|
||||||||||||
|
|
||||||||||||
|
Conan: Out of the Darksome HillsCONAN #1By Michael May
Whether you believe Conan spent his childhood as an enslaved pit fighter, a village misfit, or a whiney, lovesick boy, he eventually fought at Venarium at the age of fifteen and then made his way north out of Cimmeria and into Asgard. According to Busiek, Conan’s reason for coming north is the stories his grandfather told him about the land of Hyperborea: “a land of eternal summer, where feathers fall from the sky in place of snow” and where dwells “the oldest of the human races – tall, well-shaped, immortal – who feed only on fruit, know neither disease nor decay, and who live lives of serenity and contemplation.” He goes on to describe how they sit around all day listening to music, surrounded by beautiful girls, and get along with wild animals. At first, it’s easy to dismiss Conan’s grandfather as full of crap, but Hyperborea is described as a mysterious land in other Conan literature and we can see how Conan’s grandfather might just be perpetuating stories that he’s heard himself. Even though we’ve dismissed it as non-canonical, it’s worth mentioning that in the novelization for Conan the Barbarian, Conan traveled to Hyperborea as a pit fighter and fought a woman from there. Conan’s trainer describes the Hyperboreans as “dangerous foes, reputed to be wizards and sorcerers.” The truth of the matter will have to wait until another column, but for now it’s enough to say that Conan’s heard some pretty strange stories about the place and is going to see if there’s any truth to them. On his way, Conan comes to an Aesir (Asgardian) village in the last stages of being sacked by men from Vanaheim, Asgard’s western neighbor. The men of the Aesir village are all off on a hunt, leaving the women and children easy pickings for the Vanir raiders. Conan, having seen his own people attacked by similar raiders, intervenes on the behalf of the Aesir, holding the Vanir at bay until the Aesir men return to drive off the raiders.
Some of the Aesir are distrustful of Conan, especially Sjarl, who fancies a young woman named Henga who’s taken a shine to our young Cimmerian. The chieftan Niord sees what Conan’s done to the Vanir and asks the barbarian to join him as he leads his men after the raiders to avenge the village. Conan, angered by the cowardice of the Vanir, agrees and volunteers to act as a scout alongside an elderly Aesir named Gorm. There are some very nice moments in the story, especially a scene as Conan and Niord watch the funeral pyres of the victims of the raid and discuss beliefs about the afterlife. Niord’s people burn their dead, expecting the smoke to act as a stairway to the heavenly halls where souls go in the afterlife. Conan’s folk “have only Crom’s cheerless, misty realm” before them and “would much rather live.” Illustrator Cary Nord perfectly captures Conan’s smirk as he adds, “No wonder we always beat you in battle.” Niord laughs heartily as Conan continues smiling and we instantly buy the new friendship between the Aesir chieftan and the barbarian boy from Cimmeria. As talented as Cary Nord is though, it’s hard to buy his version of Conan as being a boy of fifteen or sixteen. He looks far more mature than that and we have to remind ourselves just how young Conan is supposed to be here. Cover artist Joseph Michael Linsner captures a much more believable young Conan. Regardless, the story describes events that lead into Robert E. Howard’s short story “The Frost Giant’s Daughter,” which we’ll discuss next week. Niord and Gorm both appear in that story, so Conan #1 introduces them to us as well as to Conan.  Add A Comment to this article
 Email the Author of this article
|
|||||||||||
Over the last few weeks, we’ve spent some time fretting over which of three accounts of Conan’s childhood we were going to accept as being canonical. I picked Kurt Busiek’s version in the current Dark Horse comics series, but, whichever you prefer, we can safely move on now because we’re at a point in Conan’s life at which it really doesn’t matter.
