Franco-Prussian campaign; the second, that he had lost his beloved brother at that time.

  Despite all sorts of endeavours by the curious, no one was able to draw out any further details. Finally, people simply gave up, content with the meagre biographical bouquet of ‘Engineer Grot’. So they eventually called, for no specific reason, their taciturn fellow railwayman. This nickname—given him, incidentally, without any malicious intent—somehow blended so well with the person of the engine driver that even the authorities tolerated it in orders and decrees. In this manner people made note of his distinct character.

  The machine worked hard, breathing out every moment puffs of fluffy, ruffled smoke. The steam, constantly fanned by the zealous hand of the stoker, was overflowing the blowpipes along the skeleton of the iron colossus, pushing valves, struggling with pistons, driving wheels. Rails rattled, gears creaked, frantic cranks and plates roared….

  Momentarily, Grot woke up from his reveries and glanced at the pressure gauge. The needle, marking the arch, was nearing the fatal number thirteen.

  ‘Release steam!’

  The stoker stretched out his hand and pulled on the valve; a prolonged, piercing whistle resounded, while at the same time a tiny milk-white funnel bloomed from the side of the machine.

  Grot folded his arms across his chest and once again sank into reveries.

  ‘“Engineer Grot” — ha, ha! A most accurate nickname! People don’t even suspect how accurate!’

  Suddenly, the engine driver saw in the distant, hazy vista of years gone-by a quiet, modest little house in a suburb of the capital. In the bright centre room stands a large table covered with piles of diagrams, strange drawings, technical sketches. Leaning over one of these is the flaxen head of Olek, his younger brother. Beside him stands he, Christopher, running his finger along a sapphire line circling elliptically over some mathematical plane. Olek nods, corrects something, explains….

  This is their workshop—this is their secret interior from which was hatched the bold idea of an airplane that, flying freely about space, would have conquered the atmosphere and broadened man’s mind, lifting it to the beyond, to infinity. Not much more time was needed to finish off the work: a month, two months—three, at most. All of a sudden the war came, then recruitment, the march, a battle, and…death. Olek’s bright-haired head dropped to his blood-stained chest, his blue eyes closed forever….

  Grot remembered that one moment, that horrible moment of scaling to the top of the enemy fort. Olek had dashed forward heroically and was seen from a distance at the front of the detachment. His drawn sabre was shaving with its blade cuttings of colourful proportion, his manly hand was seizing his flag-staff in a victorious grasp. Suddenly a flash came from the ramparts, a swirl of smoke jetted from the fort’s stronghold, a hellish explosion rocked the battlements. Olek reeled, wavered under the glimmering rainbow of the released sword, and tumbled down—on the threshold of battle plans, at the very moment of soldierly realizations, at the moment of reaching the goal….

  His death affected Christopher badly. For many months Christopher Grot was laid up with malignant fever in a field hospital. Afterwards, he returne
d to civilian life a broken man. He abandoned his old ideas, his revolutionary concepts, his plans of conquest: he became an engine driver. He sensed the compromise, he understood the travesty, but he had no more strength left; he was content to deal in miniature. Soon the substitute ideal completely replaced the original one, covering with its narrow, dull framework the previously wide horizon: he now conquered space on a new, smaller scale. But he had entreated the railway authorities for only express rides—he never drove ordinary trains. In this manner, gaining in this terrain, he at least came closer to the original concept. He was intoxicated with a wild ride on far-spanning lines, dazed by the conquest of considerable distances within a short period of time.

  But he could not stand return journeys; he detested the so-called tour-retour trips. Grot only liked speeding on to what was ahead of him—he loathed any repetitions. That is why he preferred to return to the inevitable point of departure by roundabout routes, by a line circular or elliptical, anything but the same one. He understood perfectly the deficiency of curves that revert back to themselves, he felt the unethicalness of these continually inbred roads, but was saved by the appearance of progressive motion; he had the illusion, at least, that he was going forward.

  For Grot’s ideal was a frenzied ride in a straight line, without deviations, without circulations, a breathless, insane ride without stops, the whirling rush of the engine into the distant bluish mist, a winged run into infinity.

  Grot could not bear any type of goal. Since the time of his brother’s tragic death a particular psychic complex had developed within him: dread before any aim, before any type of end, any limit. With all his might he fell in love with the perpetuality of constantly going forward, the toil of reaching ahead. He detested the realization of goals; he trembled before the moment of their fulfilment in fear that, in that last crucial moment, a disappointment would overtake him, a cord would break, that he would tumble down into the abyss—as had Olek years ago.