"Among the Hairy Earthmen" (1966)
- Jon Nelson
- Jun 20
- 14 min read
Updated: Oct 23

The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise, And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room, And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom, And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee, But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea. — G.K. Chesterton, “Lepanto”
Best of all, the Sack of Rome! There was a dozen different games blended into that one.
“Among the Hairy Earthmen” is one of my favorite Lafferty stories, though it is far more straightforwardly allegorical than almost anything else he wrote, perhaps because he needed to tame the riot of historical detail. Its vexed compositional history suggests as much. Most readers, I think, spend so much time focusing on the costume drama and the children’s mischief, which the story plainly centers on, that they miss the forest for the trees.
Yes, of course, the story is about social tumult. It’s about bloodshed and hijinks and disorder, about the slaughterbench of history, about “Christian killeth Christian,” and the last gasps of the Crusades at Lepanto.
But it is also about something else: the Church Militant taking an afternoon nap while the wind rushes out of the Catholic Middle Ages and the children vandalize the cathedral. That is what lies on one side of their games. On the other side is the rise of the Counter-Reformation. The Counter-Reformation is one half of the point.
The story sits between these two peaks of Catholic culture, with Lafferty cocking a snook at the humanist celebration of the Renaissance.
If we pause even for a moment to consider the events in the story, we can nearly pinpoint the year when the Pilgrim arrives, when the long afternoon ends. It is a little after the Council of Trent (a massive symptomatic absence). Teresa of Ávila has just written The Interior Castle (1577).
This ties the story to the part of Lafferty’s mind that produced Fourth Mansions and historical rupture. It also connects the story to the historical ideas in The Flame is Green, where Lafferty again addresses the violence of history. And both connections make sense.
The Council of Trent and the Counter-Reformation (1554–1648) were part of a “Green Revolution” that was both disciplinary and spiritual. This contrasts with the culminating red frolic of the children, the hellish Battle of Alcácer Quibir (1578), where the Catholic forces were nearly annihilated by the Muslim army under Sultan Abd al-Malik.
Virtually the entire Portuguese army was killed, captured, or scattered.
Alcazar-Quivar! That was the last of the excellent ones—the end of the litany. The Children left off the game. They remembered (but conveniently, and after they had worn out the fun of it) that they were forbidden to play Warfare with live soldiers.
"Litany" is important here because a litany is not a mere list. It is a thematically organized one. Lafferty has populated a timeline with a pattern: the children play games, and each one is played at Christendom’s expense.
They remake the Church’s sacred art, replacing the Medieval gargoyles so loved by Chesterton and Lafferty with angels that look like people, figures that celebrate the human as much as the divine.
Through the Medici, they gain influence over the Papacy and turn it into a soap opera. Through the disastrous Italian Wars, they smash the Church’s heartland like a clutch of eggs; through the Sack of Rome, they achieve their masterpiece: the political humiliation of the Church’s seat on earth. And they also deliver smaller insults. Through Bea, they trick the Church into canonizing performances.
Their most damaging move was the introduction of the printing press, which they gave to the world and which would become the siege engine of the Reformation, a machine used to break Catholic Christendom in the West.
As the children's long afternoon ends, they even pretend to be sorry for what they have done while threatening the aborning Counter-Reformation. This is where they go too far. It is where the Pilgrim steps in to stop them.
Given so much evidentiary material, it's odd that anyone finds the Pilgrim at the end of the story mysterious. A sly joke may be at work here: the children do not recognize him, but the reader should be able to.
Whatever else he is, he represents the Church Militant, reappearing after the Reformation, the Church that has been called a Pilgrim Church since the Middle Ages.
This is why the Pilgrim's “Yes, I have compassion for mice” is not a throwaway line; it echoes scriptures like Matthew 9:36: “When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” Harrassed. Helpless.
At the end of the story, seeing the staff as only a walking stick or a weapon is something of a Rorschach test.
In the bodies of Kings and their Ladies, they strode down a High Road in the Levant. They were wondering what last thing they could contrive, when they found their way blocked by a Pilgrim with a staff.
That staff is a crozier and the alien children are wolves.



