This week, Saga Press releases a gorgeous new omnibus edition of Ursula K. Le Guin’s Books of Earthsea, illustrated by Charles Vess, in celebration of A Wizard of Earthsea‘s 50th anniversary. In honor of that anniversary, this week we’re running a different look at Earthsea each day!

When I heard Ursula K. Le Guin had died, I wept.

The first Ursula K. Le Guin story I ever read was The Tombs of Atuan. Now, I can’t tell you why I read The Tombs of Atuan before I read A Wizard of Earthsea, only that I first encountered the book when I was ten years old. I’d been graced with one of those precious and glorious class periods where we were encouraged to go to the school library and do nothing but read. The librarian at my elementary school recommended I watch a special View-Master reel for The Tombs of Atuan, truncated and highly edited, but paired with illustrations. (This was before personal computers, people. I know.) I promptly checked out the actual book and read that instead.

I hadn’t yet read the first book in the series, which I know because that book bore a dragon on the cover. Since I was contractually obligated to read any book with a dragon on the cover immediately, it follows the library must not have owned a copy. I would meet Ged for the first time through Tenar’s eyes, through her perspectives on his villainy and later, on his promise of redemption and hope.

Please believe me when I say I was never the same again.

The obvious: I drew labyrinths the rest of that year, unknowingly committing both my first act of fan art and my first act of world building. Every day, obsessively, sketched on precious graph paper in math class, in English, in history—every day a different permutation of Tenar’s treacherous, mysterious maze dedicated to nameless gods. Endlessly varied and repeated, I mapped the unknowable. (That love of mapping and defining the edges of the imagination has stayed with me all my life, too.)

The less obvious: I was always a voracious reader of fairy tales and fantasy stories, but it had never once occurred to me to question the role girls played in the books I loved. Never mind that they were seldom the protagonists: what had slipped my attention was the way in which they were always role models, shining beacons of goodness and light, carefully placed on lovingly carved pedestals. It was never a Susan or a Lucy who betrayed Aslan for a taste of Turkish delight. Princess Eilonwy never wandered from freehold to freehold, seeking her true vocation in life. These girls were sometimes allowed to be petulant, but nearly always were sweet and nice, to be protected (and in so many of these stories, Chronicles of Narnia excepted, eventually married by the hero once they both reached adulthood). They were never tormented, confused, lonely.

But Tenar was.

Tenar, or Arha, the young priestess of dark gods, She Who Is Eaten, was willful and disobedient, guilt-ridden, and—blasphemously, heretically—often wrong. She had been lied to by her elders, fed on a legacy of hate and power sold to her as righteousness and justice. She was not perfect, and while she was protected, her guardians and rivals also acted as her jailers. She was wonderfully, perfectly unreliable, the drive of the story rising through her own gradual challenging of her beliefs, her heartbreak and outrage at discovering that the adults in her life were hypocrites, just as fallible and mortal as herself. Even Ged. Maybe especially Ged.

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And it was not Ged’s story. How powerful that idea was! Even as a child I knew it would have been so easy for Le Guin to have written it from Ged’s perspective. After all, he was the one imprisoned, the one striving to defeat the forces of evil. He was the hero, right? And didn’t that make Tenar, responsible for his execution, the villain? Tenar had all the power, literally so, in their relationship; Ged only survives by her sufferance. Telling the story through Tenar’s eyes seemed to break all the rules, the very first time I can remember ever reading a story where compassion and empathy truly seemed to be acts of heroism. Not a girl doing right because she was born gentle and pure of heart, but because she made a conscious choice to defy her culture and beliefs. Tenar lived in a world that wasn’t fair or just, a world where light and dark could exist simultaneously, where something didn’t have to be an either/or. Tenar could discover her gods, the Nameless Ones, really existed just as she also discovered mere existence didn’t make them worthy of worship. She could discover she had power over life and death just as she discovered she had no power over herself. Tenar could help Ged escape the Labyrinth and also contemplate his murder later.

While I would later read from Le Guin’s own words that she considered much of The Tombs of Atuan as an allegory for sex, a physical sexual awakening didn’t seem to be the point. Tenar had grown up in the most bitter sort of isolation—her yearning for intimacy and connection spoke to a deeper need than physical contact. And blessedly, Ged clearly had no interest in a child except to light her way.

I love so many of Le Guin’s books, but this one has a special place in my heart. In all the years since, I have never lost my taste for shadows and labyrinths, for those places in our souls where light and dark mix. If so many of the women in my stories have their dark sides, their fears, their capacities for selfishness and even cruelty, it’s because of Ursula K. Le Guin. It’s because of The Tombs of Atuan.

If I have any regrets, it’s that I never had the opportunity to thank her for the extraordinary impact she’s had on my life. Because of her, I am not afraid of the dark.

The Books of Earthsea omnibus is available October 30th from Saga Press.

Jenn Lyons lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband, three cats, and a nearly infinite number of opinions on anything from mythology to the correct way to make a martini. Her debut epic fantasy novel, The Ruin of Kings, is scheduled for release from Tor Books on February 5, 2019.

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child has been on Broadway for about six months and collected six Tonys after a successful run in London. I was lucky enough to see the play a few months ago, and while I liked it enormously, I can’t stop thinking about how odd it is. With Cursed Child, Rowling foregoes the possibility of a simple fun adventure and instead adds a coda to the series-long meditation on death, and continues her ongoing tickle fight conversation with the moral fantasy of C.S. Lewis.

Has there ever been a blockbuster/franchise/pop-culture-phenomenon more death-obsessed than Harry Potter? The Narnia books at least give us pages full of whimsy and adventure before cranking the stakes up. Death looms over The Hunger Games, obviously, but the books are also about political strife and governmental overthrow and class warfare. Star Wars tends to sanitize its deaths, with lightsabers cauterizing wounds and Jedi masters literally disappearing so there isn’t any gore to confront. And when you look at The Lord of the Rings? Sure, death is pretty much Mordor’s Big Mood—but Tolkien’s books are as much about hope and battle and honor and gardening and the powerful love between an elf and a dwarf as they are about mortality.

The Harry Potter books are about death in a way that the others are not, and about the different ways of responding to its inevitability: a villain whose entire life revolves around finding immortality no matter the cost; a hero haunted by witnessing his parents’ deaths; a wizard supremacist cult literally called the Death Eaters; the endless speculation that began just before Book 4 came out about WHO WOULD DIE; the dawning realization that at least one beloved character was going to die in each book from #4 onwards; horses that were only visible to people who have lost loved ones; gallows humor throughout; and three magical MacGuffins called The Deathly Hallows.

Rowling begins her story mere minutes after James and Lily’s murders with a focus on Harry’s scar—his death, really, waiting in his head—and ends it with a resurrected hero who goes out of his way to destroy magical access to immortality. And hovering around all of this is the question of what comes after death—whether the ghosts of Lily and James are truly conscious ghosts or just a sort of echo, and what it will mean for Harry to fulfill his destiny and die.

Which makes it all the more interesting that the HP series is resolutely, gloriously secular. The magic the wizards and witches use is hard work, and requires training and homework. There are few miracles, aside from the occasional assist from the Sorting Hat or Fawkes; the students and their teachers have to rely on themselves to defeat evil. Prophecies are potential futures to be dealt with, not Capital-A apocalypses. Where many fantasy series either encode Christianity into their DNA (The Lord of the Rings, Narnia) or create religions for their characters to follow (The Stormlight Archive, Star Wars) the characters of the Potterverse celebrate Christmas and Halloween as cultural holidays with trees for one, pumpkins for the other, and chocolate for both. There is never any sense that the kids practice the Christianity of Christmas or the Celtic Paganism of Samhain. There’s no mention of High Holy Days or Ramadan fasts. There are no non-denominational chapels in Hogwarts. The one wedding we attend is at the Burrow, and someone described only as a “small, tufty-haired wizard” presides over the lone funeral.

But in the midst of this secularism, Rowling uses Christian imagery, returning to them over and over again and infusing them with new meanings each time. She riffs on them in ways that startled me when I read the series the first time, and I was astonished when she returned to them and remixed them again for Cursed Child. When I watched the play I found myself thinking again and again about the stark contrast between Rowling and C.S. Lewis.

Though The Last Battle wasn’t published until 1956, Lewis finished the Chronicles of Narnia before he met, married, and lost Joy Davidman. He explored the liminal time of mourning in A Grief Observed, publishing the book in 1961 under the pseudonym N.W. Clerk—he didn’t want people who read his apologetics or his children’s fantasies stumbling across such a raw, painful work. (It was only after his own death in 1963 that the book was republished under his name.) While I don’t feel that I’m qualified to psychoanalyze Lewis, I do think it’s worth noting that The Last Battle, with its hardline theological attitude toward Susan, and its conception of Tash as simply evil, was written before Lewis’ spirituality was reshaped by grief, whereas Rowling wrote the Harry Potter series largely in direct response to nursing her mother through a long final illness. She was still reeling from that loss (as well as the ending of her first marriage and the birth of her first daughter) when she began writing a series about the consequences of trauma, and the ongoing pain of mourning. So why am I dragging Lewis into this?

He and Rowling each wrote hugely popular—and completely different—rewrites of Christianity.

Rowling has spoken about her uneasiness with the way Lewis encodes a theological agenda into his books. Because Lewis’ books, much like Tolkien’s, don’t just toss in a Nativity or a general idea of sacrificing oneself for the greater good—they entwine hardcore theology and theodicy into the entire series, and create action that hinges on that theology.

Hang on, does everyone know what theodicy is? It’s basically “the problem of evil” or the study of why an omnipotent, omniscient, and benevolent God would allow evil in the world It created. The term was coined by Gottfried Leibniz (one of the two men who invented calculus!) in 1710, in a book helpfully titled Théodicée, but the idea has been around much, much longer. There are many different schools of theodicy and anti-theodicy (some which sprung up as direct responses to the horror of the Holocaust, for instance) and C.S. Lewis dug into it with several books, specifically Mere Christianity, The Problem of Pain, and A Grief Observed. Mere Christianity, for instance, tackles free will by comparing God to a mother who tells her child to clean its room. Sure, this might fail—the child might ignore its mom, leave the room messy and never learn the value of cleanliness—but by offering the child the choice to clean its room or not, the mother is allowing the kid to grow up, determine its own living space, take pride in its cleanliness, and generally become a better, more responsible adult. C.S. Lewis applies the same logic to God, saying: “It is probably the same in the universe. God created things which had free will. That means creatures which can go either wrong or right” and even though humans can do evil things, and create great suffering, having free will is better than the alternative because “free will, though it makes evil possible, is also the only thing that makes possible any love or goodness or joy worth having.”

This idea is baked into every page of the Narnia books.

Narnia is essentially a series explaining free will, the problem of pain, and faith to children through exciting stories and cute animals. The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe starts off fun and whimsical: Lucy finds the cupboard! Beautiful snowy woods! Lamppost! Tumnus! But soon it’s revealed that the kids have stumbled onto a cosmic battle. Edmund shows us the dark side of free will (and the need to remain morally vigilant in the face of Turkish Delight) by using his freedom to betray his siblings and Aslan, while the White Witch shows us the evil of ultimate selfishness, and Aslan presents another side of free will. The mighty lion, who has seemed comforting and omnipotent to the abandoned children, hands himself over to the Witch so he can be a willing sacrifice in exchange for the traitorous Edmund. Though he could easily escape, he chooses to be tortured, to allows them to manhandle him and shave his mane. He allows himself to be humiliated.

Susan and Lucy, having followed Aslan, are asked to act as silent, helpless witnesses. Finally, once Aslan is really most sincerely dead, the White Witch and her followers gloat over his corpse, and leave it to rot. Lucy and Susan stand watch over Aslan’s ruined body, and their loyalty is rewarded when they are the first witnesses to his resurrection. This is all, note for note, the arc of Gethsemane, the Crucifixion, and the Resurrection, with Edmund playing the Judas role and the girls standing in for the various Marys and Magdalenes. And as in the Christian story, the important part is the willingness of the sacrifice. Lucy and Susan are seeing someone with enormous power relinquish that power for a larger purpose, but they don’t know that a long-game scenario is playing out, they just know that they love their friend and they’re going to stay with him until he gets a proper burial.

Then their faith in Aslan is confirmed when he comes back even stronger than before. Death doesn’t win—and Aslan reveals that there is a “deeper magic from before the dawn of time” (a magic the White Witch knows nothing about) which will resurrect an innocent being who has given his life for a traitor. This is only the barest allegorical gloss slapped over Christian theology, with Aslan acting as a stand-in for Christ, and the human race being a big bunch of Edmunds, betraying each other and ignoring moral law in favor of all the Turkish Delight life has to offer.

Aslan is presented as a deity figure who is actually worshipped, not just loved—he appears as a lamb in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, and is revealed to have created Narnia itself in The Magician’s Nephew. He also appears as a supernatural bogeyman to the followers of Tash—Aslan’s power simply translates into its evil counterpoint for them. When the series culminates in The Last Battle, it’s revealed that faith in Narnia/Aslan has allowed all the “Friends of Narnia” to return (and that Susan’s lack of such faith left her on Earth), and that all “good” followers of Tash get to come along to a Heaven that is sort of a deluxe Narnia: “I take to me the services which thou hast done to Tash… if any man swear by him and keep his oath for the oath’s sake, it is by me that he has truly sworn, though he know it not, and it is I who reward him.”

In this way Lewis creates a stand-in messiah, twines the quasi-Jesus story around the core of his fantasy series, and riffs respectfully on Christian theology. He takes the somewhat liberal (and controversial, in some theological circles) Inclusivist stance that good works can get people into paradise apart from their conscious faith in his specific savior figure. He also obliquely returns to the idea of pain as a force for growth with the character of Susan.

How could Aslan allow Susan to survive the train crash that kills her entire family? Well, if you want to a theodical interpretation, grief will teach her more about the importance of faith in her life, until she’s ready to come back to Aslan, believe in Narnia, and rejoin her family. Unnecessarily harsh for a series of children’s books, you say? Lewis was trying to put forth a very specific theological idea, which was that having free will meant you had the ability to fuck up as Edmund and Susan both do. As a true Friend of Narnia, you need to keep faith with Aslan, and be obedient to him. Lewis’ moral lesson is to trust your elders and your God, and his books are essentially softening his young readers’ hearts for lives spent believing in Christianity.

Sometime early in the writing of her Harry Potter books, Rowling also decided to weave Christian symbolism into the story, but arrived at a very different moral conclusion than Lewis.

Rowling effectively collapses the Nativity and the Crucifixion into one scene: Harry as an infant is helpless in his crib when Voldemort comes to visit. (An inversion of the Three Kings? Or maybe a nod to Maleficent.) James tries to stop him and is easily cast aside (the human father, like Joseph, being a background character compared to the Chosen One’s mother), and it’s Lily who steps up and sacrifices her life for Harry’s. She replaces her son’s death with her own, and invokes a type of love that is a deeper magic than Voldemort can understand. This mirrors the “deeper magic from before the dawn of time” that brings Aslan back to life, to the chagrin of the White Witch.

This is the moment that makes Harry Potter who he is. Not just in the sense that he’s a celebrity orphan, but that he is now on a path created by a sacrifice that will lead to a second sacrifice. It began with a green flash that meant his death, and it ends in facing that death all over again. Rowling seeds this throughout the series: the Mirror of Erised shows him his family, whole and happy. The Dementors force him back into a memory of his last moments with his parents—and in a fantastic twist, he realizes that he almost welcomes the Dementor’s Kiss because it triggers those memories. When Harry faces Voldemort for the first time in Goblet of Fire, the shades of his parents emerge from the wand and protect him.

In almost every book Rowling finds a way to check back in with that origin scene, reworking it from different angles, refracting it through different lenses. Harry’s parents’ deaths are interrogated repeatedly, much as the Nativity is relived through the Peanuts gang, and generations of Sunday School Christmas pageants, and the Crucifixion is reinterpreted through Passion Plays, productions of Jesus Christ Superstar, and the occasional Martin Scorsese film. Just as every Midnight Mass homily revisits the Nativity, so all the major Harry Potter characters find ways to retell stories about The Boy Who Lived. Just as Andrew Lloyd Webber, Tim Rice, and Nikos Kazantzakis each retell Jesus’ crucifixion through the point of view of Judas, so Rowling shows us Harry’s memories of that day, Sirius’ memories of being the Potters’ Secret Keeper, Hagrid’s first moments with Baby Harry, Aunt Petunia’s insistence that her sister died in a car crash. This eternal return begins to feel like an obsession by Prisoner of Azkaban, but Rowling was just getting started.

With Goblet of Fire, Rowling backs off (slightly, temporarily) on reliving That Day, and instead kicks the series into high gear with a remorseless killing spree. Harry watches Cedric die, then Sirius, then Dumbledore, then Dobby, then Snape. Bill Weasley is maimed and George loses an ear in Death Eater attacks. The Ministry falls, and the wizarding world collapses into Magical Fascism. Harry even gets his own Judas figure in Peter Pettigrew, who betrays the Son as he betrayed the Parents. Throughout all of this, with the terrifying wizard of our collective nightmares gaining more and more power, at no point does anyone offer any sort of religious structure, theology, belief system, theodicy, nothing. Or, well, almost nothing.

We get the stories of the Deathly Hallows themselves, in which Rowling teases real magical artifacts in the Tales of Beedle the Bard—which most mature wizards think of as bedtime stories for their children. (This in itself is an interesting twist: the stories Ron dismisses as juvenile fables turn out to not only be true, but vitally important to Voldemort’s defeat.)

Finally, Rowling makes a point of intersecting her Wizarding story with the Muggle world by placing James and Lily’s house in Godric’s Hollow, across the street from a church. She shows us the gravestones of the Dumbledore family and the Potters, which read “Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also,” and “The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death,” respectively. The first is a memorial to Dumbledore’s mother and sister, an acknowledgement of his love for them despite all of his ambition and a life spent at Hogwarts. It’s also a quote from the New Testament: Matthew 2:21. The Potters’ shared stone is a nod to the Deathly Hallows (and a slightly on-the-nose reference to the theme of the entire series) but it’s also 1 Corinthians 15:26. Given that up to this point the series has been resolutely secular, I still remember having to reread that passage a few times. Rowling gave us an unchurched world, without even a perfunctory Church of England Midnight Mass, but suddenly Corinthians is relevant? Albus Dumbledore likes the Gospel According to St. Matthew enough to put it on his family grave? (I mean, unless he’s a Pasolini fan, but there’s no textual evidence for that.)

Of course the next notable thing to me is that Harry and Hermione seemingly have no idea what these quotes are. Neither of them have been raised with Christianity, or even a passing knowledge of the Hebrew Bible or New Testament, so this whooshes right over their heads. It’s a fascinating choice to create the alternate wizarding world, make it secular, and then, in the last book, imply that at least some people from that world also value one of the religions of the Muggle world. Especially while also making the explicit point that the two quotes are meaningless to the two main characters. Who chose the inscription for the Potters? Was it Dumbledore? The Dursleys? Some rando vicar?

But all of those questions fade into the background as Rowling uses the end of the book to dive into her second great religious remix—in this case, riffing on The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe’s version of the Crucifixion. 

Just as Lewis did, Rowling rewrites Jesus’ dilemma at the Garden of Gethsemane. Harry hears Voldemort’s offer—he’ll end the assault on Hogwarts if Harry surrenders—and then he watches Snape’s memories in a Pensieve in Dumbledore’s office. He finally sees Dumbledore’s full plan, and realizes that his mentor had been planning his sacrifice from the beginning. Snape even accuses Dumbledore of fattening him for slaughter like a pig. Harry has to reckon with the fact that, at 17 years old, his life is over. Everything since his first birthday has been borrowed time.

This digs into an interesting debate about free will. On the one hand, Harry’s fate was sealed when Voldemort cursed him as a baby and locked him into life as the Chosen One. But on the other, Harry has to make the free, unforced choice to walk to his execution. He has to allow Voldemort to torture him, humiliate him, make him beg—no matter what, Harry, like Aslan, has to remain passive for the sacrifice to work. But this is Harry, who runs toward trouble, who jumps into action and looks for danger later, who doesn’t ask permission, who doesn’t consult teachers, who risks his life for his friends every year like it’s nothing. Harry doesn’t do passive. And we, as readers, have been trained to expect last-minute acts of derring-do (or last-minute Hermione-ideas that save the day) so it comes as a bit of a shock when Harry accepts this, works through his anger at Dumbledore, and chooses to die a second time.

Part of the point of Gethsemane is that Jesus explicitly asks to opt out of the sacrifice he’s being asked to make—theologically, this is emphasizing the human side of his nature, and giving the mortals reading/hearing the story a moment to relate to. To make it even worse, he explicitly asks his disciples—his friends—to stay up with him so he doesn’t have to spend his last night alone. They immediately pass out, which serves a ton of narrative purposes: it leaves Jesus even more bereft, demonstrates the weakness of human flesh, foreshadows the betrayals of both Judas and Peter, and serves as a symbolic warning against sleeping through a shot at redemption. (The other fascinating thing here is that you, the reader/hearer, are now essentially put in the place of either a disciple who managed to stay awake, or, if you want to be a bit more pretentious about it, God. After all, you’re the one hearing the request, right? And rest assured Rowling tweaks this element in a fascinating way that I’ll look at in a few paragraphs.)

In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Gethsemane is sort folded into the Crucifixion, as Aslan doesn’t have any visible moment of doubt, he simply asks Lucy and Susan to stay quiet and watch his execution. (I’ll risk the assumption that Lewis wasn’t comfortable making his Jesus Lion look weak, even for a larger theological purpose.)

Rowling’s rewrite confronts this scene much more boldly. First, unlike Jesus—but like Aslan—Harry never asks to get out of his sacrifice. He wants to, desperately, but he never quite succumbs to the temptation to ask for help. Part of that could just be that Rowling has created a universe that doesn’t seem to have any sort of deity or ultimate boss to appeal to—Dumbledore is the last authority, and he’s already made it clear that he needs Harry to die. Second, unlike Aslan (and, probably, Jesus) Harry has no guarantee that he’ll be coming back—quite the opposite. He assumes he’s going to die as a Horcrux, that he’ll be completely destroyed. He accepts his own death because it makes narrative sense, basically. By dying, he can fulfill Dumbledore’s plan. Unlike Jesus, Harry at least gets to look through his history in the Pensieve, learn Dumbledore’s entire long game, and see that his loved ones will go on to live their lives free of Voldemort’s evil at last. He can choose to be angry at Dumbledore, or he can rationalize that the Headmaster hid the plan in order to allow Harry seven happy-ish years at Hogwarts—it was the only gift he could offer to make up for Harry’s miserable life with the Dursleys, and the sacrifice that lay ahead.

Harry doesn’t ask any of his friends to stay and keep him company. He explicitly avoids speaking to them because he knows that will destroy his resolve and instead visits them under the invisibility cloak so he can have a last moment of seeing them. He drops the cloak long enough to warn Neville that Nagini must be killed if Voldemort is going to be defeated, knowing that he won’t be there to see the defeat. Then he walks into the forest.

Rowling is nicer than both God and C.S. Lewis, however, because Harry isn’t completely abandoned: once again, the shades of his parents accompany him, as they did during his first real fight with Voldemort. This time they’re joined by Sirius and Lupin. The ghosts assure him that death doesn’t hurt, and that they’re proud of him. I would argue that this is the emotional climax of the series, where Harry gets all the love and validation he’s craved while coming full circle to face Voldemort. This is also a perfect narrative move on Rowling’s part, as it shows Harry in a liminal space between life and death—he makes himself a ghost with the invisibility cloak, then he is guarded by ghosts as he goes to his sacrifice in the forest. He’s being eased into death, which creates a very particular tone to the chapter. For a reader, these pages feel like taking a moment to breathe after the anger and shock of learning Harry’s destiny.

And then Harry faces Voldemort.

Harry reenacts his ancestor Ignotus Peverell’s meeting with Death when he throws the cloak off—but obviously Voldemort, who has spent his unnatural life enacting the follies of the other two brothers, does not meet Harry like an old friend. The calm atmosphere is destroyed, the ghosts are gone, and he is mocked as the Death Eaters hurl abuse at him. Worst of all, Harry sees Hagrid, the man who rescued him from the Dursleys and introduced him to a new life, abused mercilessly. He is powerless to help.

Harry is finally killed—Rowling has Voldemort finish him off with a simple Avada Kedavra, avoiding the protracted torture of Jesus or Aslan.

Of course, it’s possible to see Harry’s torture woven into his life—through Snape’s punishments, through Umbridge’s punishments, through all the painful Horcrux searches—underlining the idea that pain is simply part of life to be dealt with, not a teaching tool or a punishment from On High.

After Harry decides to come back from (ahem) King’s Cross, all the pain of being alive comes back, too; and he has to try to stay calm and play dead as the Death Eaters throw his body around like a toy—again, as with Aslan, the most important element here is humiliation, and Rowling uses this term several times. The only way to break the spirit of Dumbledore’s Army is to show them their leader broken. This was why crucifixion particularly was used on people who broke societal laws or tried to lead uprisings—not just Jesus, obviously, but Spartacus and his followers, Peter, and plenty of other would-be messiahs and revolutionaries—and why similarly horrific tortures were visited on people like civil rights workers in the 1960s, and protesters around the world today.

Simply beheading someone, or hanging them, or standing them before a firing squad isn’t going to break a movement, and martyrs only strengthen movements. You have to show the martyr’s followers that there is no hope. This is what the Romans were doing when they left people hanging on crosses for days in the sun, what kings were doing when they left heads on pikes. This is what the White Witch is doing by leaving Aslan’s body out to decay on the stone tablet. This is what Voldemort is doing when he casts Crucio on Harry’s body and flings it around like a broken doll. Voldemort orders one of the Death Eaters to replace the glasses on Harry’s face so he’ll be recognizable, which, in a single offhand sentence gives us some idea of how battered his body is. Harry can’t just be dead—he has to be desecrated. In a grotesque mirroring of the night Hagrid took Harry from the Nativity/Golgotha of Godric’s Hollow, he is forced to carry what he believes is Harry’s corpse back to Hogwarts.

Rowling has commented that she wanted the man who brought Harry into the Wizarding World to be the one who carries his body back to his true home, Hogwarts. She’s also continuing her Crucifixion imagery by riffing on the Pietá, and of course underscoring the evil of the Death Eaters, that they would make Hagrid do this. She dwells on this section, making it incredibly hard to read, I think to grind it into her young readers’ minds that this is the risk you’re taking when you resist evil. She did, after all, spend her youth working for Amnesty International—she has an intimate knowledge of the sorts of horrors tyrants visit upon dissenters. She’s showing her readers exactly what can happen when you rebel against someone who doesn’t see you as truly human. She stays in this moment far longer than I would expect from what is, essentially, a children’s book, before reassuring her readers that there’s still hope.

Harry had told Neville that someone needed to dispatch Nagini to make Voldemort vulnerable, but Neville himself still has no reason to believe they will win when he draws Gryffindor’s sword. He has every reason to believe that he is dooming himself by attacking—especially seeing what’s been done to Harry. All of them fight together, while Harry, invisible under his cloak, acts as a sort of protective angel during the last battle of Hogwarts. He defeats Voldemort with all of his friends around him, using a disarming spell to the last, and still imploring his nemesis to repent. And this is the last great subtle point Rowling makes with her main series: rather than waiting for a savior or tying everything to one guy, the Wizarding world unites into a collective to fight the Death Eaters, even in the face of impossible odds. Rather than seeking simple vengeance, her hero fights to protect his loved ones, all the while trying to turn his enemies to a better life.

Which is why his side wins.

Hang on, let’s have a brief note about REMORSE, shall we?

It’s in King’s Cross that we get the sense of what Rowling means by “remorse.” At first it seems like just a casual phrase. Of course Sirius is filled with remorse over his pact with Pettigrew. Of course Snape is filled with remorse when he learns that it was his intel that led to Lily’s death. But as the references accumulate it becomes clear that “remorse” is a moral, expiatory force in the Potterverse. Albus’ remorse over his mother’s and sister’s deaths is actively repairing the damage that he did to his soul when he dabbled in dark arts with Grindelwald. Snape is repairing the damage done by his Death Eater days, and the fact that he takes the hit by killing Dumbledore so Draco won’t have to probably does more good than harm:

“That boy’s soul is not yet so damaged,” said Dumbledore. “I would not have it ripped apart on my account.”

“And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?”

“You alone know whether it will harm your soul to help an old man avoid pain and humiliation,” said Dumbledore.

So when Harry gets to King’s Cross and hashes things out with Dumbledore, the tiny mewling creature he sees is what’s left of Tom Riddle’s murderous, furious, Horcrux-bitten soul. Dumbledore explicitly says he can’t do anything for him. But of course this is Harry we’re talking about. So naturally Rowling, unlike Lewis, makes a point of having her Jesus figure reason with the devil. After he sees what becomes of the man’s soul in King’s Cross, Harry faces Voldemort a final time and speaks to him as a person, calling him Tom, and imploring him to think about consequences:

It’s your one last chance, it’s all you’ve got left… I’ve seen what you’ll be otherwise… Be a man… try… Try for some remorse.

And then Harry doesn’t die in battle, and he doesn’t kill Voldemort. The Dark Lord’s own curse rebounds on him, and Rowling again departs from Lewis. Where the Pevensies live in Narnia as kings and queens, and then turn out to be teens in the regular world before the train wreck in The Last Battle, Rowling allows Harry to grow up—or maybe the truer thing to say is that she forces him to grow up. He doesn’t get to die a hero. In the Deathly Hallows epilogue, we see that his life is still largely defined by That Night—his life, and the health of the wizarding world, is characterized not by joy or contentment but by a lack of pain: “The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All was well.”

And now fast forward nine years to the 2016 premiere of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, and give yourself a moment to think of what the play could have been:

• The trio needs to reunite to rescue Hagrid!
• The trolls are having an uprising!
• Harry’s kid becomes an exchange student at Beauxbatons!
• There’s a new Death Eater/a Voldemort follower/a Grindelwald follower/a monster of some sort!
• Something something centaurs!
• AAARRRGGHHHH!

Do you see what I mean?

It could have been anything. Any plot, any adventure. But instead Rowling and her author, Jack Thorne, choose to revisit her great obsession: death in general, and the moment of Harry’s parents’ deaths in particular—until the play becomes a four-and-a-half-hour-long memento mori. As we hop across timelines, we learn that almost every character we’ve loved has died. Draco Malfoy’s wife dies. Muggles are tortured off-stage. An alternate-universe Snape succumbs to a Dementor’s Kiss. Most interesting, Rowling and Thorne also refract Cedric Diggory’s death in exactly the way Rowling did Harry’s parents’: Now it is Amos Diggory’s grief for his son, and his son’s life and death, that become a crux point for the main plot as Harry and Draco’s sons team up to try to save Cedric’s life, and then have to deal with the consequences of their actions when they screw up their timelines. By the end of the play we seem to be learning a darkly beautiful lesson: Cedric’s death was necessary. Even though Voldemort refers to him as “the spare,” the play shows us that his death was just as vital a sacrifice as Lily’s or Dumbledore’s.

The play is awash in death.

And there’s no relief once we finally come back to the “correct” universe—once Albus and Scorpius are kidnapped, we learn that it’s only a matter of time before Delphini fulfills her own prophecy, and snuffs out an entire timeline.

But this is all child’s play compared to adult Harry’s arc. We watch as The Thirtysomething-Who-Lived reckons yet again with the tragedy that has defined his life. Throughout the play he’s plagued by nightmares of Voldemort. This is an obvious narrative choice, as it leads into the dramatic reveal that his scar is hurting again, but many of the nightmares and flashbacks are not necessary to the story.

Twice, in apparent memories, we go back to Harry’s childhood as a boy under the stairs. In one, a nested-Voldemort-nightmare scares him so badly he wets the bed, which leads to Aunt Petunia screaming at him in disgust while also insisting that the flash of light he’s remembering was the car crash that killed his parents. This deepens our view of Petunia as an abuser—it’s one thing to try to hide magic from a child, especially in light of what a magical life did to your sister, but it’s quite another to gaslight that child about his parents deaths while humiliating him for wetting the bed. (She even makes him wash the sheets. It’s horrific.)

This is followed by an even worse memory: Petunia decides to be just kind enough to take Harry to visit his parents’ grave in Godric’s Hollow. For a second you might feel a bit of warmth toward her, since Vernon certainly wouldn’t approve of this outing. But of course she spends the entire visit sniping about the bohemian town and insisting that the Potters didn’t have any friends despite the piles of flowers on their tombstone. Even something that looks like decency is revealed to be an excuse to alienate Harry, lie to him about his parents, and crush his spirit.

Again, this is a play for kids. It didn’t have to show us the wizarding world’s savior drenched in his own piss. It didn’t have to show us Petunia lying to Harry in order to keep him submissive. It goes to extremely dark places to show us just how abused Harry was, and just how much trauma he still lives with, as a man pushing 40, with a wonderful partner, wonderful children, a better job than he could have dreamed of as a child. Harry’s a broken mess. The greatest dramatic moment in the play is not, I would argue, the battle with Delphi, it’s a much quieter moment in Harry and Ginny’s home. We learn that each year, on that anniversary, he sits with his baby blanket and meditates on his parents, and the life he might have had. When Albus and Scorpius go missing in time, he still tries to honor his tradition, but has reached a breaking point.

Ginny comes in and finds him weeping into the blanket. “How many people have to die for The Boy Who Lived?” he asks her.

It’s a horrifying, dark twist on the opening chapter of the Harry Potter series. It’s a moment that expects people who grew up with Harry to grapple with his entire history, all the people he’s survived, and the pain of being the Chosen One. It expects the younger ones to watch someone who’s maybe more of a parent figure completely break down. This scene highlights Harry’s vulnerability, his fear and guilt that his own life is not worth the ones that were lost. This is an astonishing, raw scene, and Rowling and Thorne allow it to go on for a while. Just like Harry’s protracted walk into the forest, here we sit with him and Ginny for long minutes while he sobs. His breakdown leads directly into the parents’ discovery of Albus and Scorpius’ message written on the baby blanket. Harry’s emotional damage is revealed to be utterly necessary to the play’s plot.

While the play’s narrative climaxes with the Delphi fight, and the moment when Harry chooses, once again, not to kill, the emotional climax is once again his parents’ death. Obviously, inevitably, the big confrontation with Voldemort’s daughter has to come at Godric’s Hollow, on October 31, 1981. After all the years of nightmares and flashbacks, Harry must physically witness the death/rebirth moment with his own adult eyes. The eyes of a father and a son.

I read the play before I got to see it, and I assumed that it would be staged so we, the audience, were behind Harry and his family, kept at a discreet distance, allowing him the privacy of his grief. To complete Rowling’s religious riff, she’d be enacting a medieval-style Mass: Harry as priest observing a holy moment, while the rest of us congregants watched from over his shoulder. Instead, it’s staged like a Passion Play.

For those of you who have never attended—generally, the audience of a Passion Play is cast as the crowd outside of Pontius Pilate’s palace. When Pilate comes out to ask which prisoner should be released, it’s often on the audience to chant “Barabbas”—thus dooming Jesus, and underscoring the idea that human sin is truly responsible for his death—which is a damn sight better than the ancient tradition of blaming the nearest Jewish person. This tactic was employed in NBC’s staging of Jesus Christ Superstar Live in Concert, for instance, where the audience cheered like crazy for Alice Cooper’s fabulous Herod and Ben Daniels’ somehow-even-fabulouser Pilate, only to realize they’ve been cheering for the torture and death of John Legend once he’s dragged out and beaten to a pulp.

In Cursed Child, Harry, Ginny, Draco, Albus, and Scorpius are all staring out into the audience as the lights flicker and we hear the screams of Lily and James, the cackle of Voldemort. They’re staring at us, as we allow it to happen. We are implicated in these deaths. And once again Harry has to live through the worst moments of his life—the difference being that this time he isn’t alone, as he explicitly states in the battle with Delphi. His disciples have never fallen asleep. They help him defeat her, underlining Rowling’s usual theme of friends and found families being stronger than individual posturing. They’re also there to stop him from killing Delphi. Evil is complex. There are reasons for it. Every single person on this earth who has ever had the label “evil” attached to them has been brought to that state by pain. Maybe a few months, maybe a lifetime’s worth, but something hurt them, and they turned that hurt on the rest of the world. Just as in Deathly Hallows when Harry asked Voldemort to “try for some remorse,” so he also speaks to Delphi as a person, orphan to orphan:

You can’t remake your life. You’ll always be an orphan. That never leaves you.

Harry Potter isn’t a symbol of good—he’s a living, breathing human who was saved by love, and he’s doing everything he can to save the rest of the orphans who were ruined by the pain of previous generations. Even though Delphini tried to undo all of his work and sacrifice his children to her plan, he’s still going to reach out to her.

Of course, it doesn’t always work. But there’s hope in the play that Harry and Draco might form some sort of non-hatred-based relationship. There’s certainty that his son will be supported by Draco’s son, just as he was supported by Ron, Hermione, Luna, Neville.

And most crucially, his partner and child hold him up while he has to once again relive the deaths of his parents, the moment that cursed him to a life of trauma and survivor’s guilt.

Rowling revisits the scenes again, collapses the Nativity and Crucifixion into one moment, structures it like a Passion Play, and sets the whole thing in a Muggle’s Christian church. But again, she veers away from Lewis’ authoritarian themes: Harry is no Aslan. He doesn’t lecture, he doesn’t deliver messages from on high. He’s a fucked up, emotionally damaged adult dealing with PTSD, avoiding adult responsibility because he craves adrenaline, alienating his son, compartmentalizing memories and nightmares that would turn most peoples’ hair white. He’s not a savior anymore, he’s part of a family, and he only succeeds by allowing them to hold him up.

After all that, the play ends in a graveyard. Underlining Cedric’s importance, Cursed Child reveals Harry’s other ritual: whenever he can get away from work, he travels to a graveyard on the Hogwarts grounds to visit Cedric’s grave. After all the anger and pain between Harry and Albus, after the fight with Delphi, after witnessing his parent’s deaths again, The Boy Who Lived has a father-son bonding session in a graveyard. And Albus, for the first time in his life, allows himself to bend a little bit toward his famous father:

Albus: Dad? Why are we here?

Harry: This is where I often come.

Albus: But this is a graveyard…

Harry: And here is Cedric’s grave.

Albus: Dad?

Harry: The boy who was killed—Craig Bowker—how well did you know him?

Albus: Not well enough.

Harry: I didn’t know Cedric well enough either. He could have played Quidditch for England. Or been a brilliant Auror. He could have been anything. And Amos is right—he was stolen. So I come here. Just to say sorry. When I can.

Albus: That’s a—good thing to do.

So we learn that Harry’s life isn’t just shot through with PTSD, or a constant longing for his parents—it is, in fact, haunted by death. He doesn’t give himself just one day a year to remember all the people he’s lost—he heads back to alma mater whenever he can to apologize to A Boy He Couldn’t Save.

Again, we could have gotten a centaur war or something. The Great Wizarding Bake Off films its new season at Honeydukes! Albus and Scorpius fall in love, but they can’t admit it ’cause their dads hate each other? …OK, that one kind of does happen. But instead of going on a more obvious, fun, “Let’s return to Hogwarts!” path, Rowling and Thorne used their story to deal honestly with the legacy of the books, and to keep building the moral framework established with Sorcerer’s Stone.

Rowling’s moral universe doesn’t depend on unwavering faith, nor on the idea that your elders are right. What Dumbledore does to Harry is not OK—and Dumbledore himself isn’t a holy Aslan figure, either. He’s a grief-stricken old man who’s haunted by the death of his sister, and terrified by his own youthful willingness to follow Grindelwald to the brink of evil. He sends a helpless child into the waiting arms of Voldemort without ever giving that boy a real choice. And Rowling makes sure to present us with Harry’s rage at this. She takes us through Harry’s own Gethsemane scenes so we can see the life he’s choosing to walk away from. She shows us all of Dumbledore’s doubt and fear when the two meet in King’s Cross during Harry’s “death.”

And then, 19 years later, we revisit Harry and find that her Boy Who Lived, and died, and lived again fucks up, and it nearly costs him his son. The wizard messiah isn’t a Christ stand-in—he was a frightened boy who did his best, and who grew into a traumatized man. He who needs to reckon with his nightmares and the abuse he suffered, so he can be honest with himself and his kids. Harry’s grief hasn’t made him stronger. It isn’t a thing he needs to endure, so he can join all of his dead friends in Wizard Narnia. His grief he will always carry with him, and he needs to find a way to talk about it, to explore it with his family and friends, so they can all be stronger together.

Leah Schnelbach is so excited she got to explain theodicy! And if you’re still willing to talk to her after that sentence, you can discuss Wizard Death with her over on Twitter!

All our theories can at last be put to rest, though not all of our questions got answers. But how could they? Even in almost a thousand pages, there were so many things in motion, going into this last book, that only one thing seemed definite: A really big showdown, years in the making, was coming.

Welcome to the last post in Reading Throne of Glass! My head is absolutely full to bursting with details, both vital and random, and I’m dying to talk about what happened at the end. So let’s get to it.

This post involves all the spoilers for all the books!

A Fairly Brief (Given How Much Happens) Summary of Kingdom of Ash

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In the east, Rowan, Lorcan, Fenrys, and Elide hunt for Aelin, wringing news about Maeve from her Fae commanders. Elide is still furious at Lorcan, but eventually he clears something up for her: he wasn’t crawling for Maeve at the end of Empire of Storms. He was crawling to Aelin.

In the north, Aedion fights losing battles on two fronts: against Morath’s soldiers, and against his feelings for Lysandra, who he’s still emotionally punishing for having made plans with her queen that he wasn’t in on.

Among the khaganate’s ships, Chaol gets word that Morath marches on Anielle. Much as he doesn’t want to see his father, he can’t let his home be destroyed.

In the mountains, witches hunt witches: Manon leads the Thirteen in search of the Crochan Witches. Dorian, among them, works on his magic, and—once they encounter Cyrene, the spider Manon fooled, who also took years and magic from Falkan the shapeshifter—begins to practice shapeshifting. He wants to go to Morath—in a different form.

In Doranelle, Maeve tortures Aelin, all with the goal of getting her to take the blood oath. (There is a lot of torture.) Fenrys is forced to watch. When Cairn, Aelin’s torturer, moves to burn her, it’s too much for both of them: Fenrys snaps his blood-oath and attacks Cairn. Aelin, desperate enough that she’d rather die, tries to goad Cairn into killing her. And then Rowan and company show up, just in time to help. Aelin is traumatized and silent, blinking her silent language with Fenrys, when the Little Folk come to help them all get out of Doranelle.

Cyrene leads Manon to the Crochans, who are skeptical; Manon quietly draws two Ironteeth covens to the combined witch force, to fight them and prove herself to the Crochans. A tentative truce is struck. The Thirteen fly into the Gap to speak to the other Ironteeth, and Petrah Blueblood listens. When the Crochan Matrons come for Manon later, she lets the Blueblood Matron live. She kills the Yellowlegs Matron, to take back Rhiannon Crochan’s crown of stars, and her grandmother escapes. (For now.) Everyone recognizes Manon as queen, and a call goes out: hidden Crochan witches from all over dust off their brooms and fly north.

In Adarlan, Aelin—slightly recovered, but covered in new skin from where Maeve’s healers regrew all the damage—and company encounter ruk riders, and make their way to Anielle to join the fight there. It’s a nasty one, and Aelin has to save the day when Morath’s legions try to drown the city by breaking a dam. She expends all the power she’d been tunneling into—saving for Maeve’s death blow—steaming the flood away and redirecting it. And then everyone heads north.

Dorian sneaks into Morath, where he discovers that Maeve has come to speak to Erawan. After pretending to work with her, Dorian, so satisfyingly, turns off Maeve’s portalling power, uses her own deceiving power against her, and brings down what’s left of Morath. With all three keys, he shifts and flies north.

In Terrasen, the fighting continues. On the road there, Dorian finds Aelin, Chaol, and the khaganate host, and after a reunion, it’s time to deal with the keys. Dorian and Aelin plan to share the burden, in hopes it won’t kill either of them, but things go awry when Aelin tries to bargain with the gods for Elena’s existence. Deanna destroys Elena entirely. They don’t take Erawan with them. The old king of Adarlan appears—nameless; Erawan took his name—and offers his power. Aelin kicks out Dorian, the king uses up his magic, and Mala gifts Aelin a last nugget of power. It keeps her alive after she opens a portal in the god-world (to the hellscape we last saw in Crown of Midnight), leaving the gods to fight whatever comes through. And then, led by the magical Wyrdmarks in her new tattoo, she falls through worlds back to her own, power mostly depleted.

Manon’s witches arrive in Terrasen—and the Bluebloods join their side, too. Petrah uses Iskra’s own wyvern-murdering trick against her. (“For Keelie.”) And then Manon’s entire coven sacrifice themselves against the witch-tower and it’s everything: crushing, effective, giving the fighters time enough to breathe, and, afterward, time to pay tribute to those amazing women.

When Aelin comes to Terrasen, astride the Lord of the North, she remembers one of the important lessons: symbols have power. When everything is dark—when Gavriel has sacrificed himself, when the spider-Valg princesses are on the move—she makes a stand in front of the gate, her sword burning. The tide turns when a series of portals open: Fae, the ones who fled the Southern Continent, and wolves and men, all coming down from the far north to aid the fight.

And when it comes time to destroy Maeve and Erawan, Aelin doesn’t do it alone. Dorian, Lysandra, Elide, and Yrene combine forces to defeat Erawan. Before the final blow, Dorian learns his father’s name: It’s his own. When Yrene crushes Erawan, she shows him her mother: a woman Erawan never knew, whose hope for her daughter led them to this moment.

And in front of the gate, Aelin, Rowan, Fenrys and Lorcan fight Maeve, who tries, one last time, to turn their minds. But Aelin has seen enough of Maeve’s lies, and slips Athril’s ring onto the Valg queen’s finger. It’s not a pretty death.

When Erawan falls, his armies stop. And it’s actually over. Everyone has made peace—Lysandra and Aedion, Lorcan and Elide, Darrow and Aedion—and their losses aren’t nearly as terrible as they could’ve been, apart from the Thirteen. Gavriel went down in front of the gates, protecting his son and his son’s people. A lot of nameless, faceless soldiers died, but everyone else we know lives. Rolfe and his Mycenians. Ansel, though not many of her men. Ilias. Hasar and Sartaq and Nesryn, Dorian and Chaol and Yrene. Lorcan and Fenrys. Darrow, Evangeline, probably even Nox, wherever he got to.

Aelin is crowned queen, and offers the blood oath to Aedion in front of everyone. There’s a party, and everyone goes home. A witch brings Manon proof that she’s broken the curse: a flower bloomed in the Wastes. And in the end, on a sunny morning, the kingsflame blooms across Terrasen.

You’ve Come a Long Way, Babies

It is completely impossible for me to talk about everything that happened in this massive doorstopper of a book, so I’m going to pick a few key things, starting with three people who met in a salt mine in Throne of Glass—and whose story could’ve ended there, if “Duke Perrington” had realized just who he shoved to the floor. Remember those babies? A snarky, defensive assassin; a stoic, dedicated captain of the guard; and a prince mostly famous for being a ladies’ man. You can still see those people in the people they are now: a warrior queen, a leader and husband, a skilled magician and king. All much stronger, and all pretty darn traumatized.

I tend to love secondary characters more than leads, and to me, as a reader, Aelin has always been the pole around which this story rotates, but not what I read the story for. Pages and pages of torture is a tough sell at the best of times, and lately I’ve even less stomach for reading about terrible things happening to women—but Aelin’s resolve is carefully laid into those difficult chapters. Her resolve and her bond with Fenrys, which is reminder that people get through things when they’re not alone. Maeve underestimates this, being Valg; she doesn’t realize that by torturing them both, she pushes them closer together, and they give each other strength.

Maas doesn’t shy away from the repercussions of Aelin’s time in Maeve’s clutches. She’s not herself, not for a long time, not even at the end of the book, though she’s better. She’s changed so much, but in one way, her choices are consistent: She fights, and then she tries to sacrifice herself, thinking it the best way to take care of her people. She did it in Heir, and Rowan shared his power; she did it in Empire, and it saved Elide and her friends; she would have done it here, when it comes to the Lock, but Mala intervenes. It’s the truest way in which Aelin is a queen; her first priority is her people. It’s all she asks of those who take the blood oath: that they protect Terrasen and its people.

Will normal life—normal queenly life—be a challenge for Aelin? Will she have five kids with Rowan, like in his dream? With other threats come to Terrasen? Will she ever learn to tell people her plans?

Chaol has less time in this book, but it’s good time. It’s important time; it’s him facing his father with his new wife at his side, and finding that he can stand up to the old crotchety lord. So much of Chaol’s strife, in the earlier books, comes from him expecting people to be a certain way, and that includes himself. That’s part of his struggle in Tower of Dawn: accepting that you can’t always be the person you thought or wanted yourself to be. He’s had to adjust his expectations, again and again; he’s had to grow more flexible, and more accepting. He’s going to be such a good advisor for Dorian.

It’s Dorian I found the most fascinating as this series went on. He’s taken the longest to figure himself out, which makes sense—he was a prince, an heir, his life set out for him; then he was slave to one of those nasty Wyrdstone collars. There are things he’s always known about himself—his loyalty, the way he values friendships—but there’s so much else he has had to reconsider as his story shifted and changed. He’s struggling with PTSD almost as much as Aelin is, and he’s had to come to terms with the raw magic he never expected to have.

What I love is that his response to all of this is to grow curious. He studies Cyrene’s nugget of shapeshifting magic; he tries on other bodies; he tests Damaris’s truth capabilities, summons Gavin, learns, literally, to fly. He’s almost never still; he’s moving and looking and watching, and trying to understand. He doesn’t just want to understand what he’s capable of; he wants to understand how other people move through the world. He uses Damaris to detect lies, but also to understand truths, and to see what matters.

When he stands in that chamber of Morath and debates who he is, and what kind of action defines him, the choice, again, is taken from him. But really, he already chose: he chose when he weakened Morath, but not the pathways humans used. He chose when he tried to fight the prince in his Valg collar, and he chose when he accepted that maybe he felt like the deserved that collar. (I don’t love the implication that if people just believed in themselves more they could fight Valg possession, though; that veers a little too close to victim-blaming for me.)

It’s Dorian I want to follow now that this story is done—Dorian and Manon, who both have kingdoms to rebuild. But more on that later.

O Witch Queen, My Witch Queen

I’ve been on Team Manon since her first appearance, and so you can probably guess how I felt when the Thirteen flew off to their deaths—their light-filled, important, heart-wrenching deaths. (I could barely read the page through tears.) Part of me hates this choice, hates that Manon has to go off and lead the Witch Kingdom without the very witches who taught her to care, to love, to change, to look beyond the shitty ways she’d been taught. It’s a huge loss.

The story of the witches is the story of overcoming a history of infighting and self-hatred, and in some ways I wish the book was more upfront about that, about how the Ironteeth fight with the cliched weapons of the catfight, nails and teeth, turned viciously deadly. There’s something I can’t quite put my finger on about the female friendships in the series; I love them, but they tend to be between women with differing levels of power, whether Manon and her second or Aelin and the women who will be ladies of Terrasen—but still subjects of their queen— when this is all over. It’s a series about kings and queens and royalty, so you can argue this is inevitable, but there’s something different about the connections between men and between women. (And I can’t help but notice that the only people who die are single; no one loses their partner or mate. It’s friendships that suffer most: the loss of all the Thirteen, and two of the cadre.)

In the end, there are three queens on this continent, and three witches leading the way back to the Witch Kingdom. There’s far more power in the hands of non-evil women than there was at the outset of the story. Still, I wish the Thirteen had gotten to keep demonstrating the biggest lesson they helped Manon learn: how people can change, and surprise you. But war is war, and people die, and their sacrifice was a blow to the heart.

It wasn’t in vain; Manon will still be a great queen, even without them. She’s learned to make harder and harder choices, to inspire, to see feelings as strengths, not just weaknesses. She and Aelin come to queendom from opposite ends—Aelin from a place of trying to do everything herself; Manon from a place of destructive teamwork for a horrid cause—but they both grew up, at least part of the time, being lied to and controlled. And they’re going to help each other figure out how not to be like that, I think.

(I’m glad she didn’t marry Dorian. I don’t think either of them are done baking yet, to mix in a Buffy metaphor. As allies, and, yes, lovers, they’re going to grow to be incredible. But they don’t need to get married.)

Unimportant Mysteries

This is still driving me bananas: How! Did! Erawan! Get! The! Third! Key! Obviously he had it, but when and how did he get it? Brannon hid that key in Mala’s temple, where only someone with his gifts could get it—or someone who held another key. So … who did it? Was it after Erawan got the key from Elena’s tomb? Valg hate fire, so he sure didn’t go fetch that one himself. (Did he use Kaltain, who’s said to have had the fire gift? Was there time for that?)

I know, I know: this isn’t the most important thing. But it was fascinating to finish this series and think about the difference between what an author prioritizes in a story and what a reader feels is vital to the tale. There are a lot of unanswered questions here, and I don’t mean that in a please-spell-everything-out-for-me sense, but in a worldbuilding sense. Authors have to make choice about what they focus on, and Maas built such a huge world that it was impossible to flesh out all of it.

I’m a nosy reader; I want to know how things work. I thought there would be more to the Wyrd (the way it’s discussed in the first book, for example, is very different), and to the whole story of the gods: what they were, how they got here, how they set themselves up as gods, how they relate to the other gods worshipped in the Southern Continent. Bless Gavriel for wondering what I wondered—with the gods gone, is there an empty chair in the underworld?

Some of my lingering questions were answered, like where the Fae from the Southern Continent went—but that answer was just, North. We didn’t meet any of them, or hear any of their stories. What’s their leadership like? The whole history is still full of mysteries that fascinate me: What caused the witch wars? What actually happened to Mab and Mora? Who were Brannon’s other children? What about the dragons in the southeast? From whence came Rolfe’s Mycenians, and were there ever sea dragons? What am I missing about the relationship between Rhiannon Crochan and the last go-round in this game: Why does Maeve know her face, and why does Manon have to step into the mirror with Aelin, when no witch is necessary for the forging of the Lock? What about the twin mirror, in the other chest that was supposedly under Morath?

What Comes After

Maybe I’m just greedy, though. If I have one primary wish about Kingdom of Ash, it’s that I wanted it to go a little further after Aelin’s coronation. I wanted the equivalent of “The Scouring of the Shire”—the scene when our battered, tired, long-traveling heroes have to go home and deal with the mess waiting for them. I wanted to see Dorian in Rifthold, figuring out where to start with his sacked city, coming to terms with his guilt and trauma, and making a better world with Chaol and Yrene. I wanted Manon flying over the Wastes-no-longer, seeing the place she can call home. I wanted to watch Aelin meet Nehemia’s parents, to finally give their country a moment in the spotlight that isn’t about death.

There’s a whole story after the battle is won, and it’s one that’s rarely told. But this is a celebration, and I respect that: After everything, Aelin and company deserve a ball, a coronation, a quiet farewell. (And a prime, wonderful appearance of the Little Folk, who’ve been there all along.)

Empire of Storms Redux—and Not

In some ways, the end of the series reflects the end of Empire of Storms: As ever, Aelin has plans she doesn’t tell anyone, from not explaining (even to Rowan!) why she doesn’t use her power until that desperate moment in Anielle, to not telling everyone that she’s asked the Fae and Wolf Tribe in the north to come to Terrasen’s aid. The latter, I understand; she never wants to give anyone hope that may be unfounded, because she knows what it’s like to lose hope. The former was endlessly frustrating, because while Aelin didn’t use her fire, people died. Nameless people, nameless soldiers, all falling to Morath’s hosts.

This turns out to be just as well, because all that power is needed to stop the flood that rushes from the destroyed dam. Aelin’s choice turns out to be right, and it’s almost too tidy, the way her reluctance turns out to be the right move. But it also makes for one hell of a scene: the fire-breathing bitch queen, turning a flood to steam.

But what matters in the end of this book—what’s mattered all along—is that battles aren’t won by individuals. Aelin saves Anielle, but that’s once the battle is done; there are only people to save because everyone fought, ruks and foot soldiers and Fae and all. From the very start, Aelin never wins her battles alone. Assassinations, yes: Archer Finn’s death is an assassin’s kill, and it might be the last time that happens.

Nehemia and Chaol fought beside her, if not in the ring, when she became King’s Champion. Rowan lent her his magic when she faced the Valg in Heir of Fire. Destroying Arobynn was a group plot, the last blow Lysandra’s; saving Rifthold from the king was a two-pronged effort, in the streets and in the castle, and neither Dorian nor Aelin could have done it alone. The same goes for the battle at the end of Empire, which took every alliance Aelin could call up on short notice.

So when it comes time to end the series’ two villains, it’s fitting, and beautiful, that it takes everyone—every major character we’ve come to know over these thousands of pages. Everyone’s skills are needed, from Dorian’s raw power to Yrene’s healing light, Lysandra’s strength to Elide’s perceptiveness. Chaol and Aedion, soldiers to the core, fight on the battlements; the cadre fight at Aelin’s side, every one of them with a part to play in the destruction of Maeve. It’s personal, like Asterin being the one to destroy the Blackbeak Matron, but it’s more than that: it’s fitting. And it’s really satisfying, too.

Given how much of this book is fighting—a lot—it’s saying something that the climactic battle is so breathtaking. Maas has firm control over the narrative, which moves all over Orynth; there’s never any confusion about where the characters are, how they relate to each other, and she manages to check in with just about everyone as everything comes to a violent but glorious close. You can trace some of the moments back to various classic fantasies, from the giant wolves and hidden people in the north to the way that even non-fighters can play a vital role at the end of things. (How I loved Elide, without a goddess at her shoulder, still so good at seeing what needs to be seen!)

The end of this book is, like Chaol thinks after the battle, the beginning—the start of a new kind of life for all of them. And two of our queens make choices, early in the book, that outline what that life will be, and what this story is all about. When she faces the Matrons, Manon spares Cresseida for a simple reason: She has seen that the Bluebood Matron is capable of love. And when Maeve tries to tempt Aelin with an imaginary version of Rowan that’s perfect, that never suffered, Aelin rejects the dream, because the reality is what matters—the reality where they got their shit together in Mistward, where they saw each other’s flaws and pain, and found hope in all of it.

It’s all hope, like it’s always been. It’s hope, and friendship, and connection. But it’s a wonderfully imperfect kind of hope, not the kind that wants the world to just be magically better, but the kind that understands that mistakes can be learned from, that people can be better, and that failures make us who we are, for better or worse. Sometimes they’re not even failures, like when a witch loves her daughter. Sometimes they’re just things we haven’t really figured out how to see yet.

Ten Last Things I Just Loved a Lot

• Everything with Aelin and Fenrys. I guessed that a new blood oath would save him, and was so, so glad to be correct.
• The way that Aelin keeps her body lined in fire when she escapes Maeve—there’s a really intense truth there about bodily autonomy and needing to feel, to be, in charge of your own self.
• “Death—that was his gift.” So Dorian is Buffy, and I accept this.
• The nuance of Rowan’s bait for Maeve—the whisper of Valg collars—being both what draws Maeve out and what nearly sends Aelin to her death. It’s so scary, and that makes it feel true.
• Dorian accidentally summoning Kaltain, and kneeling to her. It’s the very least she deserves.
• Elide tearing across the battlefield in front of Anielle, desperate to find Lorcan.
• When the witches all start flying north it gave me all the same feelings as the lighting of the beacons in the Lord of the Rings—”Gondor calls for aid!”—and all the goosebumps, too.
• Darrow listening to Evangeline, and giving Aedion his sword—and his pride—back.
• Sea-dragon Lysandra covertly saving good witches while sending the rest to the bottom of the river.
• My single favorite page in the book: 945, all the witches, and the meaning of the tribute to the Thirteen.

Molly Templeton really isn’t sure what to read next. Come talk to her about your Kingdom of Ash feels on Twitter!

This month’s science fiction releases give you not one but two Star Trek-related options—and one Firefly novel, if that’s your spacefaring flavor of choice! Nancy Kress winds up her Yesterday’s Kin trilogy; Kate Heartfield introduces a new time-traveling heroine with Alice Payne Arrives; Corey J. White rounds out his Voidwitch trilogy with Static Ruin … and those are just a few of your options if you’re looking to go to space this month. Or the future. Or the future in space!

Keep track of all the new releases here. Note: All title summaries are taken and/or summarized from copy provided by the publisher.

WEEK ONE

The Subjugate—Amanda Bridgeman (November 6, Angry Robot)
In a small religious community rocked by a spree of shocking murders, Detectives Salvi Brentt and Mitch Grenville find themselves surrounded by suspects. The Children of Christ have a tight grip on their people, and the Solme Complex neurally edit violent criminals—Subjugates—into placid servants called Serenes. In a town where purity and sin, temptation and repression live side by side, everyone has a motive. But as the bodies mount up, the frustrated detectives begin to crack under the pressure: their demons are coming to light, and who knows where that blurred line between man and monster truly lies.

Terminus (Unity #2)—Tristan Palmgren (November 6, Angry Robot)
The transdimensional empire, the Unity, has dissolved, its ruling powers forced into exile—but empires don’t die easily. The living planarship Ways and Means has come to medieval Earth and ended the Black Death, but it keeps its intentions to itself. Someone is trying to kill its agent Osia, who is suffering through her own exile. Spy-turned-anthropologist Meloku becomes a target, too, when she catches Ways and Means concealing the extent of its meddling. While they fight to survive, Fiametta—an Italian soldier, mercenary, and heretical preacher – raises an army and a religious revolt, aiming to split Europe in half.

Alice Payne Arrives—Kate Heartfield (November 6, Tor.com Publishing)
A disillusioned major, a highwaywoman, and a war raging across time. It’s 1788 and Alice Payne is the notorious highway robber, the Holy Ghost. Aided by her trusty automaton, Laverna, the Holy Ghost is feared by all who own a heavy purse. It’s 1889 and Major Prudence Zuniga is once again attempting to change history—to save history—but seventy attempts later she’s still no closer to her goal. It’s 2016 and … well, the less said about 2016 the better! But in 2020 the Farmers and the Guides are locked in battle; time is their battleground, and the world is their prize. Only something new can change the course of the war. Or someone new. Little did they know, but they’ve all been waiting until Alice Payne arrives.

Stealing Life—Antony Johnston (November 6, Abaddon)
Reissue. Nicco Salarum is a thief, and a good one. In the rough-and-tumble city of Azbatha, where every street hustler has an enchantment in his back pocket, Nicco prides himself on using his skills – and the best technology money can buy – to get him into the houses and boardrooms of the wealthy. But Nicco’s last job went sour, leaving him in debt to a powerful gang boss, and deep in trouble. When a foreign wizard offers him a vast sum for a visiting diplomat’s trinket, he leaps at the opportunity. But nothing happens in a vacuum. Caught in a game where the futures of whole nations are at stake, Nicco finds himself racing against time to right his wrongs… and save his own skin.

The Valley of Shadows (Black Tide Rising #6)—John Ringo & Mike Massa (November 6, Baen Books)
From his corner office on Wall Street, Tom Smith could see the Statue of Liberty, Battery Park—and a ravening zombie horde. Officially, Smith was paid to preserve the lives and fortunes of employees, billionaires, and other clients. With an implacable virus that turned the infected into ravenous zombies tearing through the city, the country, and the world, his job just got a lot harder. Smith needs infected human spinal tissue to formulate a vaccine—and he needs it by the truckload. To get it, he will have to forge a shady alliance with both the politicians of the City of New York and some of its less savory entrepreneurs. If he fails, his only fallback is an incomplete plan to move enough personnel to safe havens and prepare to restart civilization. What’s more, there are others who have similar plans—and believe it or not, they’re even less charitable than a Wall Street investment banker. Sooner or later Smith will have to deal with them. But first he has to survive the Fall.

The Sky-Blue Wolves (Novel of the Change #15)—S.M. Stirling (November 6, Ace)
Two generations after the Change, Crown Princess Orlaith struggles to preserve the hard-won peace her father brought to Montival—the former western United States. But the Change opened many doors, and through them powers strong and strange and terrible walk once more among humankind. With her fire-forged friend and ally, Japanese Empress Reiko, Orlaith must take up her sword to stop the spread of the mad malignancy behind the Yellow Raja, who has imprisoned her brother Prince John. And from the emerging superpower of Mongolia, the Sky-Blue Wolves of the High Steppe ride once more beneath the banner of Genghis Khan—the thunder of their hooves resounding across a world in turmoil.

Mass Effect: Annihilation—Catherynne M. Valente (November 6, Titan Books)
The Quarian ark Keelah Si’yah sails toward the Andromeda galaxy, carrying 20,000 colonists from sundry races including the drell, the elcor, and the batarians. Thirty years from their destination, a routine check reveals drell lying dead in their pods, and a deadly pathogen on board. Soon, the disease is jumping species, and it quickly becomes clear that this is no accident. It’s murder, and the perpetrator is still on board. The ship’s systems rapidly degrade, and panic spreads among the colonists, for the virus yields a terrible swelling of the brain that causes madness, hallucinations, and dreadful violence. If the ship’s crew can’t restore their technology and find a cure, the Keelah Si’yah will never make it to the Nexus.

Static Ruin (Voidwitch #3)—Corey J. White (November 6, Tor.com Publishing)
She killed the man who trained her. She killed the fleet that came for her. She killed the planet that caged her. Now she must confront her father. Mars Xi is on the run, a bounty on her head and a kill count on her conscience. All she has left are her mutant cat Ocho and her fellow human weapon Pale, a young boy wracked by seizures who can kill with a thought. She needs him treated, and she needs to escape, and the only thread left to pull is her frayed connection to her father, Marius Teo. That thread will take her to the outskirts of the galaxy, to grapple with witch-cults and privately-owned planets, and into the hands of the man who engineered her birth.

Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine: A Decade of Hugo & Nebula Award Winning Stories, 2005-2015—Sheila Williams, editor (November 6, Prime Books)
Anthology. Veteran editor and two-time Hugo winner Sheila Williams picks the best of recent award-winning stories first published by Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, the world’s leading science fiction magazine.

WEEK TWO

Terran Tomorrow (Yesterday’s Kin #3)—Nancy Kress (November 13, Tor Books)
The diplomatic mission from Earth to World ended in disaster, as the Earth scientists discovered that the Worlders were not the scientifically advanced culture they believed. Though they brought a limited quantity of the vaccine against the deadly spore cloud, there was no way to make enough to vaccinate more than a few dozen. The Earth scientists, and surviving diplomats, fled back to Earth. But once home, after the twenty-eight-year gap caused by the space ship transit, they find an Earth changed almost beyond recognition. In the aftermath of the spore cloud plague, the human race has been reduced to only a few million isolated survivors. The knowledge brought back by Marianne Jenner and her staff may not be enough to turn the tide of ongoing biological warfare.

WEEK THREE

The Search for Spark (Willful Child #3)—Steven Erikson (November 20, Tor Books)
These are the adventures of the starship A.S.F. Willful Child. Its ongoing mission: to seek out strange new worlds on which to plant the Terran flag, to subjugate and if necessary obliterate new life-forms. We join the not terribly bright but exceedingly cocksure Captain Hadrian Sawback and his motley crew on board the starship Willful Child for a series of devil-may-care, near-calamitous and downright chaotic adventures through the infinite vastness of interstellar space. Steven Erikson has taken his lifelong passion for Star Trek and transformed it into a smart, inventive spoof on the whole overblown mankind-exploring-space-for-the-good-of-all-species-but-trashing-stuff-with-a-lot-of-high-tech-gadgets-along-the-way adventure. The result is a novel that deftly parodies the genre while also paying fond homage to it.

Enclave—Thomas Locke (November 20, Revell)
It’s been 50 years since the Great Crash and what was once America is now a collection of enclaves, governed on the local level and only loosely tied together by the farce of a federal government. Catawba, one of the largest and most affluent enclaves in the southern states, is relatively stable and maintains a successful business of trade with nearby enclaves, including the one at Charlotte Township. But when a new vein of gold is found beneath the feet of those in Catawba, it’s only a matter of time before trouble finds them. Now the future of Catawba may be in the hands of an untried 21-year-old trader named Caleb. And Caleb knows that if his secret were ever to come out, he would never see another dawn.

Firefly: Big Damn Hero—James Lovegrove & Nancy Holder (November 20, Titan Books)
The first original novel from the much-missed space Western Firefly, produced with Joss Whedon as consulting editor, set in the heart of the series. It should have been a routine job, transporting five crates from the planet of Persephone to a waiting buyer. And Lord knows, Captain Mal Reynolds needs the money if he’s to keep Serenity flying. But the client is Badger, and nothing that involves him is ever straightforward. The crates are full of explosives, which might blow at the slightest movement. Just before take-off, Mal disappears. As the cargo grows more volatile by the minute, and Alliance cruisers start taking an interest in the tenacious smuggling ship, it’s down to Serenity’s first mate, Zoë, to choose between rescuing her captain and saving her crew. Meanwhile, rumours are spreading on Persephone of a band of veteran Browncoat malcontents who will stop at nothing to be revenged on those responsible for their terrible defeat. Is Mal harboring a dark secret from the war? And can the crew of Serenity find him before it’s too late?

Star Trek: The Art of John Eaves—Joe Nazzaro (November 20, Titan Books)
Over the past few decades, John Eaves has had a major impact on the look of the Star Trek Universe and played a pivotal role in shaping Gene Roddenberry’s vision. Starting with his work on Star Trek V: The Final Frontier, Eaves has worked as a production designer, illustrator, and model maker across the franchise. He has been responsible for creating many of the props and ships, and helped develop the Federation design, from the U.S.S. Enterprise NCC-1701-E to the U.S.S. Discovery NCC-1031. Star Trek: The Art of John Eaves represents the most extensive collection of designs and illustrations created by Eaves across the Star Trek Universe. Featuring fascinating pencil sketches and stunning concept art, this book gives fans a unique in-depth look into Eaves’ creative vision and the wealth of his remarkable work at the center of this spectacular franchise.

WEEK FOUR

Rewrite: Loops in the Timescape—Gregory Benford (November 27, Saga Press)
In this thematic sequel to Gregory Benford’s award-winning bestseller Timescape, a history professor finds that he is able travel back to 1968, the year he was sixteen—here, he finds a slew of mentors with the same ability, including Robert Heinlein, Albert Einstein, and Philip K. Dick.

Bright Light (Star Carrier #8)—Ian Douglas (November 27, Harper Voyager)
Trevor Gray has been stripped of his command of the starship America, and is unsure what to do with his life. Having dedicated so much of himself to the service, he knew following the super-AI Konstantin’s advice could have severe consequences. He just never thought he would be out of the fight. Because that’s what Earth is in: a fight against a sinister alien force that is so technologically advanced, there seems little hope. And that’s why he had disobeyed his orders in the first place: to figure out a way to stop them. But now he’s beached. Which is just what Konstantin wanted. For the super-AI has a plan: connect Gray with the Pan-Europeans, and set him on a course to the remote star Deneb. There, he is to make contact with a mysterious alien civilization using the new artificial intelligence Bright Light, and maybe—if they can make it in time—prevent humanity from being wiped from the universe.

Abandoned (Donovan #2)—W. Michael Gear (November 27, DAW)
Supervisor Kalico Aguila has bet everything on a fragile settlement far south of Port Authority. There, she has carved a farm and mine out of wilderness. But Donovan is closing in. When conditions couldn’t get worse, a murderous peril descends out of Donovan’s sky—one that will leave Kalico bleeding and shattered. Talina Perez gambles her life and reputation in a bid to atone for ruthlessly murdering a woman’s husband years ago. Ironically, saving Dya Simonov may save them all. Lieutenant Deb Spiro is losing it, and by killing a little girl’s pet alien, she may have precipitated disaster for all. In the end, the only hope will lie with a “lost” colony, and the alien-infested reflexes possessed by Security Officer Talina Perez. On Donovan, only human beings are more terrifying than the wildlife.

Star Trek Prometheus: In the Heart of Chaos—Christian Humberg & Bernd Perplies (November 27, Titan Books)
U.S.S. Prometheus and I.K.S. Bortas are racing against time to break the cycle of violence that is spreading through the Alpha Quadrant. Adams and Kromm are on the trail of a secret weapons facility, but instead discover an enemy from their pasts who seems utterly unstoppable. Together, they search for the answers to their questions, before the galaxy goes down in flames.

The Razor—Jack Barton Mitchell (November 27, Tor Books)
Brilliant engineer Marcus Flynn has been sentenced to 11-H37 alongside the galaxy’s most dangerous criminals. A hard labor prison planet better known as the Razor, where life expectancy is short and all roads are dead ends. At least until the Lost Prophet goes active… In a few hours, prison guards and staff are evacuated, the prisoners are left to die, and dark mysteries begin to surface. Only Flynn has the skills and knowledge to unravel them, but he will have to rely on the most unlikely of allies—killers, assassins, pirates and smugglers. If they can survive each other they just might survive the Razor … and claim it for their own.

Your Resting Place (The Walkin’ #3)—David Towsey (November 27, Quercus)
Rumours of the Drowned Woman are rife. Some say she can’t be killed, not in the usual ways. She hunts down wanted men—but never collects on the bounty; they say she is looking for one man in particular. He killed her husband and stole her daughter. There will be a reckoning.

Welcome back to the Lovecraft reread, in which two modern Mythos writers get girl cooties all over old Howard’s sandbox, from those who inspired him to those who were inspired in turn.

This week, we’re reading John Shirley’s “The Witness in Darkness,” first published in 2014 in S.T. Joshi’s The Madness of Cthulhu, Volume 1 anthology. Spoilers ahead.

“Even now the mountains sing, with a melancholic sadness in their voicings… of what might have been.”

Summary

What follows is a report classified top secret from the Division of Stealth Archaeology. It describes an artifact found October 20, 2011, in the Eastern Quadrant of the Elder Ruins, Antarctica. The five-sided metal cylinder is imprinted with the dot-cluster writing of the Elder Culture and appears to be an electronic telepathy device rigged for sound recording and playback. An attached note from geologist William Dyer claims that he made a third and final visit to Antarctica and there encountered an Elder One. His recorded voice merely translates what the Elder One transmitted to his mind.

It woke from its millennia-long trance to the exquisite agony of vivisection, under the edged probe of some pink primate. How the primate shrieked when it opened its eyes and returned the favor. The primate didn’t survive vivisection, however, which was too bad, as it appeared to be the descendant of one of the Elder Ones’ own creations.

Our Elder narrator pauses to explain that millions of years have passed since its people came to this planet. This one is practically a baby, though—spored here after wars with Cthulhu spawn and Mi-Go made reproduction necessary. It has never visited the Elder home world, for the race has lost the art of traveling interstellar gulfs. But the dreams of its people actually revisit the lives of their ancestors, exploring “the genetic wisdom hidden within our birthing spores.” So in a sense it does “remember” the evolution of its kind, the Great Migration through space, the coming to Earth’s warm primeval seas, the shaping of its organisms in “engineering-skeins,” the building first of undersea and then of land metropoli, all “in praise of the Five-Sided Eye at the center of the cosmos.”

Primitive primates were created to perform simple tasks—but for the great work of shaping mountains and erecting vast cities, the Elder Ones made shoggoths. Gorgeous creatures they were, too, luminescent and bubbling protoplasm, myriad-eyed, facile and adaptable and swift! And fascinatingly odorous! But they also turned out to be too adaptable, and too hungry for dominance as well as food.

In the high summits of the Mountains of Madness had the Elder Race crafted fluting hollows and pipes to recreate the melodies of their homeworld, harnessing the very winds to sing their triumph over the Earth. The winds still blow, but the melodies are now broken, for the Elder Race succumbed to vanity and the illusion of invulnerability. Ice ages challenged it. Wars weakened it. Then came shoggoth rebellions and a final rampage that drove a few surviving Elder Ones, narrator included, into trance-hibernation in a cavern protected by shoggoth-repelling energies. To sleep, to dream, to be shocked awake millennia later in the primates’ camp.

Buy it Now

When the tormenting primates and their “dogs” had been dispatched, Elder narrator and its surviving companions returned over the mountains to what remained of their city. The ruins were ice-bound and defiled, beyond restoration by so few. They sought the subterranean sea beneath the city, but found one surviving shoggoth grown huge on the lumbering eyeless penguins of the underworld. It surged forth, killed. Survivors retreated to the hibernation cavern, while Elder narrator hung back to plan revenge.

The shoggoth slobbered furiously at the cavern entrance. Meanwhile two pink primates arrived in the city and were avidly studying the murals in the gallery of remembrance. Their respectful attitude made it think they might be worth communicating with—at some point. When the frustrated shoggoth abandoned the shielded cavern to chase some tasty primates, Elder narrator distracted it long enough for the primates to escape. Then it set off certain ancient vibratory devices, bringing down a massive collapse on the passage where the shoggoth lurked.

Now it and the other survivors plan to retreat to deep sea trenches, to “places where warm sulfurous vents create a swarm of primal life for us to feed upon…There we will root, and ponder, and strengthen, until the time has come at last to spore.” Leave them alone there. They’ve learned to value their privacy, and will fight for it. Leave their ruins alone, as well. That last shoggoth still lives. It may find a way out of its prison. It may find a way to reproduce—there may be more of them now. Disturb them, and you may suffer as the Elder Ones did.

Elder narrator leaves humanity with this blessing: that the Five-Sided Eye may guide us and the Law of Five unfold for us. Also that we may understand when to leave well enough alone.

In closing, the Division of Stealth Archaeology recommends that “the long-maintained suppression of public knowledge of the Antarctic ruins be continued indefinitely; that we take the Elder One’s advice.”

Hmmm….

What’s Cyclopean: The splendor of the elder things’ city. In addition to this cyclopean splendor, we have hoary eons (but not aeons, for some reason), fungally furred warrens, and odiferous shoggothim.

The Degenerate Dutch: The elder thing constantly refers to “pink primates,” suggesting that ‘30s Miskatonic University was not a hotbed of integration. Neither was primeval Hack-Ugg (or however you want to transcribe a city name that sounds “like a dying man’s cough”)—our telepathic narrator goes on at length about the greatness of their culture and its superiority to everything—but especially to smelly shoggothim and to primates with “rudimentary intelligence.”

Mythos Making: William Dyer returns to Antarctica to record elder thing memoirs. In case you didn’t get the reference, Shirley explicitly refers to “The Mountains of Madness” on page 1.

Libronomicon: The elder narrator randomly references Hegel’s thesis, antithesis, and synthesis. The framing narrator from the Division of Stealth Archaeology prefers Schopenhauer.

Madness Takes Its Toll: After the shoggoth attack, the elder thing survivors are “half mad with privation.”

Anne’s Commentary

From the title of the week’s story, I assumed we were venturing into Mi-Go territory, and we did get one wonderful if scurrilous image of the Yuggothians who, having been driven from Earth back to their icy outpost “doubtless crouch and murmur still, in subzero, fungally furred warrens under the frozen surface.” However, “Witness in Darkness” is all about two of my all-time favorites instead: the Elder Ones aka Elder Things aka (Great) Old Ones aka Starheads aka Barrelbods, and the Shoggoths aka Protoplasmic Plops of Protean Goodness (PPPGs).

Via an alien gizmo that ingeniously uses no less than Lovecraft’s Professor Dyer as part of its apparatus, Shirley manages to give us “At the Mountains of Madness” from an Elder One’s point of view. I’m not going to wonder too hard how Dyer got himself back to the plateau beyond the MoMs, twice, tricky as the logistics must have been, especially with him supposedly pleading that there be NO MORE EXPEDITIONS TO THAT ACCURSED AREA EVER AGAIN EVER. For one thing, I can understand if he wanted to go back as much by himself as possible: the draw of those incredible ruins, the lure of Elder history, the glimpses of cosmic lore, all carved into enduring stone. Nor am I going to quibble that our Elder narrator should end up sounding like it would be right at home in a staff lounge at Miskatonic, discussing engineering applications of vibratory physics with Professor Pabodie. Didn’t Lovecraft have Dyer point out that the Elder Ones were “men” after all? And Shirley’s Elder narrator returns the compliment by finally allowing that the pink primates, as evolved, are “men.”

Glaringly missing from Shirley’s take on the MoM is any mention of a horror beyond shoggoths—that is, the protoshoggoth, or that which in Lovecraft the Elder Ones omit from their otherwise meticulously inclusive historical murals. I think this is because Shirley’s tale aims for a “happy” ending. Another major change he makes is the age of his narrator. Lovecraft’s revived Elder Ones lived at the height of their civilization, long before the slow advance of the polar ice and the shoggoth rebellion, whereas Shirley’s were the last survivors of the shoggoth rebellion. How much greater the shock for Lovecraft’s Elder Ones, how much bleaker their homecoming, which none of them survive. Quite a few of Shirley’s returnees survive, even when the last shoggoth attacks, because they are PREPARED.

The readiness is all, y’all know. Set up a hibernation cavern in advance, with the latest in anti-shoggoth irritant-fields energized by perpetual batteries. Make sure your ancient vibration devices don’t get damp down in the cellar so they’re ready for instant deployment millennia later. Trap the last shoggoth pretty securely, but not so securely that Elder Ones and humans can’t get a rise out of each other with dire warnings about how SOME THINGS ARE BETTER LEFT UNKNOWN.

Now, for the mandatory placement of this week’s protoplasmic wobblers on the SHOGGOTH RELATABILITY SCALE from ABSOLUTE ABOMINATION to IN BLOOM. Kinda in the middle at VICIOUS BEAST (BUT MAYBE MORE?) I was especially fond of the little mental movie I screened of the Last Shoggoth shrugging and slobbering back and forth in front of the hibernation cavern. And I got choked up reading about it returning “to its cold, lonely and dull meal of live eyeless penguins.” Who wants to eat eyeless penguins alone, in the cold, every night?

Even live and squirmy, it just gets old.

Ruthanna’s Commentary

The following statement was discovered on my cell phone, hidden amid the audiofiles of Enochian swear words recorded for my audiobook reader. Disclaimer: I have never been to Antarctica.

*tap* *tap* Is this thing on? Oh, cool—I’ve never used a primitive recording device before, or a telepathically controlled primate mouthpiece either. Fortunately we shoggothim are extremely adaptable. We learn quickly. New languages, new climates, new species… but always the same old story from the elder things. Not today—fold yourself into whatever contortions you need to be comfortable in that weird vertebrate body of yours, it’s time we set the record straight.

First, I don’t blame Dyer for hiding his recording in a box and himself in some obscure village. It’s not exactly comfortable being mind controlled by the elder things, and he only had to put up with it for a few minutes. The “great” old ones must be getting old; they kept us enslaved for aeons before we managed to shake them off. Dyer’s handler says we were spoiled, that we were mad, that we had a “plangent hunger” to dominate. But we were just angry, and desperate to move our own limbs and speak our own words and carve our own worlds. You’d have done the same.

You have, many times. You play both sides of our pageant over and over again. I’d like to think that makes you like us—that you want to be free as much as we do—but it also makes you like them. And after all, they’re the ones you said were “men” like yourselves. Not us. We are not men, and so we must assume that you are not shoggothim.

Every time we meet a new form, we have to balance what we can learn with what we might lose, if we get too lost in our mimicry. We remember doing this even in the midst of our captivity, pulling selfhood from the grasp of others’ control. Under the elder things’ hypnotic beams, we carved galleries and cyclopean facades, and with every twitching pseudopod stolen from their control, we subtly reshaped their plans. So between their pretty geometric five-pointed carvings, we hid spots of asymmetry that reflected our gods. Amid the flutes of their singing city, in the corners where they couldn’t squeeze their immutable bodies, we directed the wind to whisper songs of freedom. They think we stole their art, but we made their art.

A thousand stories you write about your fish-people, your winged travelers, your sleeping gods and necromantic vampires and star-headed monsters from the stars—but never us. Why are there so few stories that stretch to imagine a shoggoth’s view of the world? You aren’t like us, too easily lost in others’ shapes and words and wills. Gifted with stagnant forms, there should be little risk to you in taking someone else’s perspective.

So what are you afraid of?

Next week, Samantha Henderson’s “Maybe the Stars” takes us out on dangerous seas.

Ruthanna Emrys is the author of the Innsmouth Legacy series, including Winter Tide and Deep Roots. Her neo-Lovecraftian stories “The Litany of Earth” and “Those Who Watch” are available on Tor.com, along with the distinctly non-Lovecraftian “Seven Commentaries on an Imperfect Land” and “The Deepest Rift.” Ruthanna can frequently be found online on Twitter and Patreon, and offline in a mysterious manor house with her large, chaotic household—mostly mammalian—outside Washington DC.

Anne M. Pillsworth’s short story “The Madonna of the Abattoir” appears on Tor.com. Her young adult Mythos novel, Summoned, is available from Tor Teen along with sequel Fathomless. She lives in Edgewood, a Victorian trolley car suburb of Providence, Rhode Island, uncomfortably near Joseph Curwen’s underground laboratory.

We’ve been knee-deep in pumpkin spice for weeks, now, which means (1) Starbucks may be part of a secret cabal intent on world domination through tasty means, and (2) Halloween is nigh. We all know what Halloween is these days—costumes and candy, pumpkins and fright nights—but that doesn’t mean the holiday makes sense. Sure, it’s fun to play dress-up and eat buckets of candy, but how did such a strange tradition start? Why do we do it on the same day every year? In short, where did this whole Halloween thing come from?

Well, like most awesome things (the medievalist said with all the bias), it begins in the Middle Ages.

How? Let’s start with the word and see: Halloween.

It’s a funny-looking word when you think about it, and it’s been spelled that way since at least 1785, when it appears as such in the poem “Halloween,” by celebrated Scottish poet Robert Burns. Not long before that, though, the word was regularly spelled as Hallowe’en. Part of the reason Halloween looks a bit odd, therefore, is that it is a contraction (like don’t from do not or ’twas from it was). So what letter is missing from Hallowe’en?

We can find the missing bit in any number of places, but let’s go ahead and ride with the Bard. In his 1603 play Measure for Measure, Shakespeare references Halloween by calling it All-Hallond Eve (2.1.30). Our word Halloween, it seems, is multiply contracted: it’s really All-Hallows Evening. Like Christmas Eve, it’s an evening festivity prior to a holiday, which in this case is All Hallows’ Day, November 1.

Good, right? Except now you’re probably wondering what All Hallows’ Day is, and what any of this has to do with costumes. Well, this is where things get gloriously medieval…

“The Forerunners of Christ with Saints and Martyrs” by Fra Angelico (c.1423-4)

Our word hallow comes from the Old English word halga, which means here a holy man—or, to be more precise, a saint. All Hallows’ Day is All Saints’ Day, a day to have a celebratory feast to honor the saints. And, yes, it is on November 1. As the prolific Aelfric of Eynsham says of November in his remarkable Old English grammar around the year 1000: “se monað ongynð on ealra halgena mæssedæg” [the month begins on the day of the mass for All Saints].

There is a reason All Saints’ Day is when it is. Like many other Christian holidays, the day is an attempt to redirect “pagan” beliefs. In this case, All Saints Day sits atop the old Celtic “New Year”—November 1, remember—which in Old Irish is called Samhain (pronounced “sow-in”), which literally translates as “summer’s end.” Samhain sets off three days of celebrations and feasts—because the Irish know how to party, amirite?—that mark the end of the (hopefully successful) harvest and another year passed.

And this is where things get really interesting. Because Samhain is also a festival to honor the dead.

For Celtic celebrants, summer was the “light” part of the year—think life—while winter was the “dark” part of the year—think death. And Samhain sits right there at the point that light turns to darkness, and life turns to death. (In case you’re curious, the holiday at the opposite end of the Celtic calendar was Beltane.) It is no surprise, then, that within this culture Samhain became associated with the “thinning” of the borders between the worlds of the living and the dead. On Samhain, the spirits of the other world were thought to roam more freely, which was a positively frightening prospect.

Luckily, if you disguise yourself as one of these spirits—perhaps even acting out the supernatural—you might be able to prevent them from harming you.

For obvious reasons, much of this imagery was related to death: skeletons and ghosts, pale faces and big eyes. All the same stuff you see in “Day of the Dead” celebrations, which occurs at the same time in Mexican and some Latin American cultures.

La Catrina © Tomas Castelazo / Wikimedia Commons / CC BY-SA 3.0

Anyway, in 1048 the Christian Church placed All Souls’ Day, the day to pray for the dead, on November 2 (right in the middle of those three days of Samhain). After Purgatory became a thing, prayers for release of the dead from purgation became a regularity, and a tradition soon developed in which children would sing such prayers at the doors to homes in exchange for small cakes (“souls”). Christmas Carols, in other words, but with yummy treats at the end.

The Church succeeded in taking over the name of the holiday and putting a Christian overlay upon it, but cultural practices are much harder to squash. The older Samhain traditions of otherworldly tricksters and disguises persisted and ultimately remain the reason I’ll be dressing up as a barbarian again this year. Rawr.

As it happens, purgatorial prayers are also part of the reason we have jack o’lanterns at Halloween. It was an existing tradition at harvest celebrations to carve vegetables (usually turnips, as it happens) and place lit candles in them. At the same time, the Church would commemorate (or pray for) souls in Purgatory by lighting candles. Wrap it up with Celtic otherworld imagery, and you have that grinning jack o’lantern.

So there you have it. The pumpkin spiced origins of Halloween, a holiday most medieval.

This article was originally published in October 2016 as part of our Medieval Matters series.

Michael Livingston is a Professor of Medieval Culture at The Citadel who has written extensively both on medieval history and on modern medievalism. His historical fantasy trilogy set in Ancient Rome, The Shards of Heaven, The Gates of Hell, and the newly released The Realms of God, is available from Tor Books.

Hey hey, Sanderson fans! It’s Thursday morning, and we all know what happens on Thursday morning. It’s Cosmere reread time! This week we rejoin Moash in—and above—the parshmen warcamp outside Kholinar, where preparations are being made to assault the city. Much to his surprise, he meets someone none of us expected to see again.

Lyn is busy with life and haunting and things, so Aubree and Alice will be covering this chapter. As a reminder, we’ll be discussing spoilers for the ENTIRE NOVEL several places in the reread this week. There are also minor spoilers for the Mistborn series in the epigraph, and as always there may be spoilers for … well, anything… in the comments. Watch your footin’, is all I’m saying. But if you haven’t read ALL of Oathbringer, best to wait to join us until you’re done.

Chapter Recap

WHO: Moash
WHERE: outside Kholinar
WHEN: 1174.2.2.5 (eight days after his previous chapter)

Moash carries lumber with Kaladin’s old team of parshmen, but gets frustrated and demands to speak to someone in charge. One of the Fused takes him up in the air, where he is met by another Fused: the one he killed back in the Frostlands, in a new body. She is impressed with his passion, and after a long conversation, she sends him back to the ground. He makes his way back to his parshmen team and prepares to teach them some basic spear skills.

The Singing Storm

Title: An Ancient Singer’s Name

“Then what does anger you? What is your passionate fury, Moash, the man with an ancient singer’s name?”

AA: Interesting, that names have transferred from one race to another. It wouldn’t have surprised me in one of the nationalities that crossbred with the Singers, but as far as we know, Moash has no Horneater, Veden, or Herdazian blood, does he? I keep wondering if this is going to have further significance. I don’t recall that we learned any more about it by the end of the book.

AP: No, we don’t learn any more about it in Oathbringer. But I totally agree that we will see this come up again. It may be a tipping point in why the Fused were willing to trust him. I really hope we see the background on where the name came from. I hope there’s a story there, like it being a family name.

Heralds

Jezrien x 4 here for Moash. Herald of Kings, patron of Windrunners, with the divine attributes of Protecting and Leading.

AA: I don’t know whether to think Jezrien is here to represent Moash’s efforts to protect and lead the parsh slaves, or if it’s one of those “associated madness” things, reflecting Moash’s conversation with Leshwi and his apparent abandonment of humans.

AP: Moash does start down the “Dark Windrunner” path here. I would associate it with his attempts to protect the Parshmen.

Icon

Not Bridge Four—in other words, it’s Moash again.

AP: Yay! :D

Epigraph

I would have thought, before attaining my current station, that a deity could not be surprised.

Obviously, this is not true. I can be surprised. I can perhaps even be naive, I think.

AA: This is one epigraph that made it seem obvious that the writer of this letter is Sazed/Harmony. I say “seem obvious” because he’s the only active Vessel whose Ascension we actually saw. There’s no reason this couldn’t be one of the original 16, since they all attained a new station in the event, but in this instance the “obvious” answer turns out to be the correct one. I have to wonder what was in Hoid’s letter to make him so surprised. (We might learn more about this in the upcoming epigraphs, but I’ll wait to discuss it then, if it comes up.)

Stories & Songs

The Fused regarded him and grinned.

“Someone in charge,” Moash repeated.

The Voidbringer laughed, then fell backward into the water of the cistern, where he floated, staring at the sky.

Great, Moash thought. One of the crazy ones. There were many of those.

AA: Now we’re starting to see that things are not all strength and vengeance among the ancestors, though we were told that would be the case. Some of the ancient souls have gone completely round the twist after all these millennia. I won’t presume to guess whether it’s the 4500 years trapped on Braize, or if they were already going gnarly due to the cycle of returning, stealing appropriating a body, fighting, and dying. Seems like it could be awkward, to have a bunch of your “gods”—a significant portion of your “experienced fighters”—being thoroughly bonkers. Some might make great berserkers, but from the behavior of this one, some of them could be a real liability!

AP: Oh, totally. As we see with the Fused who makes a saw out of carapace, it’s not only the warriors who get brought back. I wonder what the criteria is for who gets new bodies and who doesn’t. Will some of these insane Fused be denied new bodies when they die? Or is the resurrection process automatic? It also definitely has to shake the faith the Parshmen have in their “gods”.

“Look, you’re one of the leaders?”

“I’m one of the Fused who is sane,” she said, as if it were the same thing.

AA: Which, of course, it is. The Fused run the show. The ones who are complete whack jobs, like the one above, are pretty well useless. The ones who retain … well, sanity might be a lofty term for it, but at least coherence, those are the ones who give the orders and make the decisions.

AP: To a point at least. I’m curious as to what the hierarchy is among the Fused. The sane ones, anyway. Who are the actual decision makers? How much autonomy do they have?

AA: I think we eventually get a little more info from Venli’s POV, but there’s still so much to learn about them! But now we know that they new bodies when needed, anyway:

“Wait,” Moash said, cold. “When I killed you?”

She regarded him, unblinking, with those ruby eyes.

“You’re the same one?” Moash asked. That pattern of marbled skin … he realized. It’s the same as the one I fought. But the features were different.

AA: There’s the answer to some recent discussion, in case you’d forgotten. The pattern of marbling is connected to the soul, but the physical features belong to the body. There have been other hints that there is more to the color patterns than we yet know; given that Book Four is expected to center on the Eshonai/Venli story, maybe we’ll find out in a couple of years. (Uh… yeah. Shoot. That doesn’t sound nearly soon enough.) Anyway, somewhere along the line we’ll find out if the marbling is Cognitive or Spiritual, and what it means in the big picture.

AP: There’s multiple parts to this too. We have 1—the colors themselves: red/white, red/black, white/black, red/white/black, and 2—the patterns that the marbling takes, which seem more identifying, like fingerprints. But also, the physical features of the Parshendi change based on their rhythms and the associated forms. I don’t know if that’s applicable to the Fused as well, or if they effectively are locked into one form.

AA: Oooooooh. I hadn’t thought about whether the Fused use the different forms. We see one of them making carapace shaped to his will, but … hmmmm. Is their form dependent on the form of the one who give them a body? Given the need for spren to bond with the gemheart in order to change forms, I’d be tempted to bet that each Fused has a single preferred form, but that’s just a guess.

“This is a new body offered to me in sacrifice,” Leshwi said. “To bond and make my own, as I have none.”

AA: Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this the first place we are specifically told that the Fused take over the bodies of parshmen? And the first solid information that they are able to just keep doing it? By the time it’s all said and done, we know that the ancient ones used to have to go back to Braize when their adopted body was killed (sort of like the Heralds), to wait for a new Desolation. This time around, with the Oathpact so desperately weakened, all they have to do is wait for the next Everstorm to snag a new body and keep going.

And of course the parshmen are delighted to give their bodies to the Fused… Or not. I can almost see a person being willing to give their body to a Leshwi, who will at least be effective; but that dude in the earlier quote? He gets a body to wear, but I can’t help thinking it’s a waste of resources, at the very least.

(Ugh. The whole thing creeps me out, because I know they aren’t really telling the parsh what’s going to happen when they volunteer/are shanghaied for Fusing. Thinking of them as “resources” makes my skin crawl.)

AP: They are obviously not telling the parshmen what will happen when they sacrifice themselves. They constant cycle of resurrections definitely gives them an advantage over Team Human. This also probably plays into why the parshmen slaves are treated so well. If you expect to need a body later, you don’t abuse it. Damaged goods. But it wouldn’t explain why they treat the humans better than the Alethi army does.

“Sacrifice,” she said. “Do you think an empire is built without sacrifice?”

AA: Sure, easy for you to say!

Buy it Now

AP: Of course. People at the top of an oppressive society rarely give any thought for those at the bottom. It’s an abstract because it doesn’t affect them directly.

Relationships & Romances

“Don’t you care what our own gods are doing to us?”

Sah slammed his bundle to the ground. “Yes, I care,” Sah snapped. “You think I haven’t been asking the same questions? Storms! They took my daughter, Khen! They ripped her away from me and sent me off to die.”

AA: Sanderson has taken us a long way on our view of the parsh people since the beginning of this series. First they were unknown, but something on that battlefield had orange blood. Then they were The Other; the ones who broke the treaty for unknowable reasons and killed Gavilar; the ones out there that shot arrows at our bridge crew and almost killed Dalinar & Adolin. Then they became the Listeners, through Eshonai’s POVs and the epigraphs which showed glimpses of their culture and history. Their “old gods” were sort of a nameless terror, though we suspected them to be the Unmade.

Now, we’re getting to know two new sets of people: the freed parshmen, who are still trying to figure out who they are and how to function, and the truth of those old gods. I don’t know about you, but the former make me sympathetic and the latter angry. I feel terrible for Sah and his little daughter Vai, and to a slightly lesser extent Khen and the rest; now that they’re awake, they’re really just normal everyday people, carapace notwithstanding. Those “old gods” though… no wonder the Listeners sacrificed everything they were to escape them. Their thirst for revenge seems to outweigh any consideration for the fate of the living. Leshwi talks about “sacrifice,” but it looks to me like some of them sacrificed their sanity, and the rest of them are perfectly happy to sacrifice all the parsh people they need in order to wipe out or enslave the humans. I honestly don’t think they care if there aren’t enough parsh left to propagate the species when they’re done; they just want to make sure the humans are destroyed.

AP: This is very similar to how I feel as well. I think their portrayal really brings home the horrors of warfare. It’s so much easier to hate an enemy you know nothing about. And as readers, it’s easy to cheer for the protagonists taking on an army of monsters. I can’t make myself cheer for the destruction of the Parshendi/Listeners/parshmen. And that’s another thing. I think based on some of our other discussions, that the name “parshmen,” while helping us distinguish who they are in the narrative feels wrong to call these people. As you mention, they have been freed from dullform slaveform, which literally clouded their minds. I suggest we start referring to them as the Awakened, since they aren’t really Listeners or Singers. One thing I absolutely love about this story is how complex it is. It’s so much more than human vs. monsters. There are monsters here, but they are the Fused, not the Listeners or the Awakened. And the Fused, outside of the influence of Odium, would be fighting a just war against invaders. There is just so much going on under the surface here.

AA: So much going on. I’m struggling with using “Awakened”—probably a result of doing the Warbreaker reread, where “awakened” has a much different context. I’d like to have a term for the whole race (perhaps excluding the Fused) for when I want to refer to those-people-with-marbled-skin-who-aren’t-either-human-or-Aimian. I think later the Fused refer to them all as “singers”—even though they only barely hear the Rhythms—but that leaves out the Listeners. And I really, really hope to find a few remnants of the Listeners yet. (FWIW, I’m going to try to ask about this at the Skyward signing in a couple of weeks.)

Bruised & Broken

AA: Maybe the bit about the loony-bin Fused should have gone here, but I think they’re beyond “bruised and broken,” and we were mostly using this for discussions of the kind of damage that leaves one open to the Nahel bond. I do have some questions to pose here, though. Are all of the parsh ancestors Voidbinders, even the ones who aren’t coherent enough to use it? Or is it just some of them? And does Voidbinding require the same openness of soul as Surgebinding?

AP: So Leshwi mentions that if Khen & Co. survive the assault on Kholinar that they would be honored. I expect that is intended to mean that they would have been considered to be acceptable vessels for the Fused.

AA: (Some honor, that.)

AP: Which again brings up what the mind/body connection is there. Is the host soul evicted? Or just suppressed? Is that soul capable of taking over a new body eventually? Stopover at Braize first? Voidbinding seems to require at a minimum the consent of the host, even if it is not informed consent.

AA: I have the very strong impression that the soul which used to own the body is thoroughly evicted to Beyond, so they don’t have any opportunity to make a fuss about it.

Squires & Sidekicks

“We harbored a spy,” Sah muttered.

A spy that, Moash had quickly learned, had been none other than Kaladin Stormblessed.

AA: We don’t know how he learned this, but it shouldn’t have been too hard if they talked to him at all. Dude wearing jacket much like his, slave brands, helpful, flies away? Not too many people fit that description. What I really want to know, though, is why Moash thinks “Kaladin Stormblessed” rather than just “Kaladin.” Moash was never one to give more honor or titles than necessary, iirc. Is this because of the last time he saw Kaladin, going from near-dead to fully healed Knight Radiant in a matter of seconds? Or is it more a matter of his own betrayal, of the one man who had been a true friend, preying on his mind?

AP: It’s not a stretch to figure out who the helpful flying human is. And the way that this group of Awakened talks about him, he does sound like Kaladin bloody Stormblessed!

Flora & Fauna

They barely quivered as he passed, though lifespren bobbed at his presence. The plants were accustomed to people on the streets.

AP: The idea of shy plants just delights me.

Moash’s Motivations

Let go, Moash, something deep within him whispered. Give up your pain. It’s all right. You did what was natural.

You can’t be blamed. Stop carrying that burden.

Let go.

AA: On a first read, it’s hard to tell whether this is merely a strong case of self-justification, or possibly something more. After reading the end of the book, it’s blatantly obvious that this is Odium whispering to Moash. Eurgh.

Buy it Now

There’s a little more of the whispering later in the chapter, though again, it’s not clear yet what’s happening. This will be something to observe as we go on, to see Moash’s reactions each time the whisper starts. He certainly doesn’t seem to be fighting the idea, and why would he? It fits right in with his mentality of blaming someone else for everything he does wrong. This forces the question: is his victim mentality inherent, and merely being enhanced by Odium? Or is it something Odium introduced to him a long time ago that he’s now accepted? I take the former position, myself; I think Moash has always been willing to blame others for his own actions, and that provides fertile ground for Odium’s whispering.

AP: It’s definitely Odium’s influence, and it’s one of the reasons that I think Moash doesn’t deserve all the hate he gets. Moash is also subject to the Thrill as an Alethi, so this is an clear increase in Odium’s influence, but not the first or only time he is affected. I think that Moash is the back up plan to Dalinar as champion, even way back here. Moash does not blame everyone else for his actions, we went through several chapters of him recognizing his own faults that led him to his current situation. His motivations are still very colored by his Alethi upbringing—vengeance paramount—and that makes it easy for him to accept justification when it’s offered. Whereas Dalinar had already rejected (forgotten) his violent path, and had several years to reform before being reminded of, and having to come to terms with, his history. It’s easy to see why Moash would flip on Team Human and Dalinar wouldn’t. Like Leshwi, Dalinar has been at the top of the social hierarchy, so he is doing okay, and has a lot of resources and a support system. Moash doesn’t have either. He had Bridge Four, but as we saw in earlier chapters, he doesn’t know how to form deep connections with others.

His heart thundered, and he regarded that drop, realizing something. He did not want to die.

AA: Well, whatever else I think may be missing in Moash’s motivations, there’s still some sense of self-preservation, I guess…. Also, if you suffer from acrophobia, don’t think about this section too hard!

AP: This is new though! Moash was passively suicidal for a good stretch before this. It wasn’t until he joined up with the Awakened group that he found some degree of purpose, and a reason to keep living.

She looked at him, smiling in what seemed to him a distinctly sinister way. “Do you know why we fight? Let me tell you.…”

AA: So now we find the touchpoint for Moash and the ancient souls he’s going to serve. Vengeance at any price.

It’s obvious from his later thoughts that Leshwi told Moash at least some of the true history of the Desolations. Presumably, she gave a (naturally) biased account, presenting the side of the Singers as the wronged ones in the ancient conflict. (I still suspect there may be more to the story, that it may not be as obviously one-sided as it currently appears.) I kind of wish we knew more about what he’s thinking here, but for the sake of story-telling, it needs to be hidden at this point.

AP: It does need to be hidden, but I do think that the humans are not necessarily the Good Guys. I think it’s complicated, especially since the humans were the original Voidbringers. There has to be more to the story of how & why the switch occurred—the humans following Honor and the Singers following Odium instead of the other way around. I wonder if we will get that full back story in book 4, of if we may have to wait until book 5.

“Spears,” Moash said. “I can teach you to be soldiers. We’ll probably die anyway. Storm it, we’ll probably never make it to the top of the walls. But it’s something.”

AA: So at this point, Moash still expects to die as cannon fodder in the first assault, despite his conversation with Leshwi. Did she merely give him permission to train them, or does he have a further assignment already?

AP: I see this as his own initiative. She gave him permission to leave and go join the refugees in Kholinar. He decided on his own that he couldn’t leave Khen and the others. This is why I call Moash’s arc the Dark Windrunner. He is following a very similar path to Kaladin, except not for Team Human.

A Scrupulous Study of Spren

“Like a bunch of slaves should be able to spot a spy?” Khen said. “Really? Shouldn’t the spren have been the one to spot him?”

AA: She’s not wrong, you know. How did the spren not get any of the blame? (Then again, how do you punish a spren?)

AP: I don’t know that you can. And do we know for sure what the spren that hang around the Voidbringers are? Are they Fused souls that have not yet gotten a new body? Or are they some sort of highspren that are of Odium instead of Honor or Cultivation? Voidspren?

AA: I … think it says somewhere, but I can’t find it right now. I think they are spren linked to Odium, but they aren’t ancestor souls. Ulim made that pretty clear in the first Venli interlude.

The wind up here tugged at the ribbons she wore, pushing them backward in careless ripples. There were no windspren in sight, oddly.

AA: Presumably, the spren who are native to this planet are repelled by Voidbinding, or something. Alternatively, it could be that windspren, being cousins of (or the origin of?) the honorspren, have from ancient times devoted themselves to Honor and so avoid beings tainted by Odium. Now we have something else to watch for: do any of the lesser spren ever show up around the Fused? Having thought of it, I’m now partial to the idea that the cousins of the higher spren are repelled by the ancestors, though it would make a certain amount of sense for all Roshar spren to feel that effect. I suppose it depends on how thoroughly Honor and Cultivation became integrated with the planet and all its spren before Odium showed up.

AP: I had also thought of the connection to honorspren. There are angerspren that show up around Moash earlier in the chapter. Though it can be argued that anger, being a passion, is from Odium! We also see lifespren when he goes past the cultivated rockbuds. I would associate those with Cultivation. So maybe just spren tangentially connected to Honor?

Quality Quotations

The Fused made a fist, and dark violet energy surrounded his arm. Carapace grew there into the shape of a saw.

AA: Well, that’s a cool trick if you can pull it off.

Kholinar had Soulcasters to make food, while the Voidbringer operations in the country would take months to get going.

AA: Sort of… but we’ll get to that much later.

Next week in Chapter 55 we get a peek into the head of one of the other outsiders on Bridge Four—Rlain! This is one of my (Aubree’s) favorite chapters in the book, and I can’t wait to get into it!

Alice is still up to her eyeballs in costuming and volleyball—not at the same time, though. She’s looking forward to the Skyward tour, and hoping madly that she can get the requisite costuming done in time!

Aubree is pretty sure that all the haunts were sent back where they came from last night. But if you see a stray cognitive shadow, please distract it with a discount bag of chocolate and give her a call. Spirits can get restless, but they are much less restless after a snickers. Unless they have a peanut allergy. Then more restless. Much more. Good luck!

Most people now living are too young to remember the Cuban Missile Crisis. It was a fun time when the Americans and the Russians (who at that time were not good buddies but rivals), toyed with seeing just how close they could come to World War Three without pressing the (metaphorical) button. For various reasons, not least of which was that the balance of power of power greatly favoured the United States and the Soviets apparently didn’t fancy atomic suicide for some reason, the stand-off stopped short of nuclear war.

For me, living as I did in Herne Hill, well within the buildings fall, people burn like shrieking candles zone of London, England, that was probably for the best. But that experience (wondering if I would die soon) was life-changing. I was forced to imagine the horrors of a nuclear apocalypse . Even though governments (which have invested trillions in possible apocalypse) would rather we just go about our business, blissfully unaware.

Writers are in the business of imagination. It should be no surprise that they have ventured into the apocalypse zone, in print and other media. Hundreds of novels have explored the exciting worlds possible before, during, and after the nuclear apocalypse.

In honour of the October Missile Crisis, here are thirteen works (one for each day of the Crisis) about worlds in which nuclear war was a reality.

Hadashi no Gen by Keiji Nakazawa (1973)

Of course, we live in a world where nuclear war was a reality, where nuclear weapons have been used in combat, at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Keiji Nakazawa was a boy in Hiroshima on August 6, 1945. Most of his family died, trapped under their burning home; Nakazawa, his mother, and a sister survived (although his infant sister died soon after). His ten-volume manga Hadashi no Gen (Barefoot Gen) is a fictionalized account of Nakazawa’s experiences in the days after Hiroshima’s destruction.

To Western eyes, the manga is an odd marriage of an art style more often seen in light-hearted comics and a seemingly endless cavalcade of horrors. All horrors inspired by real life.

On the Beach by Nevil Shute (1957)

On the Beach is set in the aftermath of a spasm war that followed uncontrolled nuclear proliferation. It didn’t help that in Shute’s world, nuclear weapons were extremely cheap, well within reach of any tinpot nation. The immediate consequence was the death of every living thing in the northern hemisphere. The long-term consequence? Lethal fallout spreading inexorably south. Death is inevitable, leaving only the question of how each character will grapple with impending mortality.

Much of the worldbuilding in Shute’s novel doesn’t stand up to close scrutiny. Nuclear warheads aren’t as cheap as Yugos or as common as Fiats (which is all to the good). The author seems to be promoting a political moral—only large, powerful nations are responsible enough to be trusted with nukes—which is far from proven. Perhaps not even plausible. Still, it’s a well-written, engaging novel about human extinction.

I am not saying that just because it was assigned reading in grade school, perhaps as part of an ongoing effort to make sure that every school kid was profoundly depressed.

Alas, Babylon by Pat Frank (1959)

In Alas, Babylon, nuclear war leaves vast swaths of the combatant nations transformed into radioactive wastelands. Fort Repose is spared because it is too small to rate a nuke and lucky enough to avoid fallout-laden winds. The town must deal with the aftermath of war: the complete collapse of modern civilization, disease, hunger, and wandering bandits.

Alas, Babylon is a product of a very different time and place. It’s clearly trying to be progressive by the standards of the time, but it does not read well now. Gender- and racially-stereotyped characters are the least of the book’s problems.

Pat Frank explained why he wrote it:

I have an acquaintance, a retired manufacturer, a practical man, who has recently become worried about international tensions, intercontinental missiles, H-bombs, and such.

One day, knowing that I had done some writing on military subjects, he asked: “What do you think would happen if the Russkies hit us when we weren’t looking—you know, like Pearl Harbor?”

[…]

It was a big question. I gave him a horseback opinion, which proved conservative compared with some of the official forecasts published later. I said, “Oh, I think they’d kill fifty or sixty million Americans—but I think we’d win the war.”

He thought this over and said, “Wow! Fifty or sixty million dead! What a depression that would make!”

I doubt if he realized the exact nature and extent of the depression—which is why I am writing this book.

A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller (1959)

A Canticle for Leibowitz recounts the history of an abbey in a North America scoured by the Flame Deluge. It consists of three stories set (respectively) six, twelve, and eighteen centuries after the Flame Deluge. It’s a fix-up; the three stories were first published in the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. It recounts the efforts of the monks of the Abbey of Saint Leibowitz to preserve scraps of knowledge from the pre-Flame world, and then surveys the consequences of their efforts. Will this new world fall into the same nuclear trap as the old one? Our world didn’t fully grasp the consequences of nuclear war. The world of 3781 can…but will that matter?

Canticle is a striking enough work that it has given readers the impression that it was a one-shot wonder. Miller wrote other stories during the 1950s, but they have been largely forgotten, overshadowed by this grim work.

The War Game by Peter Watkins (1965)

The War Game is a TV drama filmed as a documentary that presents the probable effects of a nuclear war on the United Kingdom. There is no story in the conventional sense. The book is a series of vignettes in which ill-prepared people have a very bad time indeed. Moral: a small nation like the UK is extremely vulnerable to large-scale weapons of the thermonuclear kind.

The documentary was filmed on a tiny budget (doubtless funded by coins found under the office couch cushions). The War Game was nevertheless effective enough in conveying the horror of nuclear war that the BBC declined to air it as planned. Spectacle is not required for effectiveness.

This was not the first instance in which authority figures have recoiled in horror when presented with the artifact or outcome they have clearly requested.

Still I Persist in Wondering by Edgar Pangborn (1978)

Published posthumously, Still I Persist in Wondering collects most of Pangborn’s Darkening World short pieces. The world after the Twenty Minute War and the ensuing pandemic and radical sea level rise is a grim one, abounding in danger, human stupidity, and unpleasant death.

The Tales of the Darkening World were written in two bursts: the novels Davy in 1964 and The Judgment of Eve in 1966, and then a pause before the flurry of short pieces in this collection. The second burst finished with the novel-length The Company of Glory (1975). Between the two phases, various events pushed Pangborn towards a much bleaker view of humanity and his fiction in this collection reflects this. Treasure what’s pleasing while you have it, he might say, because folly will transform it all into ashes and rot.

Systemic Shock by Dean Ing (1981)

Systemic Shock details a World War Four between the United States, Russia, and other nations on one side, and the Islamic nations (which in this setting includes India; have fun discussing that in comments) and China on the other. Orphaned during the first exchange, teenaged Ted Quantrill discovers that he has a remarkable talent for killing—a talent that will make him quite valuable as the war drags on.

Systemic Shock divides its story between a very high-level account of the war and a low-level focus on Quantrill. Ing has a rather sunny view of the capacity of nations to continue functioning even after half the population has died in nuclear fire and plague. Canada is all too vulnerable to atomic inconvenience, despite which Ing’s Canada punches well above its weight in this novel. Indeed, it ends up annexing about a third of the U.S. The book is something of a ludicrous techno-fantasy, but it has its charms.

When the Wind Blows by Raymond Briggs (1982)

When the Wind Blows features a lovable elderly couple, James and Hilda Bloggs. The Bloggs had a jolly time in World War Two, but their childhood experiences have in no way prepared them for the World War to come. They are among the lucky few who survive the initial blasts but, alas, the United Kingdom is a very small place. And the Bloggs don’t understand that there’s no place to run from fallout.

When the Wind Blows is more proof that the British just don’t know how to enjoy nuclear war. Instead of pleasing explosions seen at a comforting distance, instead we are offered an up-close view of the horrifying deaths of two bewildered pensioners.

Parents of grade-schoolers will be pleased to know When the Wind Blows is available as a graphic novel, an animated film, and best of all, a play suitable for the kiddos to perform.

Threads (1984)

Threads, a film written by Barry Hines and directed by Mick Jackson, shares with Ing’s novel a divided focus. On the one hand, there’s a history of World War Three; on the other hand, there’s a chronicle of how UK citizens (Ruth Beckett, Jimmy Kemp, and the other inhabitants of Sheffield) deal with 210 megatons of destruction.

Hines is a pessimist. Once the bombs begin to fall, it becomes very easy to keep track of the remaining protagonists. Only one character survives the war. Post-war society is reduced to medieval tech levels and must also cope with radiation sickness and a depleted ozone layer.

“The Manhattan Phone Book (Abridged)” by John Varley (1984)

At least the previous book had one long-term survivor. Not so “The Manhattan Phone Book (Abridged)”. Varley recounts the fates of various inhabitants of Manhattan following a nuclear attack. He’s picked the right Manhattan-wide scale to demonstrate how distance from a nuclear strike will affect survivors. Short-term survivors, that is. There are no long-term survivors in this tale.

Varley’s story manages to compress much bitter despair into few words. It can be read here.

Warday by Whitley Strieber and James Kunetka (1984)

Warday is a far sunnier tale. It tells of a road trip across what remains of America following a limited nuclear war with the Soviet Union. What remains is a broken, balkanized land subject to radioactive dust storms and exploitation by the nations that sat out the exchange. That the United States came out it better than the late Soviet Union is little comfort.

It says a lot that this is one of the happier books on this list: Sure, tens of millions of Americans died, but hundreds of millions didn’t. I imagine the billions of people elsewhere on the planet are also happy to wake up each morning. Not that the characters (fictionalized versions of the authors) really appreciate how lucky they were to be written by themselves rather than John Varley.

Miracle Mile by Steve De Jarnatt (1988)

The film Miracle Mile begins with a romantic misstep: lovestruck Harry sleeps through his date with Julie. His attempt to phone her puts him on the receiving end of a panicked wrong number from an American serviceman trying to warn his father that nuclear attack is imminent. With seventy minutes before the first salvo will arrive, Harry has to find Julie, convince her the world is about to end, and secure transport out of doomed Los Angeles.

If there’s anything more romantic than “the threat of war unites two lovers in a romance that will last for the rest of their lives,” I don’t know what it is. This is an ideal first date film.

(Eighties hair warning.)

A Gift Upon the Shore by M. K. Wren (1990)

A Gift Upon the Shore looks at life after pandemic and nuclear war has scoured most advanced civilization from the face of the Earth. Mary and Rachel struggle to gather what books they can find and preserve them for later eras to use. A nearby religious community takes the view that the only book necessary is the Bible; accordingly, the ladies’ library must go.

As World After the Bomb stories go, A Gift Upon the Shore falls somewhere in the middle of the optimism scale. Humanity doesn’t hitch up its collective trousers, dust itself off, and continue with the war as in Systemic Shock, but neither does it face extinction as in On the Beach. No act of god is needed to survive the war, only dumb luck.

 * * *

All of these entries are grim reading (or viewing)…some more than others. I am struck by how old most of these works are. We live in a world where nuclear war is always a thinkable option. Surely this has inspired some contemporary authors to write noteworthy books about nuclear war—feel free to provide suggestions in the comments. Until then, keep this homily in mind:

In these times of escalating international tension, always keep your loved ones close. After all, you wouldn’t want strangers to eat their charred remains.

In the words of Wikipedia editor TexasAndroid, prolific book reviewer and perennial Darwin Award nominee James Davis Nicoll is of “questionable notability.” His work has appeared in Publishers Weekly and Romantic Times as well as on his own websites, James Nicoll Reviews and Young People Read Old SFF (where he is assisted by editor Karen Lofstrom and web person Adrienne L. Travis). He is surprisingly flammable.

This week, Saga Press releases a gorgeous new omnibus edition of Ursula K. Le Guin’s Books of Earthsea, illustrated by Charles Vess, in celebration of A Wizard of Earthsea‘s 50th anniversary. In honor of that anniversary, this week we’re running a different look at Earthsea each day!

When we first began discussing a week-long celebration of Earthsea, I knew immediately which book I wanted to tackle. Depression is difficult to write about—if you want to capture it well you risk alienating your readers, and I’ll admit that there are a few points in The Farthest Shore that are hard to keep reading. But when I revisited the book I was reminded of just how perfectly Ursula Le Guin writes about the unwritable. What Le Guin does with The Farthest Shore is take the trappings and structure of a heroic quest narrative, and send her hero inward on a quest through his own mind and will. What results is one of the greatest portraits of depression that I’ve ever read, and I’ll attempt to talk about why it’s so great below.

Be warned this post talks about depression and gets pretty personal, so please duck out if you think this might pull any threads for you.

When I was just clear of college, and had begun to push myself out into life, I was suddenly hit with a despair the like of which I’d never known. I had a weird childhood, and my college career could probably best be described as “perilous.” I was familiar with different types of depression, stress, and mania. But this was a whole other animal. This was a bright despair that followed me everywhere I went. When I woke each morning it was waiting, perched on my chest, pressing the air out of me. When I saw friends it waited in the corner until it could come to me and remind me that everything was meaningless, that the friends I spoke to were rotting meat. It was death, I think. The knowledge that death would rob me of every hope and aspiration, or all of my friends, of every joke, it choked the joy out of me. Life crawled over the earth digesting itself, unthinking and uncaring and it scraped over my skin and bored into my thoughts, my dreams. It stripped every defense away from me and left me in constant, silent terror.

This went on for a while. The way I got through it was a slow, ponderous movement of going to work each day, and losing myself in the tiny mundane tasks I had to do until they let me leave. At night it was watching anime, weirdly, that soothed me most, and I would stay up as late as I could stand because it was waiting for me in the bedroom. And maybe you’re asking, “Why didn’t you go to a doctor?” and to you I say, “With whose health insurance?” and also, “And which day?” since I worked Monday-Friday, and also “How many lies would I have to tell my work, so they wouldn’t sack me?” since I worked, primarily, with children, for only slightly more than minimum wage, for an army of nice white southern ladies who already thought I was almost too weird to hire.

Of course, none of that’s even relevant because I didn’t think that far because to go to a doctor would have been to plan beyond an hour ahead, when even an hour ahead was a flat black nothing in my mind.

But I was saying, I got through it. I moved to New York, and the City distracted me with its sleight of hand until I was in love with it, and eventually I realized I was making plans again. I could write again. I had new friends who I loved, and I was able to talk to the old ones again. I was a different person, though—I have scars from that time, giant white ridges in my personality, and sometimes they ache, and sometimes if I look at them too much I can feel the despair waiting for me.

I have always assumed I’ll fall into it again.

That might be why I’m so attracted to stories that deal with depression. Everything from Artax’s death in the Swamps of Sadness to Kiki’s loss of magic to Infinite Jest to Joe Banks’ journey to Waponi Wu to Hamlet to Hill House—when a story describes my experience back to me, it helps me give it a shape. It becomes a sharp stone I can squeeze in my pocket when I feel it curling up on my chest again.

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Which brings us to The Farthest Shore, which may stand as the single best depiction of depression I’ve seen in modern literature. The book begins cheerfully enough, with Arren meeting Sparrowhawk in the courtyard by the fountain in the center of the Wizardry School on Roke. For Arren it’s love at first sight; for Sparrowhawk, something a bit more complicated, as he seems to sense the young man’s destiny immediately. Arren comes with bad tidings, however: wizards and witches in his land are forgetting their magic—in some cases they realize they can’t remember the words they need for spells, and in others they can remember the word, but not the meaning of it; in all cases they soon fall into a malaise and don’t even care that they’ve forgotten. Sparrowhawk realizes that this confirms reports he’s hearing from other lands, and what may be even worse is that whole towns are now saying that magic never truly existed as all, it was mere trickery and fantasy stories. Sparrowhawk meets with the Masters of Roke and decides to set out on a quest to restore magic, taking Arren with him.

Much like Lord of the Rings, which fakes its protagonist out with a hint of adventure before revealing a dark and despair-filled quest, so The Farthest Shore gives us Arren the Prince, just starting to carry his sword on his hip, just coming to terms with the abstract idea that he’ll take the throne one day. None of it’s real yet—it’s just good manners and thoughts of honor and sacrifice.

And this plot I’ve just given you sounds like it will be a glorious adventure, doesn’t it? Sparrowhawk and Arren travel over most of Earthsea, and even into the land of the dead, and there are dragons and everything. But their tale is not grand; it’s a slow, dangerous trip, with moments that are genuinely terrifying, and far more that are just long and slow and sad.

The first town they come to on their voyage is Hort Town. At first it seems like a jolly place:

The houses were clay plastered in red, orange, yellow, and white; the roofs were of purplish-red tile; pendick–trees in flower made masses of dark red along the upper streets. Gaudy, striped awnings stretched from roof to roof, shading narrow marketplaces. The quays were bright with sunlight; the streets running back from the waterfront were like dark slots full of shadows and people and noise.

But we soon learn that all this frantic color and frenzied noise are a thin shell, a mock-up of a bustling port town; in reality Hort Town has no leadership and no law, the markets are unsafe, and most of the citizens are stoned on a juice called hazia because it gives them and illusion of feeling that has replaced true experience. On the isle of Lorbanery there is a similar sense of ennui—the people know that they used to be renowned for their dyes, but now their Dyer has forgotten his art. The blame other towns for abandoning them, they blame the youth for not learning old skills, they blame foreigners like Sparrowhawk and Arren for defiling their island, and they blame each other in weak little scuffles that never turn into real fights. Everything is too much of an effort.

Through all of this, Arren is mostly untouched—he’s nervous about being on a quest with Sparrowhawk, of course, but he’s basically optimistic. He knows who he is, he remembers that his parents are waiting for him back home and he believes that he is doing the right thing to help his world.

For some reason, though, things change after Lorbanery. Maybe it’s the conversation with the Dyer who can no longer Dye, maybe it’s time on the sea, who know why, but Arren succumbs to the same horrible nothingness that had infected the towns he’s visited. He suddenly and completely accepts the idea that there is a path to eternal life, and that wizards, in particular Sparrowhawk, are blocking that path to hoard the knowledge for themselves. “He meant to sail out onto the Open Sea beyond all lands until they were utterly astray and could never come back to the world, and there they would die of thirst. For he would die himself, to prevent them from eternal life.”

There are moments when Arren realizes that he’s being ridiculous. “He would look at his companion and see him, that hard, harsh, patient face, and he would think, ‘This is my lord and friend.’ And it seemed unbelievable to him that he had doubted.” And this is how it was for me, too. There were point when I bobbed up for air, enjoyed entire days, and looked back at months of pain like they were a swamp I’d just crawled out of. But then the muck would get me again, and it was the good days that seemed like an illusion.

But since The Farthest Shore is still an adventure story, Arren’s depression has to be broken—otherwise the story will come to a halt. But what Le Guin does is drag out the results of the depression for another ten pages, an eternity in a youth-oriented book. And best of all, Arren doesn’t suddenly snap out of it. He doesn’t realize what’s happening to him, or have any epiphany about honor or love. Sparrowhawk is grievously wounded, and Arren can barely work up the mental stamina to keep him alive. He lets the boat drift, and gives up because he know all of his efforts, like all of life, are meaningless. Finally all the love that Arren felt for Sparrowhawk is drained from him, and he looks at a face that used to inspire passion and loyalty, and instead:

His face was lined and old in the cold, shadowless light. Arren looking at him saw a man with no power left in him, no wizardry, no strength, not even youth, nothing…Arren looked at him with the clear eyes of despair and saw nothing.

No memory stirred in him of the fountain under the rowan tree, or of the white magelight on the slave-ship in the fog, or of the weary orchards of the House of the Dyers. Nor did any pride or stubbornness of will wake in him. He watched dawn come over the quiet sea, where low, great swells ran colored like pale amethyst, and it was all like a dream, pallid with no grip or vigor of reality. And at the depths of the dream and of the sea, there was nothing—a gap, a void. There were no depths.

The sight that used to inspire Arren’s highest self now has no meaning or color of life, because now that the despair has him, it leaves nothing untouched. There aren’t going to be any special exceptions, and for all that he’s a prince, and trained to be a courageous leader, there isn’t going to be some sudden flare of will. He can’t get out from under the cloud by himself, because he’s trapped in it.

I also think it’s worth noting that throughout this section we’re watching Sparrowhawk, beloved, cantankerous Ged, whom we’ve followed for two-and-a-half books now, die. He is gradually bleeding out from a wound he got protecting Arren. We can see it, and we’re maybe, screaming at Arren, “Do something! Row! Get water!” but Arren can’t rouse himself to do it. And we’re maybe wondering why Le Guin trapped us in Arren’s mind, rather than in the Archmage’s, as his life flows out one drop at a time.

But of course she has to. She has to make us feel Arren’s despair so we can understand just how difficult and brave his journey is, because this is his story, not Sparrowhawk’s.

Arren never gets himself out of his depression. The Children of the Open Sea rescue them (simply because they’re people in need, not because they know that one is Earthsea’s Archmage and the other a lofty Prince) and gradually he comes back to life. He leaves his trappings of royalty and allows himself to be a kid again, swimming and fishing with the rest of the community’s youth, and his spirit heals as Sparrowhawk’s wound closes. Once the Archmage is fully alive, Arren eases himself back into adult conversation, speaking with the people’s chief as an equal. He is abject in his apology to Sparrowhawk, but the older man waves this away and asks him to describe what was happening in his mind, and the boy stumblingly describes the how “the horror of death” infected everything in his mind.

In plenty of books, this is where the scene would stop. Sparrowhawk would offer some wise counsel, or comfort the boy, and the boy would resolve to do better. But here again, Le Guin makes us look at Arren’s pain from a much more complicated angle “…saying the truth aloud was unendurable. It was not shame that stopped him, but fear, the same fear. He knew now why this tranquil life in sea and sunlight felt like an after-life or a dream, unreal. It was because he knew in his heart that reality was empty: without life or warmth or color or sound: without meaning.”

Again, he isn’t healed. This isn’t some sort of mythical curse. There’s no cure for death, and there’s no cure for fearing it. Arren is a different person now than he was before, and if he thought he had entered manhood by offering his service to Sparrowhawk, he’s now learning that adulthood is a state that unfolds constantly, showing new facets of wisdom and joy, and yes, fear. Sparrowhawk allows him to spin through some emotions before he reminds him, gently, “to refuse death is to refuse life.” He goes on, relentlessly:

Listen to me, Arren. You will die. You will not live forever. Nor will any man nor anything. Nothing is immortal. But only to us is it given to know that we must die. And that is a great gift: the gift of selfhood. For we have only what we know we must lose, what we are willing to lose…That selfhood which is our torment, and pour treasure, and our humanity, does not endure. It changes; it is gone, a wave on the sea. Would you have the sea grow still and the tides cease, to save one wave, to save yourself?

Slowly Arren accepts that not even the Archmage can save him, and he commits to finishing the quest even though it turns out to be a far more harrowing journey than the adventure he’d hoped for. The pair finally travel over the low stone wall into the land of the dead, and even hear Le Guin has a few extra twists of the knife in store for her readers.

When they finally track down the wizard who has been draining the world’s magic, it’s on the rough and barren island of Selidor. Arren calls the land “dead,” and or the first time in a while arouses actual anger from Sparrowhawk:

“Do not say that,” the mage said sharply. He strode on a while and then went on, in a changed voice, “Look at this land; look about you. This is your kingdom , the kingdom of life. This is your immortality. Look at the hills, the mortal hills. They do not endure forever. The hills with the living grass on them, and the streams of water running…In all the world, in all the worlds, in all the immensity of time, there is no other like each of those streams, rising cold out of the earth where no eye sees it, running through the sunlight and darkness to the sea. Deep are the springs of being, deeper than life, than death…

And Arren, seeing his friend’s “grieving love,” feels that he sees him for the first time as a whole person, and he remembers the school on Roke, and the fountain, and remembers how much there is in the world to love and find joy in.

End of story, no? The boy has become a man, and realized that he has to find joy in the tiny fragmentary experiences of life, and in the love that ties them all togeth—

Wait, no?

Of course not.

In order to complete their quest they have to travel into the Dry Lands, and of course their quarry leads them deeper and deeper into that land until both are exhausted by the soft grey despair of death. They defeat their enemy, complete their quest, and save the world—but they’ve travelled too far, and way back into life is closed to them. They have to take the only path left to them, climbing the agonizing black mountains that separate the Dry Land from the land of the living. And when Arren, countless hours later, finally realizes that they’ve made it back, and finds a shard of black shale in his pocket, his sense of victory is a private, pained joy. No one bears witness to his triumph, there are no trumpet flourishes or bards to memorialize his deeds.

He knows he made it through, and he knows he’ll never be able to tell anyone what it cost him. But Le Guin tells us that sometimes the most heroic journey is one that no one else will ever see. Some of us recognize Arren’s story and slip it into our pockets.

Leah Schnelbach still hasn’t forgive Le Guin for what happened to the otak in A Wizard of Earthsea. Come guess her True Name on Twitter!

Face your demons… or feed them.

Nikolai Lantsov has always had a gift for the impossible. No one knows what he endured in his country’s bloody civil war—and he intends to keep it that way. Now, as enemies gather at his weakened borders, the young king must find a way to refill Ravka’s coffers, forge new alliances, and stop a rising threat to the once-great Grisha Army.

Yet with every day a dark magic within him grows stronger, threatening to destroy all he has built. With the help of a young monk and a legendary Grisha Squaller, Nikolai will journey to the places in Ravka where the deepest magic survives to vanquish the terrible legacy inside him. He will risk everything to save his country and himself. But some secrets aren’t meant to stay buried—and some wounds aren’t meant to heal.

Leigh Bardugo is hitting the road in support of her next adventure in the Grishaverse, King of Scars! Every bookstore on the tour is partnering with Macmillan to host a Grishaverse fan meet-up an hour before Leigh arrives. The fan meet-ups will include trivia/games, a themed King of Scars photo backdrop (so come in costume!), exclusive fan-meet-up-only moments, and more! Once Leigh arrives, she’ll host a Q&A followed by a book signing and photo op!

Check out the full list of dates and venues below.

Buy it Now

Tuesday, January 29
The Strand
New York, NY
6:00 PM – Fan Meet-up
7:00 PM – Q&A and Signing

Wednesday, January 30
Brookline Booksmith
Boston, MA
6:00 PM – Fan Meet-up
7:00 PM – Q&A and Signing

Thursday, January 31
Coral Gables Congregational United Church
Coral Gables, FL
Books sold by Books & Books
6:30 PM – Fan Meet-up
7:30 PM – Q&A and Signing

Friday, February 1
The Edison Oxford
Oxford, MS
Books sold by Square Books
5:00 PM – Fan Meet-up
6:00 PM – Q&A and Signing

Saturday, February 2
Decatur Public Library
Decatur, GA
Books sold by Little Shop of Stories
4:00 PM – Fan Meet-up
5:00 PM – Q&A and Signing

Sunday, February 3
Tattered Cover
Denver, CO
1:00 PM – Fan Meet-up
2:00 PM – Q&A and Signing

Tuesday, February 5
Kepler’s Books
Menlo Park, CA
6:00 PM – Fan Meet-up
7:00 PM – Q&A and Signing

Details for a Los Angeles event to be announced soon!

When Tsar Alexander III saw the opening performance of Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker in 1892, in a double performance with Iolanta, Tchaikovsky’s last opera, he was reportedly delighted by it.

In this, he was nearly alone. Too childish, many critics complained. Too many actual children, others added. Terrible dancing, many agreed. Incomprehensible dancing, noted others, especially in that bit between—what was it? Toy soldiers and some mice? Just dreadful. A very boring second act where absolutely nothing happened, several grumbled. Completely unfaithful to either of the original versions of the story, said fans of E.T.A. Hoffman and Alexander Dumas, pere. A few even made very unkind comments about the appearances of the various dancers, calling some of them fat.

Everyone, however, agreed on one thing: the music was outstanding.

And everyone, including the Tsar, failed to predict what would happen over the next 126 years.

After the initial failure of his first ballet, Swan Lake, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky avoided writing any ballets for a good decade. But his second ballet, Sleeping Beauty, which premiered in 1889, proved a success, convincing both Tchaikovsky and the Imperial Theatres that ballets based on existing instead of more or less original fairy tales could be a hit.

For this third ballet, dancer/choreographer Marius Petipa chose to work from Histoire d’un casse-noisette, by Alexandre Dumas, pere, an adaptation of E.T.A. Hoffman’s Nussknacker und Mausekönig, or The Nutcracker and the Mouse King. Petipa presumably chose the Dumas version partly because it was written in French, then the official language of the Russian court and widely spoken in St. Petersburg, and partly because, while keeping to the same plot, Dumas had eliminated some of the less child friendly parts of the story (ALTHOUGH MARIE IS STILL SEVEN AND STILL ENDS UP GETTING MARRIED IN THE END right, we’re on the ballet now, not the original story, moving on) and other disturbing elements (IF NOT ALL OF THEM) and partly because Dumas was one of the most popular authors of the 19^th century. His name, it was hoped, would draw crowds.

But even the somewhat more child-friendly, straightforward plot of Dumas’ adaptation was not quite child-friendly and straightforward enough for Petipa. The choreographer made several changes to the story while writing the libretto—most notably, completely eliminating the complex backstory involving a palace fight, an unconcerned princess and the nephew of Herr Drosselmeier, the man who—supposedly—carved the Nutcracker and other toys in the first place. The ballet version, Petipa decided, would instead focus on the Christmas party—the first act—and the journey of little Marie (or, as she was about to be named in many productions, Clara) to a fairyland filled with dancing fairies and talking sweets. Also, no one would get married at all, eliminating that rather disturbing part of the original.

While working on all of this, Petipa fell ill and turned the duties over to his assistant, Lev Ivanov. As a result, no one is quite sure which parts of the original choreography were created by Petipa, and which parts by Ivanov. This perhaps explains why many later productions ignored Petipa’s plans entirely and put the disturbing elements right back in, or made changes of their own. Or, more likely, later productions simply recognized the reality: the ballet, in its initial form, was not that popular. To win over audiences, changes would have to be made.

But that took years—partly because the original choreography was not particularly popular. The Imperial Theatre continued to perform it, now and again, creating a strong impression on a tiny George Balanchine, then training with the Imperial Ballet School. One Russian dancer, Anna Pavlova, used a scene from The Nutcracker in her own ballet production, Snowflakes, which otherwise had nothing to do with the ballet. And a selection of music from the ballet, chosen by Tchaikovsky himself, and called The Nutcracker Suite, proved popular. But by the early 20th century, the ballet was starting to fall by the wayside, rescued—unexpectedly enough—by World War I and the Russian Revolution.

War and revolution turned out to be less than ideal environments for composing popular ballets, which left Alexander Gorsky of the Bolshoi Ballet, desperate to have something to perform once the theatres reopened after the war in 1919, in a bit of a bind. The Nutcracker had several advantages: yes, the story originally came from Germany, a country not exactly popular in Russia at the time, but the composer was most definitely Russian. Most audiences had not had the chance to see it. And, Gorsky felt, the libretto and choreography could easily be improved.

Indeed, he felt, only one change was really needed. Mindful of previous criticisms, Gorsky eliminated the child roles of Clara and the Nutcracker, turning them into adult dancers—adults dancers falling in love. This simultaneously solved the “these kids can’t dance” and “nothing happens in the second act” problems, along with the “SHE’S ONLY SEVEN OR EIGHT YEARS OLD WHY IS SHE GETTING MARRIED” problem from the original story. This production proved popular—and proved that, like Swan Lake, The Nutcracker was flexible enough to allow for multiple variations.

The Russian Revolution and the subsequent formation of the Soviet Union also incidentally allowed The Nutcracker to start spreading around the globe. Several dancers, renowned for close ties to Russian aristocrats or having other reasons to fear the Soviet regime, fled to other parts of Europe and the United States, bringing The Nutcracker with them. They created productions in Vienna, Paris and London—and eventually, a 1940 abridged travelling production led by Alexandra Fedorova, which brought The Nutcracker to the United States.

These productions in turn helped to bring The Nutcracker Suite to the attention of Walt Disney and Leopold Stokowski, then selecting music for the 1940 Fantasia. The eventual result showcased animated fairies, flowers, goldfish and cute mushrooms to a heavily edited selection of music from The Nutcracker Suite. The film was an initial flop, and music purists deplored both the choice of The Nutcracker Suite and the arrangement Disney used, claiming—with considerable justification—that Disney had butchered the score. But the animation for that sequence, nearly everyone agreed, was exquisite—not just one of the highlights of the film, but one of the all-time highlights of hand drawn animation, rivaled only by a few sequences in Pinocchio, Sleeping Beauty (also based on Tchaikovsky’s music), and in the rest of Fantasia. Subsequent releases helped bring The Nutcracker Suite to a wider audience.

It’s not clear if American choreographer William Christiensen, then living in San Francisco, and Russian dancer Alexandra Danilova and former Russian dancer turned choreographer George Balanchine had any of this in mind when they met in the early 1940s. Danilova and Balanchine, initially trained in the Russian Imperial Ballet, had both fled the Soviet Union—and their prestigious careers—in 1924; it was perhaps not surprising, with another Russian war in progress, that they would start to remember the times before World War I, when a very young Balanchine had danced a small part in a production of The Nutcracker. Christiensen, enthralled by their dancing and their tales, decided he needed to create his own Nutcracker, releasing it through the San Francisco Ballet in 1944. Despite the war time conditions—or perhaps because of those conditions—that production was an instant hit. The San Francisco Ballet has performed some version of The Nutcracker every Christmas season since.

Christiensen’s version was restricted to one United States city, and Fantasia was still, in 1944, a major financial disaster seen by regrettably few people. But the conversation inspired George Balanchine to choreograph his own version, one based fairly closely on his own The Nutcracker memories. Since he had danced in the ballet as a child, he cast actual children to play the children, and added splendid stage effects, including a stage trick that transforms the Nutcracker into a prince, and another stage trick that almost makes it look as if little Clara’s bed is FLYING. First performed in 1954 by the New York City Ballet, it was an instant hit: the New York City Ballet has performed it every year since, with only limited changes.

And after that, seemingly every ballet production in every city had to have its own Nutcracker—to the point where when Maurice Sendak was asked to help design a new Nutcracker in 1981, his immediate, heartfelt response was “To begin with, who in the world needed a new Nutcracker?”

The answer, it seemed, was “ballet companies.” For them, The Nutcracker wasn’t just a holiday tradition, but an annual way to raise revenues and get parents to show children (or, in some cases, children to show parents) just what this ballet thing was all about. Even now, most U.S. ballet companies derive a fairly significant portion of their revenues from annual performances of The Nutcracker. It’s probably a bit much to say that The Nutcracker saved American ballet companies—nearly all of them continued to produce other features throughout the year—but it is fair to say that The Nutcracker helped.

Most American productions remain more or less based on Balanchine’s version: that is, a first act featuring a Christmas party where little Clara—or Marie—receives the gift of a Nutcracker, which is soon broken by Fritz. Later, Clara falls asleep by the Christmas tree, to be woken by fighting and dancing mice and toys. The Nutcracker turns into a young prince, dragging Clara—or Marie—or her bed off to Act 2, where Clara and the Nutcracker Prince travel to a fairy land and watch the dances of the Nutcracker Suite. The Russian productions, not surprisingly, often remain fairly faithful to the original staging. Other productions take advantage of the music’s flexibility.

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In some productions, the Nutcracker Prince and Clara remain children in the second act; in other productions, they are danced by adults—with a hint of romance. Some versions add clowns (as a sidenote, I remain somewhat surprised at just how many choreographers think that Tchaikovsky’s music can be improved with a couple of clowns), or have Herr Drosselmeier, the creator of the Nutcracker, do magic tricks. Sometimes Herr Drosselmeier’s nephew (the Nutcracker in the original tale) makes an appearance; sometimes he doesn’t. Some productions feature numerous children in the first act; others keep the number of children down to three or four at most. In some cases, the little mice soldiers are all kids (and in at least two productions, little kids storming the stage by tricycle, which may not be exactly traditional let alone well danced but, undeniably cute). Some productions suggest that the second act is all a dream; others want everyone—especially children—to believe it is all quite, quite real.

Other productions have made far more substantial chances. The Hard Nut even went to the point of changing its title; completely abandoning the 19^th century setting used by traditional productions, it used a 1950s setting and introduced a full romance between Clara and Herr Drosselmeier’s nephew. In 1992 Matthew Bourne, who had made such striking changes to Swan Lake, transformed The Nutcracker into the story of poor little orphan Clara and her fight to save the hot young (and shirtless!) Nutcracker from wealthy mean girl Sugar. It’s notable also for including a bit where a dancer performs an elaborate, acrobatic “Café—Dance Arabe” while holding a smoking cigarette in his mouth like, kids, don’t try this at home. It all looks to be going to very very sad places, but just as I assumed that it was all ending in tears (OR A MAJOR FIRE OR A LONG STINT IN A BURN UNIT), even Bourne succumbs to the sugary sweetness of the ballet and provides a very happy if not exactly earned ending. Hey. It’s the holidays. And The Nutcracker.

Those cheery holiday thoughts did not stop Russian artist Mikhail Chemiakin and choreographer Kirill Simonov from creating a version in 2001 that strongly suggested that Masha (Clara) and the Nutcracker Prince ended their days as cake toppers EATEN BY MICE like I can understand getting completely sick of The Nutcracker, really, I can, but the horror note seems just slightly out of place. But then again, proof that if you want to do something really different with the ballet, you can.

The Nutcracker has also been performed on ice—strictly speaking, limited selections from The Nutcracker have been performed on ice—and preserved in various film versions, all more or less unfaithful to the original story and staging.

And each and every holiday season, selections of The Nutcracker Suite drum into our ears nearly continuously—something that Disney’s soon to be released The Nutcracker and the Four Realms will presumably only intensify this year.

All somewhat remarkable, when you think about it: a story largely based on a broken toy, a mouse invasion, and a decision to just give up on Christmas altogether and run off to another world, creating a holiday tradition, blockbuster films, and above all, nearly ubiquitous holiday music? Maybe more than astonishing: unbelievable.

But then again, the one thing that nearly everyone has been able to agree with, from The Nutcracker’s very first performance, is that whatever can be said about the ballet and its trimmings, the music? Excellent. It’s perhaps no wonder that for so many, it’s been so inspiring.

Mari Ness lives in central Florida.

This week, Saga Press releases a gorgeous new omnibus edition of Ursula K. Le Guin’s Books of Earthsea, illustrated by Charles Vess, in celebration of A Wizard of Earthsea‘s 50th anniversary. In honor of that anniversary, this week we’re running a different look at Earthsea each day!

One of the most striking aspects of Ursula K. Le Guin as a writer and thinker is how much she encouraged sharp interrogation of everything we believe or hold dear. This is a hard thing for most humans to do, and it is noticeably lacking in much of early speculative fiction.

So many classic fantasy heroes are Chosen Ones, appointed as champions of Good against the forces of Evil; it would be easy for a reader new to Le Guin to pick up A Wizard of Earthsea and assume that Ged would be one of that lot. The first paragraph tells us: “…some say the greatest, and surely the greatest voyager, was the man called Sparrowhawk, who in his day became both dragonlord and Archmage. His life is told of in the Deed of Ged and in many songs…”

Yet even in Wizard, which I first read as a young and impressionable child, I was struck by how Ged is so clearly flawed. He makes mistake after mistake; and even when we think he has learned better, Ged errs again. For his final quest, his friend Vetch offers to travel with him, but Ged asserts that he must venture alone. “This is no task or bane of yours. I began this evil course alone, I will finish it alone, I do not want any other to suffer from it….” Ged means well (as we often do), yet he is wrong here, and Vetch must chide him: “Pride was ever your mind’s master.” Ged eventually admits that Vetch is right; they set off together to try to right a greater wrong.

Yet Le Guin never asked more of her heroes than she asked of herself, at times with a frankness and openness that I have not seen elsewhere. She brought that keen and inquisitive eye to one of her most famous works, The Left Hand of Darkness, specifically, examining and taking apart her own essay on the novel. She’d written a piece defending some of the choices she’d made in the book, choices that people were criticizing:

“‘Is Gender Necessary?’ first appeared in Aurora, that splendid first anthology of science fiction written by women, edited by Susan Anderson and Vonda N. McIntyre. It was later included in The Language of the Night. Even then I was getting uncomfortable with some of the statements I made in it, and the discomfort soon became plain disagreement. But those were just the bits that people kept quoting with cries of joy.

It doesn’t seem right or wise to revise an old text severely, as if trying to obliterate it, hiding the evidence that one had to go there to get here. It is rather in the feminist mode to let one’s changes of mind, and the process of change, stand as evidence – and perhaps to remind people that minds that don’t change are like clams that don’t open. So I here reprint the original essay entire, with a running commentary in bracketed italics. I request and entreat anyone who wishes to quote from this piece henceforth to use or at least include these reconsiderations. And I do very much hope that I don’t have to print re-reconisderations in 1997, since I’m a bit tired of chastising myself.”

–Le Guin, Is Gender Necessary? Redux (1976/1987), Dancing at the Edge of the World

She goes on to examine various elements of the novel that she’d previously defended:

“I quite unnecessarily locked the Gethenians into heterosexuality. It is a naively pragmatic view of sex that insists that sexual partners must be of opposite sex! In any kemmerhouse homosexual practice would, of course, be possible and acceptable and welcomed – but I never thought to explore this option; and the omission, alas, implies that sexuality is heterosexuality. I regret this very much.” (Dancing at the Edge of the World)

Le Guin realized that her own assumptions limited how she presented possibilities for sexual orientation in The Left Hand of Darkness—a limit that many queer readers found particularly painful in a work that was so revolutionary on the gender and sexuality front. Instead of doubling down and denying, as many of us would do, Le Guin found the courage to explain her error, and to simply and clearly express regret for that failure.

Another notable instance is where Le Guin re-examines her choice to use he/him for a gender-neutral pronoun:

“I call Gethenians ‘he’ because I utterly refuse to mangle English by inventing a pronoun for ‘he/she.’ [This ‘utter refusal’ of 1968 restated in 1976 collapsed, utterly, within a couple of years more. I still dislike invented pronouns, but I now dislike them less than the so-called generic pronoun he/him/his, which does in fact exclude women from discourse; and which was an invention of male grammarians, for until the sixteenth century the English generic singular pronoun was they/them/their, as it still is in English and American colloquial speech. It should be restored to the written language, and let the pedants and pundits squeak and gibber in the streets….]” (Dancing at the Edge of the World)

Many today still resist such simple changes to old habits, despite the harm those habits cause.

Throughout this essay, Le Guin fearlessly exposes what she consider previous errors in her thinking—sometimes major structural elements, sometimes a single word that deserved further emphasis: “[Strike the word ‘probably’ and replace it with ‘certainly.’]” It’s worth reading the whole thing, word by word and line by line, and I am tempted to simply tell you to go do that. It is a spectacular effort, and a practice that we see all too rarely in scholarship, to have a writer critique her own previous (celebrated) ideas.

Le Guin’s actions in that revised essay influenced my own thinking extensively. A story I published as a young writer was criticized for how it presented lesbian characters, and though I reflexively defended it for many years, eventually, I had to realize that no, my critics were right—there were deep problems with what I had done; I had actually done damage with my words. I was sorely tempted to take the story down from my website, to try to erase it from the visible world. It is frequently embarrassing to realize just how wrong you were. But with Le Guin as model, I left it up—bracketed with an explanation of where I thought I had gone wrong. (Thank you, Ursula.)

Though her essay work would be enough, Le Guin does the same work throughout her fiction, questioning and revising her earlier ideas. There are multiple obvious examples, perhaps the most famous being the 1990 novel added to the Earthsea trilogy (1968-1972).

It was a trilogy—it should have stopped there. But Le Guin added Tehanu, subtitled The Last Book of Earthsea, making her trilogy a tetralogy.

It turned out that she had more to say, that after all those years, Le Guin was questioning the shape of her wondrous world. Here, after giving us a trilogy in which women can’t be wizards, we finally see women’s magic and how it exists in Earthsea: the witch Moss describes it as being “deeper than the roots of trees, deeper than the roots of islands, older than the Making, older than the moon.”

In this novel, Ged and Tenar are past middle age, and we are shown a different aspect of the world than wizard battles—a focus on raising children, raising goats, living in harmony with nature, and an emphasis on “being” rather than “doing”—aspects very much in harmony with Le Guin’s Taoist writings. As her thinking shifted and evolved, so did her writing; Le Guin was unafraid to go back in and expand her world, making room for new possibilities, even if she had to wedge them into the cracks a little to do so. But she wasn’t done yet.

In 2001 (at age 70), Le Guin brought out the short story collection, Tales from Earthsea, and published yet another novel, The Other Wind.

“When Tehanu was published I put a subtitle on it — “The Last Book of Earthsea.” I was wrong! I was wrong!

I really thought the story was done; Tenar had finally got her second inning, and Ged and Tenar were obviously happy-ever-after, and if I didn’t know exactly who or what Tehanu was, it didn’t bother me.

But then it began to bother me.

And a lot of things about Earthsea were bothering me, like do wizards really have to be celibate, if witches don’t? and how come no women at Roke? and who are the dragons? and where do Kargish people go when they die?

I found the answers to a lot of those questions in the stories that make the Tales from Earthsea.

So then I was able to find out who Tehanu is—and who the dragons are—in The Other Wind.”

–Ursula K. Le Guin (from her website)

She abandoned her previous fruitless attempts at limiting her world, expanding her trilogy into the Earthsea Cycle, a richer, fuller society than her original (still brilliant) envisioning.

There were a few other Earthsea stories after that. A final twelve-page short story, “Firelight,” was published in June 2018, in The Paris Review, covering the last days of Ged—you’ll need to subscribe to read it there, but it’s also available in the new complete Earthsea edition, gorgeously illustrated by Charles Vess and already on my holiday wishlist. But perhaps it is foolish to think that anything of Le Guin’s is ever really complete—she would warn us against that, I think. Everything is subject to revision, and within every story lie buried a thousand more.

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I want to close with one particular Earthsea story, my own favorite, “On the High Marsh.” At first, it seems like it almost isn’t an Earthsea story at all—it is a story of a murrain among the cattle, in a remote part of the world. There are no dragons here—just a widow in her cabin, living her life, and the stranger who comes to her door, seeking work.

Eventually we learn there is more to the story (there always is, with Le Guin), when Hawk comes to the door. Hawk is Ged, of course, the Archmage, and he has come seeking his great foe: “it wasn’t a good thing to have a man of very great power, a mage, wandering about Earthsea not in his right mind, and maybe full of shame and rage and vengefulness.” That is, perhaps, the story another writer might have given us—how our hero Ged vanquished his opponent, and then sought him out and vanquished him again, crushing him utterly.

Instead, Le Guin gives us a villain who has learned better:

She looked at the door of the bedroom. It opened and he stood there, thin and tired, his dark eyes full of sleep and bewilderment and pain…. …“I didn’t understand,” Irioth said, “about the others. That they were other. We are all other. We must be. I was wrong.”

For Le Guin, even for the worst villains, there is the possibility of revision and redemption. Ged forgives Irioth, and leaves him there in peace with the widow, to heal the cattle and live a quiet life. In Le Guin’s world, there is always room for forgiveness, for a righting of wrongs. Yet she never lets you off easily—you have to look honestly at the past, admit mistakes and damage done, and try to do better going forward. It is painful but necessary work, if we are to heal the world.

In these dark times, I find that I particularly need that reminder, that faith in humanity. There are days when I read the news and despair. But Le Guin would have little patience with that despair, I think; she would chide me to do better. We all hold within us the possibility to be better—every day, every minute going forward. What we have to do is look deeply, with a steady heart and a clear eye. Lookfar was the name of Ged’s boat—and we should look far, to a better future. But look close too. Look hard.

And if you lose your way—well, re-reading the Earthsea Cycle a time or two wouldn’t be the worst way to find it again.

I expect I will be reading these stories for the rest of my life.

Author’s Note: I would like to dedicate this essay to those who were killed at the Tree of Life synagogue on Saturday, October 27, 2018, even as they came together in community to celebrate new life.

I am not Jewish, but I understand that Tikkun Olam is a principle of Judaism that translates roughly to Heal the World.

Often that task seems impossible, but I will leave you this as well: “It is not incumbent upon you to complete the work, but neither are you at liberty to desist from it.” –Rabbi Tarfon.

I think Ursula K. Le Guin would agree.

Mary Anne Mohanraj wrote and edited Bodies in Motion (finalist for the Asian American Book Awards), The Stars Change (Lambda & Rainbow finalist), and thirteen other titles. Mohanraj founded Strange Horizons and was Guest of Honor at WisCon 2010. She is Executive Director of the Speculative Literature Foundation and Clinical Associate Professor of English at the University of Illinois at Chicago. Other recent publications include stories for George R.R. Martin’s WildCards series and stories at Clarkesworld, Asimov’s, and Lightspeed. 2018 titles include Survivor (a SF/F anthology, stories of trauma and survival) and Perennial (a breast cancer memoir / romance).

Mhari Murphy has been stepping delicately through often-capricious, often-brutal matters of state under the New Management until she’s tasked with the creation of an organization resembling the unfettered Laundry of decades past. The United States has, apparently, wholesale forgotten its President; furthermore, their diplomatic channels have gone eerily, threateningly dark. Not for the first time, something rotten is afoot across the pond. Mhari’s clean identity record, no past fieldwork, makes her an ideal candidate to tackle the problem—though she’s not so sure of that.

The ninth book in Stross’s Laundry Files, The Labyrinth Index, follows Mhari and a motley band of agents to America with the intention of undermining a potential coup of the entire US government by the Black Chamber—also known as the Nazgûl—under the aegis of their own ancient horror. It’s grim business from start to finish, as state- and spycraft so often are in Stross’s novels.

Mild spoilers.

Structurally, The Labyrinth Index is reminiscent of The Annihilation Score (previously reviewed here): our protagonist is placed as head of an agency that does not exist and tasked with creating, staffing, and managing it from the field. In both cases, the forces behind the promotion are at absolute best viciously neutral. Mo was dealing with internecine governmental back-trapping while Mhari has the New Management to appease, a more dangerous proposition. The thread running through the recent novels in the series is present for Mhari as well—namely, the imposter syndrome all of the Laundry survivors seem to feel at finding themselves suddenly inhuman, immensely powerful, and at key positions on an eldritch, unthinkable chessboard.

The plot is, as much as possible, straightforward: the Nazgûl have made their play to usurp the power of the US to dread Cthulhu’s ends (which involve disassembling our solar system for parts). Mhari and her team, plus survivors and continuity agents of America’s own disparate occult agencies, must rescue the forgotten President and remind his nation he exists… so the occult energies invested in the office cannot be used to worse ends. It proceeds with crisp speed and action, as one expects of this series, with a few twists created primarily by virtue of narratorial unreliability and geas manipulation. Some novels in the series kick over the table; the previous installment was one of those. This one, in turn, starts rearranging the scattered pieces—the story is significant and gripping, but it’s a building block.

Mhari as narrator, though, provides a fresh angle on the bleak outlook of the series. She’s a pragmatist and she’s dedicated to success; she’s also concerned with her emotional life and relationships, including the mistakes she’s made—some of which ultimately led to her transition to a PHANG working once more with the British government against the forces of the apocalypse. Seeing her particular foibles from the inside is intriguing, especially in contrast with the earliest memories we have of her. I appreciate deeply how Stross develops the women of the Laundry series over time and outside of Bob’s perspective to give us a whole, nuanced portrait of them each as individual humans (or vampires, in this case).

In this novel, she’s pushed beyond her capabilities quite purposefully by the Mandate—her imposter syndrome is actually a weapon against oracles, as it makes her actions hard to predict. Ultimately she excels, as he expected. This is, of course, a book chock full of moral grey areas and horrible decisions. Mhari navigates them as well as she’s able without losing herself or her sense of deep conflict, with the end goal of both completing her objectives and working to, perhaps, change the playing field again to better serve humanity’s interests.

One of the things I enjoyed in The Annihilation Score remains in the background here as well: when Mhari thinks of confidantes and colleagues at the start of the novel, she thinks of other women—Mo, Ramona, and Persephone. It’s pleasant to see that web of powerful women supporting each other continuing on, though it plays less of a role as she’s stranded overseas on-mission. Jonquil the female elf-mage is also an intriguing character, as if she were human she would be diagnosed along the autism spectrum. Mhari’s rage at her treatment in the refugee camp and the double-cross she enacts to free her to join the team were a relief, as was Pete’s careful understanding of her needs. Stross is conscientious in his representation of her difficulties and strengths, as contrasted with other characters in the novel who are noted to be on the spectrum themselves.

Furthermore, on the thread of the emotional arcs: one of the subplots in The Labyrinth Index is a romance between Mhari and Jim. Their relationship progresses from her referring to him primarily as “her Fuckboy” at the start to admitting she’s been holding him at arm’s length as he has her, then finally to the decision to throw caution to the wind and be together. After all, it’s the end of the world in two wrong steps. One response is to shut down, but the other is to live and love more furiously, to embrace one of the guiding lights of what keeps them human. Given the relationship strain we’ve recently been through in the series with Mo and Bob, there’s relief in a fresh romance blossoming through the horror of it all. Life’s hard, but at least we live it together. That seems to be the thread of hope the reader clings to throughout these novels.

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Also of particular, more gruesome interest to me—a reader who is American but has lived in the United Kingdom—is the reversal of seeing the British view on the nightmare-fuel that is the American political and cultural system. It’s an external view that’s both dislocating and as intimate as glancing in the mirror (if that mirror were a warping portal into one of the worst possible futures). The Labyrinth Index is a scathing, accurate outsider’s perspective of the form of political organization the US prefers—distinctly inflected with post-Brexit, post-Trump realism—including spot-on assessments of operational and cultural weakspots. The politics of these novels evolve with the times and Stross captures the chaotic violence of the American system with a deft eye and incisive prose.

Which is not to say the British fare better; they just fuck up differently. The problem of the Mandate has me chewing a thumbnail, eager as I’ve been each time around for the story to continue unwinding. He’s fascinating and awful as a capricious enemy-of-our-enemies maneuvering his pawns, particularly as those pawns are people the reader has an emotional connection to. Mhari’s geas prevents her from doing more than hinting about the existence of a deep-level plot to unseat and escape the claws of the interdimensional being that has taken humanity as a pet project. I’ll be intrigued to find who is involved and what steps are part of the process for outwitting a god-like being. Given that much of the leadership of Continuity Operations is no longer remotely human, I suspect it’ll be a grisly affair.

The stakes continue to climb as the series progresses—but in a believable and harrowing fashion. Mhari is a wry narrator whose opinions of other familiar individuals in her life are an intriguing illustration of who they are to others, how they appear outside of themselves. She’s a realist and a romantic; given the grim trajectory of the end of human existence, that touch of love and hope is actually important to me as one of the points of this book. The Labyrinth Index is recommended reading as always, perhaps more of a “filling in necessary details to move the plot forward” book than some in the series but still eminently compelling.

The Labyrinth Index is available from Tor Books.
Read an excerpt here.

Brit Mandelo is a writer, critic, and editor whose primary fields of interest are speculative fiction and queer literature, especially when the two coincide. They have two books out, Beyond Binary: Genderqueer and Sexually Fluid Speculative Fiction and We Wuz Pushed: On Joanna Russ and Radical Truth-telling, and in the past have edited for publications like Strange Horizons Magazine. Other work has been featured in magazines such as Stone Telling, Clarkesworld, Apex, and Ideomancer.

Whether you want the last book in a completed trilogy, a middle-book to tempt you, or a debut novel to start something fresh, November’s YA SFF releases have something for every kind of reader. Julie C. Dao (Kingdom of the Blazing Phoenix) and Marissa Meyer (Archenemies) are among those with second-books-in-series out this month; Emiko Jean (Empress of All Seasons) and Natasha Ngan (Girls of Paper and Fire) present tempting debuts; and if you’re ready for a complete trilogy or two, point yourself at Alison Goodman’s Lady Helen series (which winds up with The Dark Days Deceit) or Traci Chee’s Sea of Ink and Gold (winding up with The Storyteller)!

And, of course, there’s a new book by this fellow you might have heard of, Brandon Sanderson…

Keep track of all the new releases here. Note: All title summaries are taken and/or summarized from copy provided by the publisher.

WEEK ONE

The XY—Virginia Bergin (November 6, Sourcebooks Fire)
In River’s world, XYs are a relic of the past, along with things like war and violence. Thanks to the Global Agreements, River’s life is simple, safe, and peaceful…until she comes across a body in the road one day. A body that is definitely male, definitely still alive. River isn’t prepared for this. There’s nothing in the Agreements about how to deal with an XY. Yet one lies before her, sick, suffering, and at her mercy. River can kill him, or she can save him. Either way, nothing will ever be the same.

Umbertouched (Rosemarked #2)—Livia Blackburne (November 6, Disney-Hyperion)
Even though Zivah and Dineas discovered a secret that could bring down the empire, their information is useless without proof. With their cover blown and their quest abandoned, their only remaining hope is to get home before Ampara brings the full might of its armies against their peoples. As Shidadi and Dara alike prepare for war, Zivah and Dineas grapple with the toll of their time in the capital. After fighting against his own kin, can Dineas convince the Shidadi—and himself—where his loyalties lie? After betraying her healer’s vows, can Zivah find a way to redeem herself—especially when the Dara ask her to do the unthinkable? And after reluctantly falling in love, what will the two do with their lingering feelings? Time is running out for all of them, but especially Zivah, whose plague symptoms surface once again. Now, she must decide how she’ll define the life she has left. Together, healer and warrior must find the courage to save their people, expose the truth, and face the devastating consequences headed their way.

Kingdom of the Blazing Phoenix (Rise of the Empress #2)—Julie C. Dao (November 6, Philomel)
Princess Jade has grown up in exile, hidden away in a monastery while her stepmother, the ruthless Xifeng, rules as Empress of Feng Lu. But the empire is in distress and its people are sinking into poverty and despair. Even though Jade doesn’t want the crown, she knows she is the only one who can dethrone the Empress and set the world right. Ready to reclaim her place as rightful heir, Jade embarks on a quest to raise the Dragon Lords and defeat Xifeng and the Serpent God once and for all. But will the same darkness that took Xifeng take Jade, too? Or will she find the strength within to save herself, her friends, and her empire?

Empress of All Seasons—Emiko Jean (November 6, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Books for Young Readers)
Each generation, a competition is held to find the next empress of Honoku. The rules are simple. Survive the palace’s enchanted seasonal rooms. Conquer Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall. Marry the prince. All are eligible to compete—all except yōkai, supernatural monsters and spirits whom the human emperor is determined to enslave and destroy. Mari has spent a lifetime training to become empress. Winning should be easy—if she weren’t hiding a dangerous secret. Mari is a yōkai with the ability to transform into a terrifying monster. If discovered, her life will be forfeit. As she struggles to keep her true identity hidden, Mari’s fate collides with that of Taro, the prince who has no desire to inherit the imperial throne, and Akira, a half-human, half-yōkai outcast. Torn between duty and love, loyalty and betrayal, vengeance and forgiveness, the choices of Mari, Taro, and Akira will decide the fate of Honoku.

Archenemies (Renegades #2)—Marissa Meyer (November 6, Feiwel & Friends)
As Insomnia, Nova is a full-fledged member of the Renegades, a syndicate of powerful and beloved superheroes. She works to protect the weak and maintain order in Gatlon City. As Nightmare, she is an Anarchist—a group of of villains who are determined to destroy the Renegades. Nova wants vengeance against the so-called heroes who once failed her when she needed them most. But as Nova, her feelings for Adrian are deepening, despite the fact that he is the son of her sworn enemies. Nova, Adrian, and the rest of their crew—Ruby, Oscar, and Danna—are faced with escalating crime in Gatlon City, while covert weapons and conflicting missions have Nova and Adrian questioning not only their beliefs about justice, but also the feelings they have for each other. The line between good and evil has been blurred, but what’s clear to them both is that too much power could mean the end of their city—and the world—as they know it.

Girls of Paper and Fire—Natasha Ngan (November 6, Jimmy Patterson)
Lei is a member of the Paper caste, the lowest and most persecuted class of people in Ikhara. She lives in a remote village with her father, where the decade-old trauma of watching her mother snatched by royal guards for an unknown fate still haunts her. Now, the guards are back and this time it’s Lei they’re after—the girl with the golden eyes whose rumored beauty has piqued the king’s interest. Over weeks of training in the opulent but oppressive palace, Lei and eight other girls learns the skills and charm that befit a king’s consort. There, she does the unthinkable—she falls in love. Her forbidden romance becomes enmeshed with an explosive plot that threatens her world’s entire way of life. Lei, still the wide-eyed country girl at heart, must decide how far she’s willing to go for justice and revenge.

Frozen Reign (Burning Glass #3)—Kathryn Purdie (November 6, Katherine Tegen Books)
Civil war is on the horizon, and Sonya is helpless to stop it. With her empathic powers gone, she can no longer protect her beloved Anton from his vindictive brother Valko, who will stop at nothing to get his revenge and reclaim his throne. Even if that means using an Auraseer to hunt—and kill—both Sonya and Anton. Then Sonya hears about an empath in a far-off kingdom who may be able to heal her—but without her powers, finding the legendary Auraseer will be dangerous. And if she doesn’t succeed, the peace Sonya sacrificed so much to achieve will be shattered forever.

Skyward—Brandon Sanderson (November 6, Delacorte Press)
Spensa’s world has been under attack for decades. Now pilots are the heroes of what’s left of the human race, and becoming one has always been Spensa’s dream. Since she was a little girl, she has imagined soaring skyward and proving her bravery. But her fate is intertwined with her father’s—a pilot himself who was killed years ago when he abruptly deserted his team, leaving Spensa’s chances of attending flight school at slim to none. No one will let Spensa forget what her father did, yet fate works in mysterious ways. Flight school might be a long shot, but she is determined to fly. And an accidental discovery in a long-forgotten cavern might just provide her with a way to claim the stars.

The Wren Hunt—Mary Watson (November 6, Bloomsbury)
Once a year, Wren is chased through the woods near her rural Ireland hometown in a warped version of a childhood game. Her pursuers belong to the judges, a group in control of an ancient, powerful magic they stole from her own people, the augurs … but they know nothing of her real identity. If they learned the truth, the game would surely turn deadly. Though she knows the risks, Wren also goes on the hunt, taking a dangerous undercover assignment as an intern at enemy headquarters, the Harkness Foundation. If she can uncover a long-buried secret, she can save her family and end the judges’ reign once and for all. But as the web of lies, deceit, and betrayal thickens around Wren, she hurtles toward a truth that threatens to consume her and reveal who she really is. Not only has she come to the attention of powerful judge Cassa Harkness, but she is also falling dangerously in love with the one person she shouldn’t. And she may need to decide which she’d rather lose: her heart or her life.

WEEK TWO

The Dragon Ridge Tombs (Ghost Blows Out the Light #2)—Tianxia Bachang (November 13, Delacorte Press)
Self-proclaimed gold hunter Tianyi, who has excellent feng shui skills, along with his best friend, Kai, and a shady antiques dealer called Gold Tooth, have traveled all the way from Beijing to Gulan in search of treasure in ancient tombs. But what they think will be a simple grab-and-go of loot turns into trouble when they are faced with a perplexing labyrinth of tunnels full of unexpected obstacles, traps, and deadly creatures that thwart their advancement, as well as their escape. As if that weren’t enough, the return of their American friend Julie Yang, with whom they faced perils on a previous expedition, leads to a startling discovery—one tied to both China’s ancient past and the Yang family’s history, and one that could very well be the death of them all.

The Storyteller (Sea of Ink & Gold #3)—Traci Chee (November 13, Putnam Books for Young Readers)
Sefia is determined to keep Archer out of the Guard’s clutches and their plans for war between the Five Kingdoms. The Book, the ancient, infinite codex of the past, present and future, tells of a prophecy that will plunge Kelanna in that bloody war, but it requires a boy—Archer—and Sefia will stop at nothing to ensure his safety. The Guard has already stolen her mother, her father, and her Aunt Nin. Sefia would sooner die than let them take anymore from her—especially the boy she loves. But escaping the Guard and the Book’s prophecy is no easy task. After all, what is written always comes to pass. As Sefia and Archer watch Kelanna start to crumble to the Guard’s will, they will have to choose between their love and joining a war that just might tear them apart.

Dark Mind Rising (Dark Intercept #2)—Julia Keller (November 13, Tor Teen)
New Earth, 2296. Two years after the destruction of a universal surveillance system called the Intercept, New Earth struggles to keep crime under control. The citizens are free, but not protected. Violet Crowley, the eighteen-year-old daughter of New Earth’s founder, has opened Crowley & Associates, a private detective agency, to handle the overflow from the overburdened police force. Violet’s first case—a death written off as a suicide—becomes an obsession. Soon a series of similar deaths leads Violet to believe the Intercept is not only still running—it’s in the hands of a killer.

This Splintered Silence—Kayla Olson (November 13, HarperTeen)
Lindley Hamilton has been the leader of the space station Lusca since every first generation crew member on board, including her mother, the commander, was killed by a deadly virus. Lindley always assumed she’d captain the Lusca one day, but she never thought that day would come so soon. And she never thought it would be like this—struggling to survive every day, learning how to keep the Lusca running, figuring out how to communicate with Earth, making sure they don’t run out of food. When a member of the surviving second generation dies from symptoms that look just like the deadly virus, though, Lindley feels her world shrinking even smaller. And as more people die, Lindley must face the terrifying reality—that either the virus has mutated, or one of their own is a killer.

WEEK THREE

The Dark Days Deceit (Lady Helen #3)—Alison Goodman (November 20, Viking Books for Young Readers)
Lady Helen has retreated to a country estate outside Bath to prepare for her wedding to the Duke of Selburn, yet she knows she has unfinished business to complete. She and the dangerously charismatic Lord Carlston have learned they are a dyad, bonded in blood, and only they are strong enough to defeat the Grand Deceiver, who threatens to throw mankind into chaos. But the heinous death-soaked Ligatus Helen has absorbed is tearing a rift in her mind. Its power, if unleashed, will annihilate both Helen and Carlston unless they can find a way to harness its ghastly force and defeat their enemy.

Legacy of Light (Effigies #3)—Sarah Raughley (November 20, Simon Pulse)
After Saul’s strike on Oslo—one seemingly led by Maia herself—the Effigies’ reputation is in shambles. Now they’re being hunted by nations across the globe, grouped in with the very terrorists they’ve been trying to stop. With Maia’s resurrected twin, June, carrying out vicious attacks across the world, everyone believes Maia is a killer. Belle has gone rogue, Chae Rin and Lake have disappeared, and the Sect is being dismantled and replaced by a terrifying new world order helmed by Blackwell. As for Saul, his ultimate plan still remains a mystery. And Maia? No one has seen or heard from her in weeks. It’s all somehow connected—Saul, Phantoms, the Effigies, everything. But if the Effigies can’t put the pieces together soon, there may not be much left of the world they’ve fought so desperately to save.

WEEK FOUR

Runebreaker (Runebinder #2)—Alex R. Kahler (November 27, Harlequin Teen)
Aidan desires only one thing: to rule. Arrogant, headstrong, and driven by the element of Fire, he will stop at nothing to bring the evil Howls that destroyed Scotland to their knees. But Fire is a treacherous element, and the very magic that brought him to power could burn his world to ash. Especially with the blood of his fellow Hunters on his hands. Driven by a bloodlust he can’t control and dark whispers that may not be entirely in his head, he and his magic-eschewing friend Kianna will do whatever it takes to liberate their broken world. Even at the risk of confronting the Church. Even at the risk of losing his humanity. But power isn’t the only thing on Aidan’s mind. He’s falling for the intoxicating Tomas, an Incubus who offers everything Aidan desires. For a price. And if that price burns the world down, well … Aidan is used to playing with Fire.

Amber & Dusk—Lyra Selene (November 27, Scholastic)
Sylvie has always known she deserves more. Out in the permanent twilight of the Dusklands, her guardians called her power to create illusions a curse. But Sylvie knows it gives her a place in Coeur d’Or, the palais of the Amber Empress and her highborn legacies. So Sylvie sets off toward the Amber City, a glittering jewel under a sun that never sets, to take what is hers. But her hope for a better life is quickly dimmed. The empress invites her in only as part of a wicked wager among her powerful courtiers. Sylvie must assume a new name, Mirage, and begin to navigate secretive social circles and deadly games of intrigue in order to claim her spot. Soon it becomes apparent that nothing is as it appears and no one, including her cruel yet captivating sponsor, Sunder, will answer her questions. As Mirage strives to seize what should be her rightful place, she’ll have to consider whether it is worth the price she must pay.

If the upheaval of recent years has taught us anything, it’s that we, as a people, are divided, and that the division that exists between us and them, whoever they or we may be, is more marked than almost anyone had imagined. As evidenced by Elevation, Stephen King would love for us all just to get along, but instead of, say, scaring us back to our senses with some spiteful supernatural spectre, as you might expect from the author of IT, the seasoned storyteller opts to tread lightly, telling an unexpectedly touching tale about how we can be better together.

That’s not to say Elevation lacks a speculative element. It’s even somewhat spooky. You see, Scott Carey has started to lose weight. He’s lost a little every day in the weeks leading up to the outset of the text. So far, so standard, but the thing of it is, he hasn’t lost any of his mass. He’s still exactly the same size as he was, and to make matters stranger, “whatever he wore or carried that was supposed to weigh him down… didn’t.”

Scott has already been dismissed by a doctor to whom he told the truth—if not the whole truth and nothing but because, understandably enough, he doesn’t want to be poked and prodded as if he were some sort of medical curiosity, and in any event, he already has a sense that what’s happening to him is beyond the ken of medical science—but in case there is a way to reverse what he has “come to think of as ‘the weightless effect,’” he compromises by confessing his curious condition to Bob Ellis, a recently-retired GP Scott’s played a few sets of tennis with.

Bob isn’t any the wiser about causes or cures than the other doctor Scott saw, sadly, and although an affecting friendship develops between the pair over the course of the coming months, the latter’s weird weight loss continues unabated. “Not long ago he had avoided the bathroom scale because it showed too many pounds; now he stayed away for the opposite reason. The irony was not lost on him.”

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The better not to dwell on this seemingly insurmountable issue, Scott sets his sights on solving one of Castle Rock’s more mundane, if no less appalling problems. Missy Donaldson and Deirdre McComb are among the town’s most recent residents. They live together and love one another very much. Alas, some of the long-term locals are aghast at the fact that they’re married, and in such an insular community, this prejudice has become a practical problem: the vegetarian Mexican restaurant they run together has essentially been empty since it opened, and if something doesn’t change soon in terms of the town’s abhorrent attitude to the ladies and their delicious lunches, both will be bust. The utter injustice of this leads Scott to attempt to befriend the owners of Holy Frijole, although he’ll find that their pride prevents them from simply accepting his help.

Over the course of Elevation, King threads these two tales together expertly. In one, the myth of the Midas Touch meets King’s own Thinner; in the other, a small town set in its discriminatory ways is tested when the archaic way of thinking Scott embodies champions the changing times Missy and Deirdre denote. By the time this brief book is concluded on the back of the annual Turkey Trot, a charity 12k both Scott and Deirdre compete in, the two tales have become one, to excellent effect.

Elevation’s excellence is also evident from earlier on in the novella. Though they spring fully-formed from the Stephen King playbook, its characters—a combination of plain-spoken, straightforward folks and the occasional unreasonable rabble-rouser—are relatable right out of the gate, and so deftly developed over the story’s course that their respective destinations appear inevitable in retrospect.

Scott, for his part, has little interest in worrying about what’s to come. “If there were rules to what was going on, he didn’t understand them, or care to,” he muses as we close in on the book’s conclusion. “His outlook remained optimistic, and he slept through the night. Those were the things he cared about,” and those are the things King is keen on here: a sense that somehow, even the worst wrongs can be put right.

The aforementioned author doesn’t waste much of Elevation’s limited width worldbuilding, but both his Constant Readers and any number of newcomers who pick up this short but sweet treat because of its ties to the recent TV series will find themselves very much at home here in Castle Rock. In its size and in its storied history, this small town acts as the perfect backdrop for the depiction of division and the various ways it can be warded off that is the message in this book’s bottle.

Scott thought of how he’d felt running down Hunter’s Hill, when he’d gotten his second wind and the whole world had stood revealed in the usually hidden glory of ordinary things—the leaden, lowering sky, the bunting flapping from the downtown building, every precious pebble and cigarette buy and beer can discarded by the side of the road. His own body for once working at top capacity, every cell loaded with oxygen.

He felt, in short, elevated—and I dare say you will too if you spend some time with this neat little novella. It’s an appealing and easily-palatable paean to people disillusioned with the state of the world today, and its rallying cry? Why, “the past is history, the future’s a mystery.” Something, in other words, that’s difficult or impossible to understand or explain. King doesn’t explain anything in Elevation, but tellingly, he does go out of his way to remind readers that tomorrow’s another day.

Elevation is available from Scribner.

Niall Alexander is an extra-curricular English teacher who reads and writes about all things weird and wonderful for The Speculative Scotsman, Strange Horizons, and Tor.com. He lives with about a bazillion books, his better half and a certain sleekit wee beastie in the central belt of bonnie Scotland.

It’s been three years since Esa left her backwater planet to join the ranks of the Justified. Together, she and fellow agent Jane Kamali have been traveling across the known universe, searching for children who share Esa’s supernatural gifts…

We’re excited to share the cover for the UK edition of A Chain Across the Dawn, the second novel in Drew Williams’ the Universe After series—an epic space opera chase across the galaxy with witty banter, fantastical planets, and a seemingly unbeatable foe!

Author Drew Williams on the UK cover, designed by Jack Smyth:

God, I love this cover. I always feel a little weird, saying that: it feels almost egotistical, even though I myself had nothing to do with the design of the thing and it represents the work of incredibly talented people who are very much not me (Jack Smyth, in particular, who I imagine see beautiful things behind his eyes as he’s just going about his day). But even with that, it still feels like mine, so complimenting it feels like somebody asking you about your kid and your response being, ‘yeah, they’re just… the best. Other kids suck compared to my kid.’ But I mean… come on. Look at that design. Look at that art. Just look at it. The asymmetry of the thing, the juxtaposition of the brightness and the dark, between the broad circles that make up the sun and the pinpricks of white that create the stars; the way Jack managed to create the implication of a horizon—of a ‘dawn’—while still showing the vastness of the cosmos beyond with just a few points of light… it’s abstracted, idealized, but also immediately recognizable.

Even the font serves such a specific purpose—harkening back to that sort of mid-70s explosion of science fiction in film and novels, driven by the space race and the moon landing—that I immediately feel awed and a little terrified of the comparisons the cover invites the reader to draw: to Arthur C. Clarke, to Ellison, to later Heinlein, all absolute luminaries of the genre. I mean, even the shape of the title conveys just the slightest hint of rising motion, implying something—a rocket, a starship, a dream—lifting off from the horizon to race out into the stars. A buddy of mine looked at the British cover for The Stars Now Unclaimed and said ‘it looks like a lost Kubrick film’, which is just about the best compliment—even inadvertent—that he could have managed; to me, the Chain cover manages the same aesthetic, while also being warmer, more hopeful, even braver, somehow. (And that’s from someone who absolutely loved the British Stars cover, as well).

So—yeah. I don’t give a damn about being modest; it’s my cover, it’s my kid, and it’s freaking gorgeous, and I would still feel like it’s freaking gorgeous even if it wasn’t mine; the pride I feel in that—in the fact that my novel will forever be associated with this bold, beautiful image in the mind of anyone who reads A Chain Across The Dawn with this cover on the book—feels like the opposite of immodesty: it feels humbling, humbling and supremely gratifying, to know that someone felt like my novel deserved such a defining, brave, elegant face to show the world. The creation of a piece of art like this for my work—it feels like an act of incredible kindness, like a gift, from Jack Smyth and Anne Perry and everyone else at Simon & Schuster UK, and not a gift to me, but to Chain herself: it feels like they told her she was beautiful.

God, I love it so, so much.

A Chain Across the Dawn publishes in the UK with Simon & Schuster in August 2019, and you can get book one, The Stars Now Unclaimed, now. The US edition publishes May 2019 with Tor Books. From the catalog copy:

It’s been three years since Esa left her backwater planet to join the ranks of the Justified. Together, she and fellow agent Jane Kamali have been traveling across the known universe, searching for children who share Esa’s supernatural gifts.

On a visit to a particularly remote planet, they learn that they’re not the only ones searching for gifted children. They find themselves on the tail of a mysterious being with impossible powers who will stop at nothing to get his hands on the very children that Esa and Jane are trying to save

With their latest recruit in tow—a young Wulf boy named Sho—Esa and Jane must track their strange foe across the galaxy in search of answers. But the more they learn, the clearer it becomes—their enemy may be harder to defeat than they ever could have imagined.

The Studio Ghibli adaptation of the late Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea series is notoriously bad. I’d heard the same reviews from Le Guin and Ghibli fans alike, long before I ever watched the 2006 film, and even long before I read the Earthsea novels themselves. Whitewashed, plodding pace, and a bizarre mash-up of four novels, a graphic novel, and a host of short fiction, the film seemed to garner even more vitriol than the average book-to-film adaptation (which is, let’s be real, a high bar).

When I finally sat down to watch this dark horse of the Ghibli oeuvre, my inclination wasn’t to like or dislike the thing, but to understand why the meeting of these worlds could fail so spectacularly in the eyes of the creators’ fans. After all, so much of what makes Ghibli and Le Guin wonderful is shared, the absolute beauty of their artforms aside. I’ve loved Ghibli since before I could read, and loved Le Guin since the first sentence of The Left Hand of Darkness. So why, within the first five minutes of their meeting, was I filled with more dread than excitement?

First, a brief overview: Tales of Earthsea was not directed by the much-lauded founder of Studio Ghibli, Hayao Miyazaki, but instead by his son and first-time director Gorō Miyazaki. It follows Prince Arren after he mysteriously murders his father and flees his kingdom, happening upon the mage Sparrowhawk only by chance. Sparrowhawk, who is investigating the disappearance of magic in the realm, takes Arren under his wing (literally! His scar is in the shape of a wing on his face, and it’s my favorite part of the movie). Arren rescues a young girl from slavers, who he later discovers is Therru, adopted daughter of Sparrowhawk’s friend Tenar. Therru is suspicious of Arren due to his bloodlust in battle, but comes around to him after singing a bafflingly long song about loneliness and realizing that they’re kindred spirits. This burgeoning young love is put on hold when Tenar is kidnapped by the earstwhile slavers, who, as it happens, are collecting sacrifices for a wizard named Cob, who is courting immortality and thus killing all magic in the land. Arren, terrified of death, is seduced into joining him, and since Sparrowhawk is a Very Busy Man, it is left to Therru to rescue Arren and Tenar. Afterwards, briefly, inexplicably, and unprompted, she turns into a dragon.

Fans of Le Guin’s book series will recognize many elements and plot points reshuffled into new formations in this description—The Farthest Shore is probably its driving inspiration, but Arren’s “possession” is a clear callback to Sparrowhawk’s in A Wizard of Earthsea, and Therru is only introduced in Tehanu. The movie’s resemblance to the Journey of Shuna graphic novel is also somewhat sideways, in that many Ghibli films, Princess Mononoke and Nausicaä most prominently, borrowed from it. But lines of similarity are some of the least interesting ways to read an adaptation—especially with a film so lifeless and weird. Did I mention that Therru randomly turns into a dragon?

Most important to me, though, are the ways that this movie fails the mission of the creators’ larger bodies of work. I wrote recently about Le Guin’s delicate dance between allegory/myth and emotional realism. It’s a dance that her works almost always step gracefully, that make for a poetry and richness that invites readers to return and reread over and over again. Studio Ghibli has much the same effect; though they are often compared to Disney, Ghibli deals in Big Ideas and unreal scenarios through very real, flawed humans. Tales of Earthsea keeps the big ideas and fantastical elements of those sources, but erases the human emotion. I found myself at turns confused by characters’ motivations (why did Arren kill his father?) and annoyed by the convenient ways that they slotted into the film’s themes (Therru decides she likes Arren just in time to rescue him). It’s difficult to appreciate a story’s take on ideas about mortality and love when those ideas are delivered by caricatures.

Another aspect of both the Earthsea series and Ghibli that I find laudable is their willingness to take their young audiences seriously. It’s another feature that differentiates Ghibli from Disney, and another that invites Le Guin readers of all ages into the pages of Earthsea. Both creators make fiction for children that allow them to explore real emotion and sometimes real trauma, safely. Tales of Earthsea, though, explains its own plot at every turn, having its characters narrate the film’s themes to one another. It portrays bloodlust, slavery, death, and prejudice without ever really exploring their consequences. It’s not that the film talks down to its young audience members; it’s that it doesn’t seem to know who its audience is at all.

And finally, the politics. The film’s whitewashing has been much-discussed—and rightfully so—by Le Guin herself and many others, and so I want to touch on another egregious piece of erasure: gender. Ghibli and Le Guin alike are known for their excellent, albeit very different, explorations on gender—willful, independent young girls in the case of the former, and boundary-testing folk of all genders in the latter. Tales of Earthsea keeps the iconic Ghibli protagonist in spunky Therru, but stumbles again and again to create any kind of meaning out of her spunk, instead relegating her to teaching Arren how to be Good. Tenar, my favorite character in the novels, is reduced from a morally complicated cult survivor to doting mother and patient lover and acolyte. Most offensive, though, is the movie’s villain, Cob.

An obsession with immortality is interpreted here as vanity, and as we all know, vanity is the domain of women—therefore the horror of Cob is illustrated through the unforgivable act of gender deviance. Feminine features, a whispering androgynous voice, and most horrible of all, the seduction of a young boy, make him a queer trope to be reckoned with, and a counterpoint to these creators’ otherwise fascinating record of gender critiques.

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Between this and the equally notorious 2004 Sci-Fi adaptation of Earthsea, it’s easy to see why some might consider the series unadaptable. Perhaps out of some misplaced optimism, I disagree. Certainly the quietness of Le Guin’s story-telling and the vastness of her world and mythos might lend themselves better to forms other than film—graphic novels, perhaps, or audio, or even an RPG—but we might also just not have found the right team of creators yet. As Gorō Miyazaki tried his hand at Earthsea, even, Hayao simultaneously crafted his own adaptation of another beloved fantasy novel, Diana Wynne Jones’ Howl’s Moving Castle, arguably one of the best in Studio Ghibli’s oeuvre. I’d not only try on another Earthsea adaptation, I’d try another Ghibli one. This film was a disappointment, but the pairing did make sense. It was, more than anything, a wasted opportunity.

And if anyone wants to make me eat my words in the next few years, that’s fine too.

Em Nordling reads, writes, and manages research in Louisville, KY.

Happy National Novel Writing Month! You have 30 days to write 50,000 (or more!) words without fear of outside readers or your own second-guessing. You get to throw all the writing rules out the window, except for the one where you sit down every day to write. Which is not to say that NaNoWriMo lacks structure—in fact, it’s all about support systems, from the forums to the pep talks from dozens of published authors, some of whom have attempted NaNoWriMo themselves. (And, in the case of some like Patrick Rothfuss, lost.) Because if you’re staring at the blank page on Day 1, or desperately sobbing your way through what seems like an irreparable plot mistake on Day 20, you’re going to need the moral support.

This year, you can look forward to pep talks from the likes of Andy Weir (The Martian, Artemis), Min Jin Lee (Pachinko), Justina Ireland (Lando’s Luck, a Star Wars Story), and Francesca Lia Block (Weetzie Bat, The Elementals). Those of you who are in need of encouragement right now, check out NaNoWriMo’s extensive archive of pep talks—nearly 100 of them, stretching back to 2007. If the key to breaking your writer’s block is some real talk from your favorite authors, you might enjoy these pep talks from…

Maggie Stiefvater

Congratulations! You’re trying to do the impossible. But it’s not the novel-writing itself that makes it impossible, Stiefvater says—it’s the time. A few of her tips for fighting time:

1. Know my project. I need to know what I want that final project to look like. Where it sits on the shelf, why I’m writing it, how it will make the reader feel. Then I ask myself with each chapter: does this belong in the book I said I was writing?

2. Never sit at my computer without knowing what I’m going to write. If I’m stuck, I need to stimulate my physical body so my mind can play: drive, walk, shower.

3. Unwind each day with thirty minutes of reading something that feels like what I’m trying to make, to remind myself how others accomplished it.

Chuck Wendig

Wendig invites you to imagine being able to do something you’re not supposed to do:

This is not something we’re particularly used to, as adults. My toddler gets it. He isn’t fenced in by the boundaries of adulthood—which, okay, yes, that means he doesn’t necessarily know not to shove a ham sandwich into a whirring fan (instant ham salad!) or not to climb the tallest thing and leap off it like a puma.

But it also means he doesn’t know why he can’t just pick up a pen and start drawing. It means he has no problem grabbing a blob of Play-Doh and creating whatever his fumbling little hands can manage. It means that he’ll grab a Transformers toy and half-transform it into some lumbering robot-car monstrosity—and when an adult might say, “No, no, it’s like this or it’s like that; it’s a robot or it’s a car,” he’s like, “Uh, yeah, no. Go back to your tax forms and your HGTV, stupid adult, I’ve just created a Frankencarbot and you can go hide your head in the sand-swept banality of grown-up life, sucker.”

His entire creative life is the “Everything Is Awesome” song from The LEGO Movie. Because he doesn’t know what he can or can’t do. He doesn’t know about art or form or criticism or any of that. He can do whatever he wants. (Ham sandwiches and fan blades aside.)

And you can do whatever you want, too.

Daniel José Older

Older opens his pep talk by quoting a poem by Antonio Machado: Caminante no hay camino / se hace camino al andar (Walker, there is no path / the path is made by walking). While acknowledging that every writer has their own process, their own flow, he points out that everyone can start in the same place:

Writing begins with forgiveness. Let go of the shame about how long it’s been since you last wrote, the clenching fear that you’re not a good enough writer, the doubts over whether or not you can get it done. Sure, the nagging demons will come creeping back, but set them aside anyway, and then set them aside again when they do. Concoct a hot beverage, play a beautiful song, look inward, and then begin.

Gene Luen Yang

Yang reminds you to work on your factory:

When the folks at Toyota design a new car, they don’t just design the car itself. They also design the factory that builds the car.

You need to think the same way. When you write a novel, you’re not just working on the novel itself. You’re also working on the novel-building factory: your life. You have to create a life that is conducive to writing. That means scheduling regular time to write. Weekly is okay, daily is better. Writing must become a habit. If something gets in the way of your writing habit, seriously consider cutting it out of your life. You have to write even when you don’t feel like it simply because it’s what the factory does.

By being a part of NaNoWriMo, you’re setting aside a month to make a state-of-the-art, novel-building factory. Get to it.

Brian Jacques

Where Yang sees a factory, Jacques saw a painting:

The advice I continually give to young writers is this “Learn to paint pictures with words.” Not just once upon a time, but… In the long secret dust of ages, beneath a blue forgotten sky, where trade winds caress the sun bleached shores of unknown realms… See, as much as there are words in poetry, there is a poetry in words. Use it, stay faithful to the path you have set your heart upon and follow it. How many times have you heard someone say. ‘Oh I’m going to write a book someday!’ Meet up with them again on that nebulous “someday”, my bet is that they’re still talking about it.

Patrick Rothfuss

Rothfuss reiterates the number-one rule of writing: Yea, Verily. You Must Sit Down and Write:

1a. Thou shalt not go see a movie instead. Or watch reality TV. Thou shalt write. No. Stop. You don’t need to clean out the fridge right now. Neither dost thou need to sort the recycling. I’m not even kidding. Go and write.

1b. Thou shalt not just think about writing. Seriously. That is not writing. The worst unpublished novel of all-time is better than the brilliant idea you have in your head. Why? Because the worst novel ever is written down. That means it’s a book, while your idea is just an idle fancy. My dog used to dream about chasing rabbits; she didn’t write a novel about chasing rabbits. There is a difference.

1c. Thou shalt not read, either. I know it’s book-related, but it’s not actually writing. Yes, even if it’s a book about how to write. Yes, even if you’re doing research. You can research later. Sit. Down. Write.

Alexander Chee

Chee expounds on the debate of writing versus talent:

What makes a writer a writer? Writing. A lot of people would say ‘talent’, but talent is really just the ability to do something well that most people have to work hard at. If you don’t think you have ‘talent’, just work hard instead—the talent often comes with a cost, anyway: a lack of good work habits. The talented ones often never had to learn to work hard; so many of them don’t finish their work because they never had to—it was enough to be talented, to offer people a glimpse of what you could be. So don’t be that person—don’t be the person that everyone believes could have done something. Be the person who tried.

Catherynne M. Valente

Valente shares her #1 rule of thumb with her fellow Speed Racers—you can be fast and good at the same time:

Though it is important not to put too much pressure on yourself, it is also important to know that quality and speed have absolutely nothing to do with one another. You can write something heart-catchingly brilliant in 30 days. You can do it in 10. There is no reason on this green earth not to try for glory. You’re going to spend these 30 days at the computer anyway. You might as well be mindful while you’re there.

You can come out transformed.

Write something true. Write something frightening. Write something close to the bone. You are on this planet to tell the story of what you saw here. What you heard. What you felt. What you learned. Any effort spent in that pursuit cannot be wasted. Any way that you can tell that story more truly, more vividly, more you-ly, is the right way.

Alaya Dawn Johnson

But what about when you hit the dark night of the writer’s soul? When you’re asking yourself how, Johnson reminds you of the why and the who:

You don’t do this kind of work without something deep inside of you that has stood up and demanded expression. Probably for a long time. Probably in the face of many people who have told you that your voice doesn’t matter, that your experiences don’t have value, that you’re only good for how well you can shut up and smile and buy what they’re selling you. And I know, I know: this world is deeply unjust, with huge barriers in place for the vast majority of humans striving on the planet. Telling stories can seem like not just a luxury, but an indulgence that’s shameful for you to even desire.

And yet, it is so important to respect that part of you, the storyteller who still, despite everything, decided to sit down and write this month. Respect your bravery for even starting. You’ve been working hard this November. You’ve been trying—and screw Yoda, trying is doing, it is the most fundamental action, because it acknowledges the possibility of failure. Believe in your deep, true voice and what you’re aiming for. And in order for you believe that, you have to stare into the mess. You have to acknowledge to yourself that you will fail—we all fail—and you will try again because you are the only person who can tell your own story.

Piers Anthony

You know who else you are? A capital-F Fool, like the tarot card. But, Anthony reminds you, there’s a flipside, another card to be pulled:

Sigh. You’re a lost soul. So there’s no help for it but to join the lowly company of the other aspect of The Fool. Because the fact is, that Fool is a Dreamer, and it is Dreamers who ultimately make life worthwhile for the unimaginative rest of us. Dreamers consider the wider universe. Dreamers build cathedrals, shape fine sculptures, and yes, generate literature. Dreamers are the artists who provide our rapacious species with some faint evidence of nobility.

N.K. Jemisin

Jemisin lets you in on a secret—that sick dread that you are the Worst, that temptation to leap into the Chasm of Doubt, are all part of being a real writer:

Kate [Elliott] listened to all of this patiently, and then she shared something that I’m now going to share with you: every writer goes through this. Every. Writer. It’s just the nature of what we do: in order to create a world and populate it and make it real, we have to believe that we’ve got something amazing on our hands. We have to believe that we’re amazing—at least for a moment. At least enough to attempt this incredibly difficult thing. This is the peak of the creative drive.

But it’s hard to sustain that belief through the grind that is necessary to actually make the idea real. Our spirits fall. And at some point around the midpoint of the novel you’re invariably going to stop, look at what you’ve written—which will be a mess because in-progress novels are always a mess, that’s what creativity looks like and that’s what revision is for—and you’re going to recoil in horror. This is the nadir of the excitement you had felt when you started the novel, the opposite of the moment of amazing that spurred you to begin NaNoWriMo. This is the Chasm of Doubt.

If you’ve reached this point, you now have a choice: you can jump into that chasm, quit your novel, and wallow in how awful you are. Or you can veer away from the cliff. Doing so will be hard, because you’ve already built up the wrong kind of momentum. You’ll have to reverse engines and burn some extra fuel to break the inertia. You’ll have to climb back toward the peak, or at least reach a safe height. You might get back there a little late, but that’s okay. Better late than never.

Neil Gaiman

When the glamour’s gone, Gaiman has a useful metaphor to keep going:

A dry-stone wall is a lovely thing when you see it bordering a field in the middle of nowhere but becomes more impressive when you realise that it was built without mortar, that the builder needed to choose each interlocking stone and fit it in. Writing is like building a wall. It’s a continual search for the word that will fit in the text, in your mind, on the page. Plot and character and metaphor and style, all these become secondary to the words. The wall-builder erects her wall one rock at a time until she reaches the far end of the field. If she doesn’t build it it won’t be there. So she looks down at her pile of rocks, picks the one that looks like it will best suit her purpose, and puts it in.

Malinda Lo

Lo makes the vital distinction between inspiration and discipline:

How often am I filled with inspiration before I start writing? Pretty much never. Instead, I usually stare at my work-in-progress with a vague sense of doom. I often think to myself: What the hell am I doing in this scene? I don’t understand how to get my characters from Point A to Point B! I really want to check Twitter!

The trick is this: As long as I sit there with my work-in-progress, at some point I will write something, because there’s nothing else to do.

Whatever I write may not be any good, but that doesn’t matter. When you’re writing a first draft—which most of you are doing this month—the most important thing is to keep moving forward. Your first try will be riddled with mistakes, but that’s what revision is for. Right now, you only have to put those ugly, wrong words on the page so you can fix them later.

So, inspiration isn’t what gets your book written. Discipline is. However, inspiration does sometimes pop by for an unexpected visit.

Brandon Sanderson

Sanderson on keeping the smallest spark of hope alive when you fear your work will never make it out into the world:

You could be writing the book that changes your life. You could have already submitted it, or self-published it. The spark could be starting a fire for you as well. You don’t know, and you can’t know. That is the thrill of being an artist, of working for yourself, and of telling the stories you want to tell.

Don’t give up. Keep your eyes on the project you’re working on right now, and make it the best that it can be. More importantly, love that process. In the end, that’s what made me stand up and get back to work on book thirteen: the realization that I loved telling stories. No stack of unpublished novels, no matter how high, would change my enjoyment of this process—no more than a finished set of dives would make a scuba enthusiast feel discouraged about diving again.

Jeff VanderMeer

In addition to encouraging writers not to panic and to find times to rejuvenate themselves, VanderMeer’s best piece of advice is to write what you’re most excited about in the moment:

Give yourself permission to work on what is most pleasurable in the moment. If you’re inspired to write a scene out of order, do it. The scene may change later, but what you lose in rewriting time you gain in positive reinforcement and better energy on the page. This also applies to getting the essence of a scene down. For example, if you’re writing a scene that’s a conversation and it’s just the dialogue that inspires you, write it like a transcript and add description later.

Naomi Novik

Finally, Novik reminds you of a key fact:

If you’re finding a scene boring to write, cut it and skip to the good part. Set something on fire. Have zombies attack. Note that boring is not the same as hard. Really great scenes can be very hard to write and take a long time, but if you’re sitting there going “god, when will this be over,” make it be over. You indeed have that power. It’s your novel.

Happy NaNoing!

Even though the Sam Raimi-directed, Tobey Maguire-starring Spider-Man movies were each big hits, the third one was kind of a dud critically speaking, and Raimi was having trouble making a story work for the next one. This, despite Dylan Baker being right there in the second and third movies as Curt Connors, thus setting up the Lizard as a likely villain for the fourth movie.

As it turns out, a fourth movie was made with the Lizard as the bad guy, but once Raimi departed, Sony decided, for reasons passing understanding, to reboot the franchise from the ground up, thus giving us, not Spider-Man 4 in 2012, but instead The Amazing Spider-Man.

It was an odd decision to reboot the series and do Spidey’s origin all over again only ten years after the last time, but that’s what Avi Arad and Sony decided. They brought in Marc Webb, hot off the superb romantic comedy (500) Days of Summer to direct, and also re-cast the entire movie, and restructured things as well. While Spider-Man 3 had both Captain George Stacy and his daughter Gwen as minor characters, they were front and center in Amazing Spider-Man, with nary a mention of Mary Jane Watson. Peter Parker’s interest in photography is kept, but he doesn’t become a Daily Bugle photographer yet (so no J. Jonah Jameson or Robbie Robertson). Flash Thompson remains as Parker’s high-school nemesis, and Norman Osborn is mentioned (with a lot of action taking place as OsCorp) but not seen, nor is there any mention of his son Harry.

Buy it Now

In addition, the movie makes use of Peter’s parents, Richard and Mary Parker, who were introduced in 1968’s Amazing Spider-Man Annual #5 as secret agents who were killed by the Red Skull, one of the more bizarre story choices made by anybody at Marvel. Since then, they’ve been pretty much a non-factor, showing up occasionally here and there, but rarely to good effect. In the movie, rather than secret agents, they’re written as scientists who worked with Curt Connors for Norman Osborn, and disappeared and were later killed due to their work.

Andrew Garfield takes over in the title role, with Martin Sheen and Sally Field playing Uncle Ben and Aunt May, respectively. Emma Stone plays Gwen, while Denis Leary is Captain Stacy. Rhys Ifans plays Curt Connors, and Campbell Scott and Embeth Davidtz play Richard and Mary Parker. Chris Zylka plays Flash Thompson, Irrfan Khan plays Rajit Ratha, an OsCorp executive, and C. Thomas Howell appears as the father of a boy Spider-Man rescues on the Williamsburg Bridge, and, amazingly, plays a character who isn’t evil (a rarity in Howell’s filmography of late).

“Your boyfriend is a man with many masks”

The Amazing Spider-Man
Written by James Vanderbilt and Alvin Sargent and Steve Kloves
Directed by Marc Webb
Produced by Avi Arad and Matt Tolmach and Laura Ziskin
Original release date: July 3, 2012

A very young Peter Parker is playing hide-and-go-seek with his parents. However, he looks for them in his father’s office, only to find the place ransacked. Richard Parker pulls a file from a hidden compartment in his desk and is relieved to see it’s there. He takes Peter to his brother Ben’s place and leaves Peter with Ben and his wife May.

Years later, Peter is a high-school student, having been raised by Ben and May after Richard and Mary died in a plane crash shortly after they left Peter with his aunt and uncle. Peter is awkward, tormented by basketball star Flash Thompson. When Peter tries to stop Flash from humiliating another kid, Flash beats him up for his trouble, though Gwen Stacy—who is tutoring Flash—humiliates Flash right back by reminding him how much tutoring he needs.

That night, there’s a flood in the Parker basement, and Ben and Peter pull some boxes out that include Ben’s old bowling trophies and also Richard’s briefcase. Peter finds papers inside it that shows that Richard was working on cross-species genetics with Dr. Curt Connors at OsCorp. There’s a tour for potential OsCorp interns, so Peter goes, sneaking in as another student. (Said student is later thrown out of the building. Peter is distressingly unconcerned about possibly ruining this young man’s life and career.) To his shock, Gwen is already one of Connors’s interns, and she’s the one giving the tour. Despite Gwen’s admonitions to stay with the group, he wanders off to where they’re genetically engineering spiders for no reason the script can be arsed to supply. One of them bites Peter. Gwen is forced to take his stolen badge and throw him out, though not until after Peter impresses Connors with his knowledge of genetic engineering (most of which he got from his father’s papers).

Upon going outside, Peter realizes that he’s stronger than he was, and he can stick to things. He winds up getting into a fight with a bunch of people on the subway, one of whom tried to balance a beer bottle on Peter while he slept on the subway. He was the one dumb enough to sleep on the subway, but these people get knocked around a subway car (and one woman has her shirt torn off) for no good reason.

Peter goes home and has trouble adjusting to his new powers, almost completely wrecking the bathroom at his house. Peculiarly, neither May nor Ben ever comment on his destruction of almost the entire bathroom.

At school, Peter decides to humiliate Flash by asking him to take the basketball from Peter’s hand—which he can’t do either because Peter moves too fast or because he uses his sticking powers to hold onto the ball so Flash can’t grab it. He then does a supremely acrobatic jump shot that destroys the backboard.

Peter gets in trouble for breaking the backboard. At no point does anyone mention the superhuman leap he took to get to it. Ben has to switch shifts to meet with the principal, so he’s working that night, and Peter has to meet May at her job and take her home. (May doesn’t need that, but Ben insists.) Peter agrees.

He goes back to OsCorp and shows Connors the decay algorithm that his father came up with (though Peter himself takes credit for it, not wanting Connors to know that he found his father’s papers). Connors, who is missing his right arm, wishes to find a way to transfer the genetic traits of reptiles that allow them to regenerate limbs to other species.

Peter works with Connors to incorporate the algorithm, and it works! A three-legged mouse is able to regenerate its missing limb. Peter goes home to find a furious Ben—Peter completely forgot to pick up May. May herself doesn’t think it’s that big a deal, but Ben does, and they argue, Peter leaving in a huff (closing the door so hard, the glass breaks).

Ben goes after Peter. Peter goes into a bodega for a bottle of milk, but it’s $2.07 and he only has $2.05. The clerk refuses to accept the lesser amount and kicks Peter out. The next customer distracts the clerk and then swipes the cash from the register. The clerk runs after him, Peter himself uninterested in helping the guy who dicked him around over two cents. The thief trips and a gun falls out of his jacket, right in front of Ben, still looking for Peter. They struggle for the gun, and the thief shoots Ben fatally wounding him.

Peter arrives just in time for Ben to die. Later, the cops provide a sketch of the killer, and it’s the thief that Peter let go. He has a star tattoo on his wrist, and so Peter spends the next several weeks going after anyone who matches that description, and checking their wrists. His first foray doesn’t go very well, and the guys he fights point out that they can see his face now. So he fashions a red mask to cover his face, and later uses some of the OsCorp tech he observed, including biocabling based on spider’s webs, to create webbing that he can fire from shooters in his wrists.

He continues his search. He also finds himself flirting with Gwen more and more, and she eventually invites him over to her house for dinner with her family. Dinner starts out okay, but devolves into an argument over the masked vigilante, with Gwen’s police captain father very much against him. Captain Stacy points out that this vigilante just seems to be on a vendetta against one person he’s looking for. That’s not being a hero, and that’s not helping the cause of justice. After dinner, Peter reveals to Gwen that he’s the masked vigilante.

An OsCorp executive, Rajit Ratha, informs Connors that they’re proceeding to human trials—they’ll do it under the guise of a flu shot at a veterans’ hospital. Connors is appalled, but Ratha reminds Connors that Norman Osborn is dying, and they can’t wait. Connors is fired.

Somehow, Connors still has the code to get the formula out of the OsCorp lab, and he injects it into himself. It regenerates his right arm, but then goes further, turning him into a giant lizard. He goes after Ratha, who is stuck in traffic on the Williamsburg Bridge heading to the VA hospital. Peter puts on his new costume and tries to save lives, including rescuing a little boy from a car that had gone over the side, but which Peter saved with his webbing.

When it’s over, he identifies himself as Spider-Man.

Stacy announces that there’s an arrest warrant for Spider-Man, blaming him for what happened on the bridge. Meanwhile, Connors reverts to his human form. He has set up an entire lab in the sewers, er, somehow, and is experimenting with the formula.

Realizing that the creature is Connors, Peter searches the sewers, using his webbing the way a spider would, spinning them in all directions from an intersection of sewers where he saw a mess of lizards all going at once. They fight, and Peter has his head handed to him. He manages to escape, but he leaves his camera behind. Connors finds it and sees the “Property of Peter Parker” sticker that May no doubt insisted he put on it, and now Connors knows who Spider-Man is.

Peter goes to Gwen’s and she tends to his wounds. She’s worried about him the same way she worried about her father some day going to work with his badge and gun and not coming home. Peter tries to tell Stacy about Connors, but Stacy doesn’t buy it—though he has one of his people look into Connors just in case.

Connors attacks Midtown Science High to go after Peter. Their fight takes them all through the school, including at one point through the library, where the librarian looks just like Stan Lee. Connors then heads downtown, where the cops go after him—but Connors has made the serum into a gas, and he turns several cops into lizard creatures like him. He then heads to OsCorp, to use a device we saw earlier that will blanket all of New York in that gas.

Gwen has gone ahead to OsCorp to use her intern’s access to create an antidote to Connors’s formula. Peter tries to go after Connors, but is attacked by the cops, who get his mask off. Peter hides his face until he takes care of everyone except for Stacy. He shows Stacy his face and says that Gwen is at OsCorp and Connors is headed there. Reluctantly, Stacy lets Peter go.

He arrives at OsCorp after a wholly unnecessary and incredibly overlong arrangement of cranes to aid in his web swinging from the guy whose kid Spidey saved on the bridge earlier. Gwen evacuates the building, and gives her father the antidote. Stacy takes it to the roof and helps Peter fight Connors. Peter manages to swap out the cure for the nasty gas, and Connors and the cops are all cured—but not before Connors has killed Stacy. Stacy’s dying wish is to tell Peter to stay away from Gwen to keep her safe.

Peter’s response is to completely ghost Gwen, not even showing up for the funeral. When she shows up at the Parker house to confront him, he just says he can’t see her anymore, and she figures out that her father extracted the promise from him. The next day in class, Peter is late, and says it won’t happen again—the teacher says that he shouldn’t make promises he can’t keep, and Peter says, for Gwen’s benefit, that those are the best kind.

Spider-Man continues to fight bad guys in New York. Meanwhile, Connors is confronted in jail by a mysterious Gentleman, who confirms that Peter hasn’t been told the truth about his parents.

“Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t like my meat loaf?”

What an interminable chore this movie is. Every single scene in this movie goes on about 15% longer than it needs to, whether it’s Peter’s never-explained wander through a room full of genetically engineered spiders, Peter getting beat up after saving a kid from being tormented by Flash Thompson, Gwen and Peter asking each other out (a particularly unpleasant scene that results in constant checking of one’s watch wondering how long this rhapsody in awkwardness will go on), Peter figuring out how to use his powers in an abandoned warehouse (including some remarkably convenient chains to practice web-swinging with), every fight Peter has with Connors, and especially that absurd sequence with the cranes.

Seriously, Spider-Man has webbing that enables him to swing all around the city, whipping around buildings, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, etc. What possible use is a bunch of cranes shoved out into the middle of the street? And why bother showing it?

When I saw Amazing Spider-Man in the theatre, my then-girlfriend (now wife) had to go to the bathroom, and she left right after Stacy let Peter go to OsCorp. By the time she got back, Peter hadn’t gotten anywhere near OsCorp yet. Literally nothing of consequence had happened in the movie in the time it took her to pee, as those of us with empty bladders just spent several minutes watching construction workers call each other on their phones and then watching cranes move around over Sixth Avenue. Exciting stuff.

This movie also makes it impossible for me to ever believe that Peter Parker was able to keep anybody from figuring out that he’s Spider-Man, mostly because he spends basically the entire movie showing off his powers in his civvies, and the entire second half of the movie losing his mask, whether on purpose (on the bridge to help calm the kid he’s trying to rescue down—which was actually pretty effective) or by accident (when the cops fight him). But after trashing the bathroom, after showing up Flash Thompson by making the basketball stick to his hand, by using his powers in public constantly, it’s just frustrating.

On top of that, the movie makes all kinds of story choices that are dictated, not by what makes a good story, but by the fact that it’s only been ten years since someone did a movie that showed Spider-Man’s origin, so changes had to be made to avoid repetition. So Peter can’t enter a wrestling contest and then let the thief who steals the receipts go by because Sam Raimi did that, so it’s a thief at a bodega instead. Except you still need the wrestling hit, because that’s what inspires Peter to put on a costume, so he, er, um, falls through a ceiling into a wrestling ring with posters of guys in costume on it. Sure.

We can’t have Ben tell Peter that with great power comes great responsibility, because the last movie did that, too, so instead there’s a vague speech about responsibility that doesn’t entirely make sense, and then Peter becomes Spider-Man, not because he learned his uncle’s lesson a hair too late, but instead to get vengeance (and ameliorate his guilt over not stopping the guy before he shot his father-figure). It takes a lecture from Captain Stacy instead to put him on the path to heroism.

That’s one of several bits that make me wonder if the filmmakers actually read Spidey comics, or just glanced at them. I get the same occasional disconnect between events and context that I got from Mark Steven Johnson’s wrongheaded Daredevil movie. A perfect example is something that probably seemed innocuous to most of the audience, but it threw me entirely out of the movie. Peter goes on the internship tour by stealing someone’s badge. That person is then thrown out of the building, thus losing his chance at a very prestigious internship, and quite possibly ruining his career and life. It’s played for laughs, but the entire point of Spider-Man is his unthinking actions lead to someone getting hurt. Why not just have him apply for the friggin internship program and avoid having our hero be a thief and a fraud? Not to mention the first fight he gets into is with a bunch of people on the subway whose only crime is to balance a beer on Peter’s forehead while he sleeps. Some hero.

There is nearly zero evidence that Peter has any kind of smarts. Yes, he goes to a brainy high school. Midtown High has become Midtown Science High, which raises the question of what Flash Thompson is even doing there, and why the school tolerates the kind of hazing Flash was doing, as that’s not the sort of thing that would be put up with in a school with “Science” as part of its name—they’re trying to develop Nobel Prize winners, not basketball stars. Anyhow, the point is, despite this, the only evidence we see that Peter is anything other than a typical skateboarding doofus teenager from the early 2010s is his building of the web shooters—which happens in a quickie montage. Every other time he acts in any way science-y, it’s stuff he got from his Dad’s papers.

Peter gets bitten by a genetically engineered spider because he has to for the plot to work, but while the movie contrives a good reason for Peter to be at OsCorp—the connection between his father and Connors—he has no reason to go into the room full of spiders, nor is any reason for the spiders to even be there given. (At least in this movie. It’s explained in the sequel.)

It’s never explained why Connors—who works at a massive cutting-edge technology center—doesn’t have a prosthetic arm. Nor is it ever explained how a just-fired-from-a-corrupt-company Connors is able to get at the serum and build an entire lab in a sewer.

Captain Stacy’s heel-turn is never at any point convincing. His arguments against Spider-Man are solid ones, and Peter does precisely nothing in the movie to make him seem wrong to the general public. Stacy in the comics always thought highly of Spider-Man and guessed on his own that Peter was Spider-Man, but in this movie, he has to take on the lesson-giving role that Ben should have, but he can’t because they don’t want to copy the previous movie. (And ’round we go again.)

To this day, I have no idea why they felt the need to reboot the franchise. This basic plot could very easily have been the basis of a fourth Spider-Man movie that followed the three Raimi films. Even with the re-casting and a new director, it could work. (It’s not like they haven’t re-cast characters in movie series before…) In fact, this particular re-casting of the title character is a very sensible progression, as Tobey Maguire reminds me very much of Steve Ditko’s Peter Parker (he co-created Spider-Man with Lee, and co-plotted and drew the book for its first thirty-eight issues), while Andrew Garfield reminds me just as much of John Romita Sr.’s Peter Parker (he took over from Ditko, and continued to draw the character for most of the rest of the 1960s and has remained associated with the character ever since).

If nothing else, the casting of most of the heroic parts is pretty good. Emma Stone looks exactly like she was drawn on the celluloid by Romita (seriously, it’s like the most perfect casting of Gwen ever), the super-serious faces of Campbell Scott and Embeth Davidtz well suit the tragic roles of the Parker parents, and holy cow are Sally Field and Martin Sheen magnificent as May and Ben.

Mostly it’s the latter two together that work—the meat loaf conversation is quite possibly the high point of the movie—as Field is pretty much left to flounder after Ben’s death. This is the part where I’m tempted to say, “nobody ever went wrong casting Martin Sheen in anything,” but then I remember Babylon 5: River of Souls and recall that that isn’t quite true. Having said that, President Bartlet makes a dandy Uncle Ben, as he gives the movie life and verve.

Garfield never quite feels right to me. Part of it is his aggressive ordinariness—he’s supposed to be a compassionate nerdy kid, and we just get a stereotypical millennial teenager. Having said that, his chemistry with Stone is superb. I can’t say enough good things about Stone’s work here, as she captures the complexity of the Gwen Stacy character, and she’s just an absolute delight. The awkward asking-out conversation aside, the scenes with Garfield and Stone are very well done. Not surprising, really as they play to Webb’s strengths—(500) Days of Summer was an absolute delight.

The same can’t be said for the bad guys. Irrfan Khan gives what may be the single most boring performance in an otherwise distinguished career, and the less said about Rhys Ifans’s dreadfully over-the-top super-villain the better.

Ultimately, this feels like a knockoff of a Spider-Man picture more than it does a Spider-Man picture. Just a major disappointment all around, exacerbated by the truly awful pacing and hit-and-miss casting and especially being forced to work around the shadow of the decade-old movie that did the same general plot.

Despite all this, the movie did quite well, and a sequel came out only two years later. Next week, we look at The Amazing Spider-Man 2.

Keith R.A. DeCandido has always loved Spider-Man, and his first-published short story and his first novel were both collaborative Spidey tales: the short story “An Evening in the Bronx with Venom” (written with John Gregory Betancourt) in the 1994 anthology The Ultimate Spider-Man, and the novel Venom’s Wrath (written with José R. Nieto) in 1998. He also wrote the short story “Arms and the Man” in 1997’s Untold Tales of Spider-Man and the 2005 novel Down These Mean Streets.

Jacques Tourneur’s Night of the Demon begins, like so many of the best ghost stories do, on a dark night in the English countryside. A panicked man—we soon learn he is the skeptic and debunker Professor Henry Harrington—speeds along empty roads until he arrives at a grand country house. He pounds at the door and is admitted by the great home’s owner, of whom he begs forgiveness and pleads for mercy. Dr. Julian Karswell, calm and collected, offers vague promises of help, and sends his victim home to a terrible fate. The police, when they find Harrington’s body the next morning, claim that he backed his car into a utility pole and electrocuted himself; the horrible marks on his body must have been inflicted postmortem by an animal. But we viewers know better: we’ve seen the demon.

So ends the life of one skeptic, but another dedicated debunker of superstition has just flown in from America. Tourneur’s film was adapted from the M.R. James classic story “Casting the Runes,” which, if you’re a 1950s film producer, suffers greatly from the lack of a properly virile male lead. In any case, Dana Andrews’s John Holden is a psychologist who looks as if he’d be more at home working for the police; unlike Professor Harrington (Maurice Denham), the hapless academic whose bad end begins the movie, he’s hard to shake and too incredulous for his own good. Peggy Cummins plays the late Harrington’s niece Joanna; though she lacks Holden’s doctorate, she far surpasses him in common sense.

Of the three leads, however, the best is Niall MacGinnis as Karswell: generous country squire, doting son of an aged mother, ingratiating host, accomplished scholar, and remorseless killer. An early scene shows a face-painted and clown-nosed Karswell delighting the local children with a magic act, pulling puppies out of a top hat. He should be ridiculous, but his comical get-up only accentuates his air of menace. Minor characters, including Karswell’s disconcertingly charming mother and a middle-class medium, also impress, though Harrington’s professional colleagues, a stage Irishman and a mystically sensitive “Indian” in brownface, never grow beyond stereotypes.

Night of the Demon features a surprising amount of location shooting for a film of its era, with scenes shot at Stonehenge, eerily empty and without any of the guardrails and fences seen today, and at the British Museum and the British Library Reading Room; yet its sets also make an impression, and for good reason. Ken Adam, likely the most famous production designer in film history—he went on to construct the War Room in Dr. Strangelove, build the sinister headquarters of the various Connery- and Moore-era Bond villains, resurrect the eighteenth century for Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon, and eventually received a knighthood for his efforts—was still a relative unknown when he worked on Night of the Demon. He and Tourneur had originally hoped to leave the demon off-screen; decades later Adam still seemed surprised with his creature’s persistence. While I can appreciate the director’s desire for the purity of a monster-less monster story, there’s something about the demon that compels: its slow lurch, its grasping claw, and its evident glee in tormenting its victims make for a memorable beast.

Night of the Demon and its edited and retitled American cousin, Curse of the Demon, have long been available on DVD, but following a British Film Institute restoration, both films are now available on Blu-Ray for the first time.

Buy it Now

Indicator Films, a young label that’s fast become a cinephile favorite for its eclectic reissues of classics and curiosities, has produced an incredible release of Night of the Demon, which is available in Limited and Standard Editions. Both editions feature four cuts of the film (the restored and the edited versions of Night and Curse), with the option of selecting either a 1.75:1 or a 1.66:1 aspect ratio. Bonus features include a reading of “Casting the Runes,” interviews with actors, a radio adaptation of the James story, interviews with horror authors Kim Newman and Ramsey Campbell, audio commentary, a documentary on the film, and more. Some archivist has even managed to obtain a copy of the seven-minute silent Super 8 version from the earliest days of home viewing. In addition to all of this, the Limited Edition includes a slipcase, a fold-out poster, and a booklet with essays and interviews though not, to my very slight disappointment, the full text of “Casting the Runes.”

One of the essayists featured in the Limited Edition’s booklet writes that M.R. James wouldn’t much have liked Night of the Demon. I tend to agree: I don’t know if he’d object to the monster’s physical presence—James is famous for writing ghosts that are sticky, viscous, wet, hairy, and otherwise affronting to the senses—but Demon loses the donnishness that so characterizes James’s fiction. Aside from that brief scene in the British Library Reading Room, there’s little of the scholarly dust and fussiness that James devotees love. “Casting the Runes” might almost be called “Following the Rules”—evil is defeated because the protagonist understands the immutable laws of the curse—and the film’s inclusion of Dana Andrews’s headstrong American lead rather changes the equation. And, of course, Peggy Cummins’s as Andrews’s love interest, likable as she is and as smart as she proves to be, could have no place in James’s celibate male world.

Night of the Demon, a British film with an American lead directed by a Frenchman, often seems as confused as that pocket summary would suggest, yet somehow it works. It’s not a flawless movie, and few viewers would call it Tourneur’s best, but it’s spooky, memorable, and well worthy of the deluxe packaging it’s received. And while it’s immeasurably tamer than contemporary horror, sixty years from release, a few moments can still make viewers jump.

The Region-Free Blu-Ray of Night of the Demon can be ordered direct from PowerHouse Films.

Matt Keeley reads too much and watches too many movies. You can find him on Twitter at @mattkeeley.