Fantasy 1939: Ursula Moray Williams, Adventures of Puffin

Dustjacket of first edition, showing the Little Wo jumping from the pilot’s plane with Puffin in pursuit. Illustration by Mary Shillabeer.

Moray Williams’s most celebrated books, Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse (1938) and Gobbolino the Witch’s Cat (1942), take place in an imaginary location corresponding to somewhere in Northern Europe, an alternative Switzerland full of forests, mountains, woodcutters and itinerant toymakers who carve playthings lovingly from the wood of the trees that surround them. The Little Wooden Horse’s there-and-back-again journey takes him through industrial landscapes as well as rural ones, canal barges, cargo ships and coalmines as well as palaces and bourgeois houses, but it is coded as being set in the recent past; there are no trains or aeroplanes in it, and the toymaker who makes the Little Wooden Horse seems startled by the challenge posed to his trade by the mass-produced metal toys which were pretty well ubiquitous by 1938, when the book was first published. Gobbolino’s quest for a permanent home occupies a fairy tale panorama populated by witches, hobgoblins, knights and dragons, as well as more everyday beings: orphans, mayors, pedlars and farmers. The little cat’s quest for an ‘ordinary’ human family to take him in is represented as particularly difficult in a world with so many magical events and beings in it, where everyone thinks they know what to expect from a witch’s cat, and everyone assumes that Gobbolino is one of them – the prejudice is even consolidated in the book’s title (Gobbolino is never really a witch’s cat because he hasn’t got the looks or talent).

Adventures of Puffin, by contrast, takes place in contemporary Britain, beginning in the West Country of England – perhaps on Lundy Island, which is famous for puffins[1] – and taking in New York and London as well as the largest ship in the world, the recently-completed Queen Mary (launched in 1936), and the Coronation Scot express train (which ran for the first time in 1937). There are some terrifying mermaids, but the bulk of Puffin’s adventures have him confronting real-world perils. It’s as if the year of crisis 1939 found Moray Williams unable to tear her imagination away from the here and now; and the book’s double subject – marginalisation and helping outcasts and the homeless – could hardly have been more current. It’s a book about being lost, befriended, betrayed, and in a hurry. Those themes would have resonated with many of its readers, sometimes painfully so, and perhaps that’s why it never quite achieved the popularity of The Little Wooden Horse and Gobbolino.[2]

Puffin performing his signature song. Illustration by Mary Shillabeer.

The most striking feature of the book is its concentration on time, above all on being out of time. Its central character, a puffin called Puffin, finds himself at odds with mating season in his puffinry when he fails to find a mate – the only puffin not to have done so. He then comes across an egg, which fails to hatch when the other eggs do; Puffin’s meticulous care of the egg prevents him from following his fellow puffins when they return to their life at sea after the nesting season is over. He refuses to believe that the egg is no longer viable – that it has remained unhatched for far too long, and must therefore be lifeless – until he meets a lost toy called the Little Wo, and realises that he can no longer put off the time when he must help the toy find its owner. The quest for the Little Wo’s owner involves numerous occasions when the toy and his friend Puffin are trapped in some form of prison, prevented for extended periods from pursuing their journey – first in a mermaid’s cave, then in a coastguard’s cottage, where the Little Wo is tied to a baby’s wrist and Puffin is incarcerated in a bird cage. By the time they reach the location where the Little Wo was lost – a seaside town – it is out of season, and the family who lost him has long gone. The pair catch a train in the hope that it will take them to the family’s home in London, but fail to consult the timetable to ascertain its direction of travel, and find themselves trapped again in the cargo hold of a ship which is taking the train to America. Once in the United States they are imprisoned once more, this time in a capitalist contract whereby Puffin must sing his signature song and the Little Wo must perform magic tricks for an indefinite period – possibly for ever – without hope of release. Their eventual escape takes them back to the coastguard and his family, and eventually to London, where they narrowly escape being imprisoned for a fourth and final time in London Zoo. Each imprisonment in the book delays the pair’s journey for weeks or months, so that when the Little Wo finally finds his owner, Puffin returns to the puffinry to find that the nesting season is over again, and that he has again failed to choose a mate or fertilise an egg. The sheer consistency with which this theme is developed in the narrative confirms, I think, the extraordinary craftsmanship Moray Williams brings to her books for children, as noted in my post on The Little Wooden Horse. But it also confirms the extent to which this novel in particular represents a direct response to the year of peril, 1939, in which it was written.

The most striking sign that the book is a work of its time is its use of a highly topical incident as one of its central plot devices. Puffin and Little Wo conceal themselves in a train, as I said before, but it’s not just any train; it’s the ‘very paragon of trains’, which the Little Wo chooses in preference to the ordinary train that would (presumably) have taken them to London, their intended destination (p. 137). ‘Look at that one!’ the toy cries when he catches sight of it at the station. ‘Did you ever in all your life see such a glorious, such a magnificent train as the one that is standing over there?’ Puffin has not – in fact, Puffin has never even seen a train before – and so he agrees to board the vehicle in question, little knowing that it is the Coronation Scot, which is about to be taken to New York for display at the New York World Fair. The actual Coronation Scot was loaded on board the SS Belpamela at Southampton on 23 January 1939, and was described in a contemporary newsreel as ‘the pride of Britain’s railways, fast and silent and up-to-date’, sent to the United States to ‘show them what we can do in the way of modern transport’. The vehicle represents modernity itself, with the speed, efficiency and sleek art deco aesthetics that embodied the concept at the end of the decade. In the book, however, the train is out of time, for all its modernity. It is travelling not on its usual route between London and Glasgow but across the sea to an exhibition in the most famous of American cities – a departure from its timetable that directly interferes with the plans and hopes of Puffin and the Little Wo. In fact, the real Coronation Scot went on to embody the rupture of time that takes place on the outbreak of war, since hostilities between Britain and Germany meant that it could not be brought back to Britain until 1943. In the meantime, it served as an ‘Ambassador of British railways and as an example of British craftsmanship and technical achievement’ when it was shown for a second time at the New York World Fair of 1940. By that time part of its duties would be to remind neutral America of the ‘ties and contacts […] which have so long bound us in mutual interest’, as Lord Stamp of Shortlands put it in a contemporary pamphlet. Presumably Lord Stamp hoped it might also help to persuade the United States to throw in its lot with the train’s engineers and country, abandoning neutrality and recognising the need to be ‘belligerent’ against the Nazi menace. Adventures of Puffin may have had a similar ambassadorial purpose, since Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse saw equal success in Britain and America, a feat which Puffin’s publishers no doubt hoped to replicate with its adventurous successor.[3]

The Duchess of Hamilton locomotive, part of the Coronation Scot service sent to New York for the 1939 exhibition.

War is never mentioned in Moray Williams’s book, but its presence is everywhere if you look for it. The lost toy called the Little Wo, in particular, could be said to represent the innocent victims of war, people about whom Moray Williams would have known a great deal thanks to her father’s work as County Director for the Red Cross in Hampshire. Three years before the book was published, farmland at Moray Williams’s Hampshire home – a dilapidated mansion called North Stoneham – was chosen as the site for a camp for Basque refugee children from the Spanish Civil War;[4] in other words, war in Europe swept up on the shore of Ursula’s childhood home at the very moment when her marriage to a pilot took her away from Stoneham to a suburban flat in Hampton, exiling her from the countryside she loved. Ursula’s brother Alan, a communist, was inspired by the plight of the Basque refugees to write a pamphlet calling for insurrection which got him rusticated from the University of Cambridge. Like the refugees the Little Wo is a forced migrant, swept away from his child owner and banished from his home by the sea of circumstance. His strangely curtailed name seems to indicate the broken threads that tied him to the past; we’re told specifically at one point that ‘Wo’ is not a version of ‘Woe’ (p. 133), and readers of Moray Williams’s famous book of 1938 might well have noted its broken allusion to the book’s protagonist, the Little Wooden Horse. The Little Wo, however, doesn’t have a fixed species. While the illustrations by Mary Shillabeer suggest he is a dog, the book never names him as such, and from his first emergence from the sea he comes across as more or less anonymous as well as homeless and alone:

Out of the melting froth something crept and crawled, so wet it might have been made of the sea. […] The little creature was not a bird, it was not a seal, it was certainly not a mermaid – it was like nothing [Puffin] had ever seen before (p. 23).

We know only that the Little Wo has a name and that he’s made of cotton, with button eyes (p. 48), woolly ears and a tail ‘which had been darned several times over’ (p. 56). He cannot remember where his home is, and even his child owner has no name – he is only ever ‘Himself’. Everywhere he goes the toy seeks to endear himself to the local population, accepting them eagerly as his well-wishers and benefactors, despite the fact that they regularly prove to have malevolent designs on him. At the same time, from the first his chief characteristics are those of loyalty – first to Himself, then to Puffin, then to his real or apparent friends – along with courage (although he is often frightened), forgetfulness and naivety. By the end of the book, when he finally remembers the location of his home, these characteristics make him seem like the ideal candidate for a soldier, perhaps part of the worldwide movement preparing to protect their homes from the rise of fascism. On spotting the house where Himself lives, he promptly jumps out of a speeding plane with a parachute on his back – like a paratrooper or a pilot escaping a damaged aircraft – and sets off towards the building in question, ‘Confident as a marching army’ (p. 188), singing martial songs and ‘with a thousand imaginary drums beating in his ears’ (p. 189). The last Puffin sees of him is looking out of the house’s nursery window, waving to his avian friend and protector while preparing to reassure Himself (who is not at home) that his broken family has been reunited against all odds. There could hardly be a more comforting message for child readers in wartime – especially if those readers had been forcefully parted from their families and homes, like the Basque refugees. Reunion may still be possible, the book insists, and it happens here after many trials and adventures, though we are never shown the reunion itself. Every child who has been separated from their loved ones will need to imagine it for themselves.

Puffin with the Little Wo. Illustration by Mary Shillabeer.

The emphasis on technology in Moray Williams’s book also invokes the rapid approach of war, when innovative and skilfully-used technology might prove the difference between victory and defeat. Ursula’s husband Peter was an ex-RAF pilot who worked as a technician at the Hawker factory in Kingston, where the famous Hawker Hurricane fighter planes were built between 1936 and 1944. A major character in the novel is a young pilot who aims to break the record for crossing the Atlantic, and who befriends Puffin and the Little Wo at the seaside town where the toy was lost in the summer. The young man’s friendliness towards the friendless pair enables them to enter a grand hotel from which they have previously been barred, and they later accompany him on his record-breaking flight from New York to England. The pilot’s plane crashes on the English coast after breaking the record, but he goes on to build a second, improved model of the smashed plane – called the Butterfly as if in homage to the well-known Moth series of planes built by de Havilland, though the name also invokes the beauty and vulnerability of planes in the 1930s[5] – and it’s from the new aircraft that the Little Wo finally spots his long-lost home. The pilot’s attempt to break the record identifies speed and technological innovation as the key qualities of modern times, but his willingness to use them in the service of others – he is unconcerned with fame or the trappings of fame and does his best to avoid them – endows him with the additional qualities of empathy, selflessness and loyalty required by prospective defenders of freedom. The series of coincidences that ensure the book’s modest heroes meet up on three occasions with their pilot friend imply, too, that he is in some sense a man of his time, one whose ability to master time by flying swiftly somehow extends itself to a mastery of good timing.

The pilot’s personal modesty extends to his family background, since his mother lives in a ‘pleasant country cottage’ with a ‘homely parlour’ and expresses effusive gratitude to Puffin for ‘saving her son’s life on the rocks’ after the crash (pp. 163-4). In fact the young man is a human double of the book’s two central characters, with Puffin’s ability to fly, the Little Wo’s attachment to home, and the courage and ingenuity of both, so that his presence in Moray Williams’s novel helps to link the two small animals – one real, one a toy – to the human population of his country. He confirms the link between himself and his nonhuman friends when he tells the Little Wo that he understands his impatience to get back to his owner: ‘I know just how you feel,’ he tells him, since ‘I felt like that myself out there in the States waiting for the Butterfly to be ready’ (p. 164). The Little Wo’s urgency to get home and the pilot’s urgency to break the record in flying to England both pay homage to the love of your place of birth, and to a stubborn willingness to overcome the various forms of peril that threaten to sever you from that place for ever; in the final stage of the crossing a storm brings down the pilot’s plane, but between them the three friends show characteristic resilience in surviving the catastrophe and making it back to the people and localities they love. In Moray Williams’s world, in other words, technological innovation can supplement rather than obscure the attachment to place, family and the ordinary. As the wife of a pilot and technician she was well qualified to recognise the capacity of these things to coexist.

The pilot with Puffin and the Little Wo in the hotel dining room. Illustration by Mary Shillabeer.

Another element of the book that betrays its origins in the shadow of war is its setting on the English coast. The coast is where families go for holidays, where seabirds nest, where climbers brave the cliffs (Puffin and little Wo are rescued from a peregrine’s nest by a young climber, the Coastguard’s son), and where fishermen earn their living (Puffin salutes the fishermen of his home region as he flies back to his puffinry at the end of the book: ‘where are fishermen like the fishermen of the West Country?’, p. 194). But the seashore is also a place of deadly danger. The sea that washes against its rocks and sands contains perils of every description, from the tide that sweeps the Little Wo away from Himself to the peregrine that snatches him from the waves as food for its young, from the whirlpools between its boulders and the cuttlefish in its caves to the mermaids that haunt its waters, who imprison the Little Wo in their submarine palace. The Coastguard – another key character in the book – reinforces our sense of the dangers that plague the coast, since his job is to protect his fellow humans against them. The Coastguard’s world collides with the young pilot’s when the first Butterfly crashes near the Coastguard’s cottage, and the incident reinforces the point that both key human characters earn their living by courting danger, perched on the borderline between life and death along with their families. The Coastguard’s cottage (with his wife and children in it) stands close to the rocks on which boats and planes come to grief, while the pilot’s mother is keenly conscious of the deadliness of her son’s trade as an airman. Their familiarity with peril marks them out as fully prepared for the global conflict whose approach everyone was predicting in 1939.

Animals too, on the coast, exist on a fulcrum between life and death. Puffin’s Egg may or may not be alive as he waits for it to hatch; many people, including the mermaids, assume that it’s ‘addled’. Small creatures like Puffin and the Little Wo live in constant danger from predators such as cuttlefish and peregrine falcons. The falcons live in danger from human nest robbers such as the young climber. A fox Puffin meets in a field when he journeys inland is in danger from the hounds that chase it. Inhabitants of the coast and its adjacent landscapes and seascapes – Puffin’s world, in other words – resemble tightrope walkers or mountaineers, teetering precariously between survival and destruction.

Frontispiece of first edition, by Mary Shillabeer, with cliffs in background.

Puffin’s particular stretch of coast is made up of granite cliffs, impregnable bastions like the White Cliffs of Dover but also vertiginous precipices marking the end of one element and the start of another. The writer-artist Mervyn Peake wrote of 1939 as a cliff over which the world hung poised to drop:

O heart-beats – you are rattling dice –
My rattling dice
Proclaim the edge of precipice
At whose hid boulders stands a soundless sea –
These dice
Endanger me,
And spice
My days with hazards of futurity.[6]

In fact, the period immediately before the Second World War is often described in prose and verse, both then and now, as a precipice or cliff, and Peake’s poem perfectly summarizes – mixed metaphors and all – the intense consciousness at the time that multiple threats were coming to a head, and that the momentum of the world was now too strong to prevent its losing its balance and taking the plunge onto the rocks below. Moray Williams would have been as conscious of this momentum as anyone in Britain. Her husband Peter volunteered as an ARP warden in 1938, and his work as well as her father’s was shaped by conflict, which brought the need for both Hawker Hurricane fighters and emergency accommodation for refugees. Making her protagonist a seabird, who lives his life on the deadly margin between land and sea, means that Moray Williams’s novel conveys almost as well as Peake’s poem the strange tensions that governed this particular moment in global history. And her protagonist shares with his world a set of internal tensions that make him the perfect embodiment of the time in which she was writing.

In personality, Puffin is poised between one set of traits and another, a quality that makes him one of Moray Williams’s most complex creations. He is plump, short and clownish to look at but also a daring bird of action, who can fly low enough to ‘buzz’ other birds (as a pilot might ‘buzz’ his friends on an airfield) or leap from a plane on a sudden impulse to follow and protect the parachuting Little Wo. He lives alone in his clifftop burrow, but also longs for a companion (‘either a kind and pretty little sweetheart puffin […] or a brave, sturdy brother puffin’, p. 10) and a child. He is ‘honest’ (p. 9), but he is also prepared to be mildly dishonest when it suits him; for instance, he hides away the abandoned egg he has found for several hours before putting up a sign advertising its whereabouts to anyone who might be looking for it (pp. 9-11). He cares passionately for the Egg but forgets to sit on it. He is quite often bad tempered (for instance, he pushes a young puffin off a ledge for cheeking him, pp. 15-16) but also kind-hearted (he takes the Little Wo to his burrow as soon as he finds him on the shore, and even transfers his attention from the Egg for a while as he tends to his visitor’s needs). He is a homebird, satisfied to stay behind and wait for the Egg to hatch while the other puffins fly off to sea, but also a courageous traveller, willing to accompany the Little Wo to the ends of the earth to help him track down his human family. He is sometimes self-deprecating but also takes pleasure in fame – at least for a while – when his signature song makes him a star in America. He has limited experience but also a great deal of ingenuity, finding ways to escape from the very different prisons of the mermaids’ palace and the Coastguard’s cottage, outwitting a pack of hounds, and mimicking the voice of a zookeeper to help his friend slip out of a cage in London Zoo. He gets frustrated at times by the Little Wo’s endless naivety, but loves him and misses him badly when he’s gone. At every stage of his adventures, it’s his best characteristics that direct his actions, so that he always teeters in the right direction, but he sometimes feels shame for having been tempted to do the opposite. Puffin comes across, in fact, as a thoroughly ordinary person, but one who is capable of doing extraordinary things, which makes him the perfect hero for a time when everyday life has somehow got tangled up with the frightening, the difficult and the strange.

Mermaids in pursuit of the escaping Little Wo. Illustration by Mary Shillabeer.

Puffin’s two-sidedness extends from his personality to his identity. Both he and the Little Wo continually fluctuate, so to speak, between one mode of being and another. Moray Williams represents Puffin both as a puffin and as a kind of miniature human, while the Little Wo – like the Little Wooden Horse – comes across as both a toy and a very small person. They can talk to human beings, like the animals in Kenneth Graham’s The Wind in the Willows, but are also bound like them to their nonhuman identities, in this case as a bird and a toy. Puffin has wings and can fly, while the Little Wo has cotton paws which can get worn out by excessive scrambling among the rocks; at the same time, the two friends are able to hold hands when running away from their many pursuers, and Puffin can row a boat when the need arises. Puffin sings his signature song in English, and the song becomes a hit, first among the passengers on the Queen Mary, then among the citizens of New York; but he can also be barred from an English hotel because (as the porter says) ‘This isn’t a Natural History Museum’ (p. 128) – in other words, because he’s an animal. He and the Little Wo can be admitted as guests to the hotel dining room, thanks to their friend the pilot, but can also slip away unnoticed by scuttling under the dining room tables like the bird and dog they resemble.

Their unsettled identities get them in trouble repeatedly during their travels. The Little Wo, for instance – who seeks to ingratiate himself with everyone and believes everything he’s told – thinks the mermaids, Puffin’s neighbours, are delightful, and allows them to replace his small darned tail with the tail of a merdog, which gives him a third identity, that of a mythological creature, to supplement the two he already has. This means (as Puffin is well aware) that the Little Wo will never again be able to leave the sea and find his family, which means in turn that Puffin must find a way to rescue him by offering the mermaids something better in exchange for the stolen tail. He finds this object of trade in his own brightly-coloured rainbow beak, the part of his body that gives him the nickname he most dislikes, ‘sea-parrot’ (a name that proves prophetic when he ‘parrots’ the voice of a zookeeper). As soon as he gives the mermaids his beak, they give back the Little Wo’s tail and take away the fishtail, but Puffin is left with a ‘funny little stump’ and the feeling that a crucial part of him is missing. Fortunately, a puffin’s beak grows back soon after it’s been shed [https://esajournals.onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1002/fee.2620]; this happens annually after the breeding season, as Moray Williams may have known, since this is exactly when it happens in the book. Puffins, in other words, have shapeshifting built into their bodies, which means that our hero’s repeated transitions in the first part of the book – between animal and person, between a rainbow-beaked sea-parrot and an anonymous black-and-white bird with a stump on its face – do him no real damage.

Puffin caged by the Coastguard. Illustration by Mary Shillabeer.

But his dual nature becomes problematic when he first meets human people. On being taken back to the Coastguard’s cottage by his cliff-climbing son, both Puffin and the Little Wo are treated from the first as nonhuman entities: Puffin is put in a parrot’s cage and the Little Wo is tied by a thread, like a rattle, to the baby’s wrist. This treatment becomes disturbing when we realise that the Coastguard and his family can talk to both creatures as if they were fellow human beings, learning their back stories and enjoying Puffin’s rendition of the song that later makes him famous. In other words, they make a conscious choice to treat the pair as inferiors rather than equals, selecting from among their characteristics the ones that identify them as lower than themselves in that man-made hierarchy of species, the Great Chain of Being. Puffin’s response to the Little Wo, by contrast, was wholly generous, welcoming him into his burrow like a long-lost son or brother. The Coastguard and his family, on the other hand, never rise above their perception of their small captives as possessions to be disposed of as they wish, despite their articulacy and obvious intelligence. The Little Wo is eventually freed from the thread that ties him to the baby, because he can climb back into the cradle by himself and always does; but Puffin is never permitted to fly free, and there is never any question of the Little Wo being allowed to continue his quest for the child who lost him.

This becomes clear when the Coastguard’s son and the Little Wo become unexpected celebrities. Word soon gets round that a toy has been found by the son in a falcon’s nest, and a letter arrives from London inviting the boy and the famous toy to come and be interviewed by the papers. The Little Wo is delighted, because London is close to his old home, but Puffin overhears the Coastguard telling his wife that the toy will never be restored to its owner; he is wanted by a Museum, perhaps a Museum of Natural History, and ‘will be [kept] there for ever and ever’ to be gawped at by strangers (p. 92). The toy’s urgent search for Himself will come to an end, and he will be condemned to total stasis, frozen in time – or out of time – in perpetuity. The former migrant will no longer be a person in transit, with a rich identity and a variegated history, but stuck in a glass case in a fixed position, his life artificially reduced to a single moment that defines him for the rest of his existence. The parallel with refugees is painfully obvious: a group of people whose lives are all too often reduced to a single word (‘refugee’ or ‘migrant’), which is used to define them, the rest of their histories forgotten or ignored in the hostility and even fear that word can provoke.

The Coronation Scot. Illustration by Mary Shillabeer.

As it happens, Puffin could be said to have a personal reason to resist the objectification of living creatures, whether birds or playthings or human migrants. Moray Williams drew inspiration for her hero from an old glass case full of stuffed seabirds in her childhood home, North Stoneham, a crumbling Palladian mansion not far from Southampton. She saw the case again on returning to the house in November 1938, not long before it was due to be demolished. Prominent among the seabirds was a puffin, its colourful beak standing out from among the dusty blacks and whites of the gulls, murres, razorbills and gannets. Improbably, Puffin seems to share Ursula’s knowledge of glass display cases, taxidermy, and the museums that encourage both:

A museum! He had heard puffins speak of them before. Museums were full of glass cases, sealed, and filled with stuffed puffins, who were there for ever and ever. They would never fish nor fly again. It was worse, far worse, than being in a parrot’s cage in a pleasant kitchen with the waves breaking on the rocks outside. When he thought of the Little Wo shut in one of these ca[s]es for ever, in the artificial nest of a stuffed peregrine, with two stuffed peregrine children, and behind him a painted sky and a pastel sea, with school-children and other interested people staring at him all day long, Puffin closed his eyes. He simply could not bear it. (p. 92)

The perils that have faced the pair so far in their adventures shrink to insignificance beside this fate of being fixed for all time in rigid stillness, part of a simulated ‘natural’ environment crudely reproduced, for the benefit of city-dwellers, by means of a wholly unnatural process. That the toy might be reduced to this condition after being betrayed by a couple who claim to love him – the Coastguard and his wife – speaks to the problems that arise from lack of empathy. As Puffin points out to the Little Wo, an absence of fellow-feeling is not so much a matter of cruelty as of thoughtlessness: ‘They are ignorant, that’s all. And they don’t understand us; it isn’t their fault. If they had understood us they would have set us free long ago, and who knows if you wouldn’t have been at home by now and I back in my shabby little burrow’ (p. 93).

Puffin’s own sense of empathy is best displayed, of course, in his response to the Little Wo, who is stuffed by his very nature, just like an animal in a museum display case, but is treated by Puffin as if he were capable of every kind of feeling. On first meeting him, Puffin examines his ‘little cotton body, stuffed, and limp where the stuffing was soaked and lumpy from the sea’ (p. 25), but instead of dismissing him as an inanimate, cast-off object seeks instead to understand his history: ‘he gently asked the Little Wo where he came from, and what he was doing in the sea all alone at that time of day’ (p. 24). He ignores the toy’s disparaging remarks about Puffin’s beloved coast (for the Little Wo it’s a ‘dreadful barren shore’, p. 25), and recognises instead that his new friend has been ‘greatly loved’, that he is small and helpless, and that he can be readily accommodated in his burrow. And he goes on to adapt his own story and circumstances to the migrant’s needs: ‘With a little arrangement, they slept very comfortably with the Egg between them, and for the first time since he found it Puffin forgot to wonder whether by the morning it would be hatched’ (p. 26). Puffin’s sense of time has begun to synch with that of his visitor, rather than the Egg, and not long afterwards the seabird becomes a migrant himself, voluntarily taking to sea in a home-made boat in a bid to give the toy’s story a happy ending.

Puffin and the Little Wo fleeing through London Zoo. Illustration by Mary Shillabeer.

Puffin’s narrative involves several moments when people without empathy or ‘understanding’ manage to acquire it. Puffin himself gets more empathetic. In building his boat, for instance, he begins by rejecting the help offered by various animals in his neighbourhood, then quickly realises he cannot manage on his own and finds ways to cajole them into forgiving him for his initial rudeness. The porter who at first bars Puffin and the Little Wo from the grand hotel later becomes decidedly helpful to them. The Coastguard and his family are reunited with Puffin and the Little Wo when the two small heroes ask them for help in rescuing the airman after his crash, and at this point the humans beg forgiveness for their earlier betrayal of their nonhuman visitors. But there are also two more incidents when human lack of empathy nearly ruins the adventurers. At London Zoo Puffin is again identified as an animal rather than a person when a little boy grabs him by the neck, thinking he has escaped from his enclosure, after which he is chased through the zoo by a swarm of keepers, and only escapes by confirming once and for all his human credentials (as I mentioned, he mimics a keeper’s voice with perfect accuracy). The most disturbing instance of lack of empathy, though, happens in America, where Puffin is almost trapped in time by the operations of capitalism. Having made his name by singing his song about puffins, whose most memorable line perfectly captures the American Dream (‘there’s nuffin’ that a puffin cannot do!’), Puffin is persuaded to sign a ‘paper’ which he cannot read; only later does he find he has signed a legal contract with a music-hall owner, ‘which bound [him] to stay with the show till it came to an end, and it might go on for years and years’ (p. 147). Capitalism, it would seem, has the disruption and control of time built into its mechanisms, surreptitiously passing ownership of a person’s daily labour from themselves to someone else without their consent, and thereafter imposing the new owner’s timetable on the labourer for as long as the contract remains in effect. In Adventures of Puffin, as in The Little Wooden Horse, showmanship is the trade in which this clandestine transference of ownership manifests itself most visibly. The Little Wooden Horse breaks himself to bits performing for gold in a travelling circus, while Puffin and the Little Wo find themselves trapped within the narrow confines of the music hall, having been ‘brought up’ (in Puffin’s case) ‘to the beauty and freedom of the sea’ (p. 147). Capitalism makes objects of living creatures, placing them in metaphorical glass cases to be gawped at by anyone willing and able to pay money for the privilege and keeping them there without hope of release. Luckily Puffin and the Little Wo find a way to break the contract: their friend the English pilot comes to watch the show, and on seeing him they promptly jump into his pockets, where with his help they evade the scrutiny of the journalists and showbiz personnel who come looking for them. The pilot is not concerned with distinctions between species or with other kinds of boundaries and borders; he walks the two friends through the door of the music hall, just as he had earlier walked them through the door of the swanky hotel in an English seaside town, in defiance of social rules and contracts. Later he invites them to fly home with him to England on his plane, broaching the vaster threshold or border of the Atlantic Ocean. In the process he renders the money they earned at the music hall immaterial, since they no longer need to pay for their passage – this being the major motivation for their having agreed to become performers in the first place. Empathy frees the two small heroes from the grip of capitalism, just as empathy saves the pilot’s life, when Puffin fetches the Coastguard to rescue the young man after his plane has crashed. For Moray Williams, understanding or fellow feeling offers a modest but essential counter-narrative to the various forms of hostility, indifference and oppression that have brought the world to the brink of war.

The pilot’s conduct in the music hall confirms his status as a human double for his two small friends. When Puffin and the Little Wo dive into his pockets he distracts reporters’ attention by repeating Puffin’s words from an incident earlier in the story. At one point in their adventures the modest heroes meet a fox and get caught up in the hunt that is chasing him (it’s worth mentioning here that foxhunts take place in winter, between November and March or April, so this is another temporal marker in the text; if the friends had met the fox a few weeks earlier they would never have encountered the hunt). The Little Wo finds himself substituted for the fox as quarry for the ravening hounds, and Puffin saves the toy by telling him to dive into a rabbit’s burrow (much as he later dives into the pilot’s pocket) while he sits at the entrance and distracts the dogs with breezy conversation. As the hounds come up to ask if he has seen the little fugitive, Puffin refuses to inform them of his whereabouts, but also refuses to lie to them about it: ‘I can’t say, I’m sure,’ he says vaguely in response to their questions; ‘I really couldn’t tell you’; ‘I wouldn’t like to say, I’m sure’ (p. 114). The pilot repeats these words verbatim to the crowd of reporters looking for his friends at the music hall: ‘I can’t say, I’m sure’; ‘I really couldn’t tell you’; ‘I wouldn’t like to say, I’m sure’ (p. 150). The echo places him firmly in his friends’ camp, as a person who refuses to countenance hunting of any kind (in this case the intrusive tracking down of individuals by the paparazzi), but who also refuses to tell lies if he can avoid it. As with Puffin, his convictions are clear, his loyalties unwavering, and he maintains both in the face of a world that too readily readjusts its position in pursuit of profit, or in conformity with the dictates of a repressive ideology.

Puffin and the Little Wo at the music hall. Illustration by Mary Shillabeer.

The innate similarity between the pilot and his two small friends reinforces another key theme of the book: bonds forged in defiance of difference. The most important of such bonds is the family bond, whereby people of different generations (and hence of different backgrounds and even cultures, each generation shaped by the different circumstances under which it grew up) support each other in an unbreakable unit held together by unwavering affection. As we’ve seen, Puffin treats the Little Wo as a family member – a child or a somewhat wayward younger brother – and he reaffirms the bond between them at the moment of parting, looking back at the toy as it waves from the nursery window and thinking to himself, as often before, ‘Funny, faithful, happy Little Wo’ (p. 191). The phrase implies that the toy has found his happy ending against all odds; and when Puffin’s own happy ending follows, it is equally the outcome of unwavering faithfulness to the idea of a happy home and a loving family.

In both Puffin’s and the Little Wo’s case, the family and the home are non-traditional ones – the traditional nuclear family having been placed under intolerable strain in 1939 by the conditions of war and worldwide migration. The Little Wo has forged his strongest bond with a creature who is not even of the same species – Himself – which may explain why he finds it so easy to bond with Puffin, as well as with the many other beings he meets on his adventures. Puffin, by contrast, forges his deepest bond with his own species in the form of the Egg, and afterwards with the Little Wo, who can almost (but not quite) be equated with the puffin chick into which he hoped the Egg would hatch, or with the puffin companion he longed for. In the end, however, he gains an actual puffin companion. Having been out of temporal step with the rest of his community since the beginning of the book, it seems inevitable that he should remain out of step in the final chapter; and sure enough, when he gets home to his humble burrow he finds that his fellow puffins have left their breeding grounds for a second time, and that the season is over. On this occasion, however, someone is waiting for him: a flightless puffling who has hatched after all the rest and been left behind when the others flew off to sea. Washed up on Puffin’s clifftop by the sea of circumstance – like a second Egg or another Little Wo – the puffling is adopted by the friendly seabird, as promptly and completely as he adopted the toy. But for this new castaway no other home calls to him; no shadow of another parting stands between them, as Dickens might have put it.[7]

Puffin tells the puffling his story. Illustration by Mary Shillabeer.

The puffling is no more the seabird’s son, of course, than the Little Wo was, but fits more neatly into Puffin’s narrative. That it is a narrative, carefully constructed by Puffin to suit his needs, is confirmed by another detail about this ending, which is that Puffin manages to persuade himself that the chick has emerged from his beloved Egg, bringing his story to the neatest of conclusions. The Egg came into Puffin’s life as a creature out of time, like the Little Wo and Puffin himself, and Puffin has remained convinced from first to last that being out of time can have a positive outcome. An Egg might hatch, Puffin believes, long after it should have started to rot. A toy might find a faithful friend long after he has been seemingly lost for ever. A puffling might find an adoptive parent long after it has been left to starve by its biological parents. Understanding arises from a willingness to embrace the unfortunate, the abandoned and the unconventional, and Puffin has both these qualities in spades: that is, understanding or empathy, and a willingness to take unfortunate strangers to heart, however inconvenient this may prove to himself. Puffin, then, is a creature perfectly suited to a time out of joint, just as the principal humans in the story – the Coastguard and the pilot – are perfectly suited to the defence of the realm that will soon be necessary.

One peculiarity of Puffin’s series of unconventional families is that they contain no mothers – this despite the fact that Moray Williams was a mother when she wrote it. Nuclear families like the Coastguard’s, the pilot’s and Moray Williams’s have a mother at the centre of them, but the Egg has no visible mother and neither does the Little Wo when Puffin finds him or the puffling he adopts in the final chapter. When he realises that the Egg is motherless, the seabird does all he can to fill the role himself:

For the rest of the day he sat on the Egg, as he had seen the mother puffins do, but he was awkward at it. He rolled from one side to the other; he fell into a doze and fell off it. he found it most uncomfortable, and in some strange way he felt that the Egg was uncomfortable too. It did not like to be sat on, at any rate by Puffin. (p. 18)

So he seeks out a better mother for the Egg, first approaching the mermaids, who assure him of their maternal credentials in such glowing terms that the seabird becomes unsettled – after all, ‘Every puffin knows that a mermaid’s promises are not to be trusted, and the more solemnly they promise the more treacherous are their hearts’ (p. 20) – and backs off, earning himself their everlasting enmity. Later the Little Wo takes on the task of finding a mother for the Egg, and his choice of candidates for the position includes a cow, several rabbits, foxes, voles, and a kindly seal. When the seal gets stuck in Puffin’s burrow and has to be rescued before returning to her own family, the two friends give up the chase, and from this point onwards the need for a mother is never mentioned again. Puffin pronounces the Egg unviable and commits himself wholly to the Little Wo; and when in the end he decides that the Egg has indeed hatched and produced the puffling, a whole year after he left it to fend for itself, the little bird’s lack of a mother is never brought up. In times of need the only requisite for a family is whether or not it can provide a safe, loving and supportive environment for its members; the Little Wo knows this when he seeks a mother figure among all the many species that frequent the coast, refusing to confine himself to puffins or even birds. Puffin provides this environment for each of his chosen small companions, just as they provide much-needed companionship for Puffin.

The seabird’s easy adoption of a traditionally female role (though he doesn’t fulfil all of its functions with equal success) stands at the heart of what I take to be the novel’s key achievement. In it, Moray Williams succeeds in providing her young readers with an alternative model of masculinity: one which is nurturing, consistently and practically focused on the needs of others, empathetic, and unconditionally loving of its smaller, weaker companions. Even the Little Wo’s brief transformation into a kind of soldier as he marches in triumph towards his long-lost owner’s home has as its object not the conquest of a neighbouring nation but the peaceful reclamation of his own. At a time when a mood of violent militancy gripped the world, Moray Williams’s alternative vision of men, presented to a new generation of men (her own children were boys), offered up the possibility of a very different future. That this is the function of her narrative seems to be confirmed by the final paragraph of the last chapter, in which Puffin sits down with the puffling on the edge of the cliff, looking out across the ocean, and tells him the story of his adventures. Having finished his story, the seabird goes on to tell a further story of renewed community and the complete realignment of disjointed timelines:

And when, his adventures told, they sat quietly in the moonlight, he began the tale of all the wonderful things they were going to do together in the days ahead, when nobody would be lonely any longer and the Puffins came back to the Puffinry. (p. 198)

Moray Williams does not show us the Puffins’ return; we are asked only to imagine it, just as we were earlier asked to imagine the Little Wo’s reunion with Himself. She leaves her child readers, in other words, looking to the ‘days ahead’, but substitutes for the fearful prognosis of war a visionary glimpse of a time when loneliness will be banished, both for those like Puffin who have wandered far away from their homes and for those like the puffling who have been cast out and left behind. Immediately before this final sentence, she describes the ‘rainbow colours’ fading out of the granite cliffs; the rainbow being a symbol of hope in Genesis, as well as an echo of Puffin’s own rainbow beak, which he gave away to the mermaids but grew back while he was living with the Coastguard’s family. The rainbow colours may go dark, but they will return, Moray Williams assures us, with all they represented in her lifetime, and all they have represented since. It’s an ending that speaks to our own time as powerfully, I think, as it spoke to hers.

The Little Wo begs a mother seal to adopt the Egg. Illustration by Mary Shillabeer.

NOTES

[1] Lundy Island seems the most likely location for Puffin’s puffinry, because it is made of granite, unlike (for instance) the limestone cliffs at Purbeck. Moray Williams identifies Puffin’s cliffs as in the ‘West Country’ and of ‘granite’: Adventures of Puffin (London: Harrap, 1939), p. 194. All quotations are from this edition.

[2] Not that it didn’t do well. Colin Davison tells us that ‘By Christmas 1939 Adventures of Puffin had sold almost 2000 copies in less than two months, almost matching the early success of Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse’: Davison, Through the Magic Door: Ursula Moray Williams, Gobbolino and the Little Wooden Horse (Newcastle: Northumbria Press, 2011), p. 72. It never made it into paperback, however, which meant that it remains forever a product of its time.

[3] For the success of Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse see Davison, Through the Magic Door, pp. 60-62.

[4] See Davison, Through the Magic Door, p. 54.

[5] The picture of the plane provided by the book’s illustrator, Mary Shillabeer, looks less like a record-breaking single-pilot plane than a transport plane, the de Havilland Albatross, which was built between 1938 and 1939. Interestingly, a well-known photo of the Coronation Scot, taken in January 1939, shows it with an Albatross flying overhead. Could Shillabeer have based her plane on this one?

[6] ‘O Heart-Beats’, Mervyn Peake, Collected Poems, ed. R. W. Maslen, Fyfield Books (Manchester: Carcanet, 2008), p. 52.

[7] That’s a reference to the final sentence of Great Expectations (1860-1861), in the revised version of 1868: ‘I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and, as the morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so, the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of the tranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting from her.’

R. F. Kuang, Babel (2022)

  1. The peculiar properties of colonial space

Fantasy was born in Oxford. There the mathematician Charles Dodgson devised the adventures of Alice underground, the precursor to Alice in Wonderland, as he drifted along the Cherwell on a summer day with a boatload of spellbound children. There Tolkien’s scholarly dreams of accessing the deep past of humankind, and of inventing a new language, converged to generate the book that birthed the genre. There C. S. Lewis conceived the land of Narnia, which helped to change fantasy for children in the wake of the Second World War, transforming it from a treasure-seeker’s playground to a study in resistance to tyranny and a fierce defence of the imagination.[1] There Philip Pullman regenerated children’s fantasy at a time when it seemed to be fizzling out, pitting his fiercely democratic political vision against Lewis’s more conservative religious convictions. Pullman’s anger at what he saw as the betrayals perpetrated by faith paved the way for yet angrier Oxford fantasies. In Helen Marshall’s The Migration (2019), children react to the sense of having been betrayed by their elders, who bequeathed them the climate catastrophe, by undergoing a revolutionary metamorphosis diagnosed by older scientists as a disease. Oxford continues to prove fertile ground for fantasy, but the fantasies it engenders grow darker and more unsettling with each decade.

R. F. Kuang’s Babel (2022) may be the angriest Oxford fantasy yet. Its subtitle – The Necessity of Violence – has a double meaning: the British Empire found violence necessary to achieve its ends, and the book’s protagonists find violence necessary to make themselves heard, both in Oxford and beyond – Oxford here being the intellectual, economic and technological hub of the British Empire. Like Marshall’s novel, Babel has been written by an outsider to the city, one of those North American scholars who pass through the ancient body of the university, injecting the lifeblood of overseas fees and fresh perspectives into its veins. Unlike Marshall, however, Kuang makes her protagonist, Robin Swift, an Oxford undergraduate: a boy from Guangdong (then known as Canton) in the nineteenth century just before the First Opium War broke out between Britain and China. Insinuating Robin into the University system is for her the literary equivalent of smuggling an incendiary bomb into the Bodleian Library, all of whose users must swear ‘not to bring into the Library, or kindle therein, any fire or flame’. As he learns about Oxford he discovers its links with British imperialist aggression, and the flames of his anger mount as that aggression increasingly comes to bear on himself and his friends. Kuang also inserts Robin into British history, along with the Royal Institute of Translation he attends. These insertions strain against the confines of conventional accounts of the heyday of Empire, threatening to bring them tumbling down round the reader’s ears like the mythical tower from which the Institute derives its nickname: Babel, the place of the confounding of tongues.

The explosive nature of Kuang’s novel derives from its fascination with the peculiar properties of colonial space. Colonialism requires the colonial aggressor to nourish certain convictions about themselves and the state they serve: that both represent the pinnacle of human development, and that their acquisition of power over an ever-widening geographical and cultural territory is therefore benevolent, since any land or people subsumed within the colonial Empire’s bounds must necessarily be improved by its subjugation. Such convictions require a drastic shrinkage of perspective, a wilful blotting-out of the rich resources of knowledge, language, art and history contained in each new territorial acquisition; ironically, perhaps, since those resources are an integral part of what makes any territory worth possessing. Such acts of shrinkage, one might imagine, subject the material being compressed to unbearable pressure, which can only be relieved by some sort of explosion, a sudden, violent moment of release. Kuang’s book builds up the sense of pressure as it goes on, in part through the obvious strains it registers between narrative realism and the fantastic, strains that mount incrementally as we read until the culminating detonation, which by the time it comes has been rendered both inevitable and deeply satisfying.

Nicolette Caven, Map of Babel

That sense of strain is largely achieved by means of the many compressed spaces the novel contains, locations which seem to hold far more matter than the laws of physics insist they should. One such space is the building that houses the Royal Institute of Translators, the titular Tower of Babel, named after the tower in Genesis which was constructed by Adam’s descendants as a literal stairway to Heaven.[2] As Kuang explains in her preface, she has had to manipulate the map of Oxford in order to fit the Tower in: ‘I’ve warped geography to make space for it’, she tells us, placing the gigantic structure on a non-existent green near the Bodleian Library and the Radcliffe Library (p. 2).[3] The map of Oxford and the diagram of Babel supplied by Nicolette Caven for the novel make the Tower look like a cross between Tom Tower, the totemic building erected by Christopher Wren over the entrance to Christ Church, Oxford, and the biblical Tower of Babel as imagined by the seventeenth-century painter Pieter Breughel the Elder. But as the novel goes on, the interior of Kuang’s Babel seems to expand, acquiring ‘wings’ which cannot logically exist within a circular structure.[4] Each level of the tower seems to need more space than the one below it – though in Caven’s diagram the levels get steadily smaller as you climb the building – culminating in the topmost storey where silver-working and magical experiments take place, these being the raison d’être of the tower itself. The building is, in fact, ‘larger on the inside than on the outside’ (p. 75), having been built that way by the translator-magicians of the Institute, so that it throbs with barely-contained power like an infernal device on the verge of detonation, recalling the unexploded, whispering bomb lodged in the courtyard of an orphanage in Guillermo del Toro’s early movie The Devil’s Backbone (2001).

This disconnect between the tower’s vertically elongated outward appearance and its expansive interior corresponds neatly to the central premise of the novel, which the tower represents: that the act of translation involves far more than translation, embracing treachery, colonialism, physical and mental metamorphosis, and the wholesale warping of the geography of meaning in the process of transferring a term or concept from one language to another. In this book, it’s the British who have most effectively harnessed the multiple functions of translation magic: magic, that is, which depends on the disconnect between a word in one language and its nearest equivalent in another tongue.

That linguistic disconnect – what’s lost in translation – can be converted to power through the medium of silver, itself a substance which, like gold, has accumulated many meanings over time. In the sixteenth century silver became the principal medium for international commerce, with much of the world’s silver finding its way to China, where it formed the basis of the imperial currency. The silver in question started out in the mines of Japan and later in the mines of Bolivia and Mexico, so that the changing chain of supply obediently follows the geography of global imperialism. Silver is also well known to have the highest electrical conductivity of all metals; indeed, it is used as the standard for conductivity, all other metals being measured against it. This property, Kuang suggests, makes it ideal for capturing the quantities of energy that get lost when a word gets translated, while the international importance of silver currency focuses that energy on the highly volatile relations between empires, nations, communities and markets. A bar of silver, then, with a single word inscribed on two of its opposing surfaces, each word in a different language but meaning roughly the same thing, is a space that fairly pulsates with the competing senses, values and histories that have attached themselves over time to its pair of chosen terms, as well as to the medium that interposes itself between them. Kuang’s Tower of Babel is a similar space, resonating (quite literally, as we eventually learn) with the worldwide market for silver, a market driven in the book by silver’s capacity to capture meanings lost in translation and make magic out of them, as nations seek to appropriate each other’s languages for their own ends.

Pieter Breughel the Elder, The Tower of Babel, c. 1563. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna

Set against Kuang’s Royal Institute of Translators – the builders of Babel – is an organisation of anti-imperialist activists known as Hermes, Hermes being the Greek god of thieves as well as of messengers, merchants, scholars, tricksters and orators. As the British Empire plots to divert the world’s silver into its own coffers, Hermes’s objective is to steal it from those coffers and redirect it to ‘people, communities, and movements that deserve it’, such as the ‘slave revolts’ and ‘Resistance movements’ that challenge colonial rule (p. 102). Hermes has its headquarters in another building, the Old Library, that seems vastly larger on the inside than on the outside. ‘From the outside,’ Kuang tells us, ‘it looked as if it could contain a single lecture hall at most. Its interior, meanwhile, could have been the ground floor of the Radcliffe Library’ (p. 383). Larger, in fact, since one end of the building has room in it for explosive experiments, like the eighth floor of the Tower of Babel, and so needs to be set well apart from the inflammable material provided by books and bookshelves; this would be hard to achieve in a circular space like the Radcliffe Library’s ground floor. Many of the contents of the Old Library have been transferred from Babel by acts of thievery, and the work that goes on there parallels Babel’s in its concern with translation, but shifts the main focus of its translation activities from the language of the colonialists, English, to other languages, especially those at risk of being stamped out by colonial aggression. The Old Library is concealed from the world by glamour – here a spell that muffles the sounds of the explosive linguistic experiments conducted within its walls – but it is not invisible; as one Hermes operative puts it, the building is ‘hidden in plain sight’ (p. 383). One reason for representing the Old Library as both ‘hidden’ and visible is the fact that it does exactly what Babel does, not in the interests of Empire but of ‘global liberation’ (p. 388), and that it therefore stands for the small but crucial distinctions that separate a colonial translation project from one that aims to benefit all of humanity. Both projects require very similar physical and academic materials and practitioners; it’s the ends to which they are put that differ fundamentally. It’s therefore fatally easy for scholars to miss the moment when they drift into complicity with the acts of violence necessary to sustain an Empire, embracing the fantasy that they are working for all mankind, while ignoring the fact that the power generated by their translations is being used to promote the interests of the ruling classes. And it’s equally easy to miss the moment when one’s perspective readjusts itself again, no longer tacitly accepting the tenets of colonialism but first recognising the perniciousness of those tenets, then actively setting oneself against them. The Old Library’s impossibly large interior emphasizes the size of the Hermes activists’ ambitions, which are as global as Britain’s, while its hiddenness emphasizes the secret processes whereby the mechanisms of colonial power can be reimagined as mechanisms of liberation, despite (or because of) the explosive distortions they entail.

These two competing buildings, both much larger inside than out, invoke a celebrated Oxford fantasy, C. S. Lewis’s The Last Battle (1956), the apocalyptic final instalment of his Narnian chronicles. In Lewis’s narrative, Narnia’s old faith – presented as cheerful and liberating for those who embrace it – finds its adherents forced into hiding by an oppressive new religion, embodied by the monster-god Tashlan, an artificial fusion of the very different deities of Calormen and Narnia, Tash and Aslan. The creation of Tashlan enables the invading Calormene forces to insist that the two gods are in fact the same, so that the conquest of Narnia by the neighbouring Calormen Empire is only natural, as is the introduction of oppressive new laws that restrict the words and actions of indigenous Narnians. At the climax of the novel these Narnians, together with a few well-meaning Calormenes, find themselves rescued from a global apocalypse by stepping through one of the many doors between worlds with which the Chronicles are filled. On the other side they find a larger, more beautiful Narnia, which itself gives access to further Narnias, each larger and more beautiful than the last. The rallying cry for the escaped Narnians becomes ‘further up and further in’, as they run with increasing energy and pleasure through successive landscapes towards the ultimate Narnia, the largest and innermost of all: God’s country, the land of heart’s desire. The disparity between the vehicle and what it contains is reinforced by the fact that the first portal through which the Narnians step into this succession of larger and better Narnias is a stable door, the entrance to a ramshackle building whose humble appearance is deeply at odds with its symbolic function as the birthplace of Christ, the space in which God compressed his infinite self within the confines of a human body. The larger Narnias are contained one within another like the layers of an onion but in reverse, the largest being impossibly located inside all the smaller versions, as God was contained within the impossibly tiny body of his earthly manifestation, the infant Christ. This fantastic paradox lies at the heart of Christianity, and Lewis’s narrative is designed to complement it by providing a space for Heaven as strange and emotionally satisfying as the space of Christ’s incarnation.

At the same time, there is something unsettling about Lewis’s allegorical representation here of Christianity as under siege in his lifetime. Lewis certainly believed that the religion he cherished was in steep decline in the lands he loved, Britain and Ireland; but his decision to imagine that decline in terms of imperial aggression by a brown-skinned people seems deeply ironic, given the aggressive efforts of white-skinned agents of the British Empire to impose that religion on the rest of the world, by conquest or missionary work or both – not least in Lewis’s native country, Ireland. It’s not for nothing that one of the terms imposed on China in the Treaty of Tientsin at the conclusion of the Second Opium War was to legalize British missionary work in the country once and for all. Missionary work was seen as a crucial means of modernizing China, or rather of reshaping the country into a form that would make it receptive to British commerce and British interests; and Kuang is keenly aware of the direct links between religious mission and imperialism. She includes missionaries, convinced of their innate superiority to the indigenous population, as the advance guard of an imperialist invasion in her inaugural trilogy of fantasy novels, which begins with The Poppy War (2018).

Lewis’s stable is larger on the inside than the outside, and the same is true of his imaginary country, Narnia; its internal largeness embodies its adherence to the values of Aslan, who in turn embodies the values of Christianity as Lewis understood them, so that Aslan too is vastly larger on the ‘inside’ than the talking lion whose form he assumes. Kuang’s Old Library, by contrast, is larger on the inside not for symbolic reasons but because it has to be, just as it is hidden because it will be destroyed if the British authorities find it. No space has been made available in the British Empire for the ideas it contains; they are in danger of being lost, like those meanings lost when any language is translated into the language of Empire, English. The Old Library stands, in fact, as a corrective to Lewis’s narrative of Narnian resistance, one anchored in the material reality of British history, as Lewis’s story about an imperialist ‘Middle-Eastern’ invasion of a landscape coded as British is not.

In fact, Kuang’s narrative is as much concerned with the disconnect between fantasy and reality as it is with that between outsides and interiors. Her Author’s Note should alert us to this fact, focusing as it does on the different versions or fantasies of Oxford which its readers may entertain. ‘The trouble with writing an Oxford novel,’ she tells us, ‘is that anyone who has spent time at Oxford will scrutinize your text to determine if your representation of Oxford aligns with their memories of the place’ (p. 1). It is worse, she adds, if you’re an American writing about the place, ‘for what do Americans know about anything?’ (a phrase that holds a world of meaning for anyone who has heard some of Oxford’s British academics or students commenting on tourists or even scholars from the New World). Kuang goes on to point out that the Oxford she portrays in her novel is both imaginary and carefully rooted in the Oxford of the mid-nineteenth century, which differs in certain crucial respects from the Oxford of any living reader’s memory. She is also well aware that she has modified 1830s Oxford in the light of her own Oxford experience, so that the ‘commemoration ball’ she describes in the novel ‘looks a lot more like a contemporary Oxbridge May/Commemoration Ball than any kind of early-Victorian social event’ (p. 2). The place she depicts is specifically Kuang’s version of Oxford, drawing on her memories; but these prefatory statements are also designed to refute any suggestion that there is some kind of ‘authentic’ Oxford to which British people of the ruling classes alone have access. Indeed, such ‘authentic’ Oxfords are themselves based on a pernicious fantasy, that of Oxford as a place of disinterested or objective learning, serenely untroubled by the British colonial heritage. This fantasy has lately been shaken by the quest to understand, acknowledge and seek reparation for the close ties between British universities and the Atlantic slave trade, and one of Kuang’s characters, Victoire, has herself experienced enslavement – albeit in an unacknowledged form, as ‘a twilight condition, the rules unwritten but implied’ (p. 540).[5] Tolkien’s and Lewis’s fantasies coexist with colonial fantasies of a far more damaging sort, not least the fantasy that philology – the history of languages – can be used to prove the racial superiority of white-skinned ‘races’ over all others. Tolkien did not himself adhere to this philosophy, but he was aware of it, and the hierarchy of white and dark-skinned races in The Lord of the Rings – as well as of their languages – tends to reinforce rather than undermine the racist narrative.

For Kuang, Oxford is itself the most dangerous of fantasies: one that is deeply attractive to lovers of learning, history, fiction and beautiful architecture, but which also sustains the myths that enable imperialist aggression. Three of her central characters, students from non-British cultures who find their way by unusual paths to its hallowed halls, start out by being seduced by the city’s attractions, and continue to be half seduced by them long after they have begun to understand the culture of violence that underpins its institutions. Robin Swift, the boy from Guangdong, learns from his British foster-father at an early age to think of Oxford as ‘the loveliest place on earth’, the ‘centre of all knowledge and innovation in the civilized world’ (p. 25).[6] On first arriving in the city he finds its magic all-pervasive, from the Radcliffe Library, which ‘somehow appeared even larger and grander from the inside than from the outside’ (p. 61), to the nearby Tower of Babel, which he seems not to notice – despite the fact that it’s over three hundred feet tall – until the day when he first steps through its doors, like an adventurer stepping through the ‘door into fairyland’ (p. 74).[7] When he learns from his activist half-brother that ‘It’s violent work that sustains the [Oxford] fantasy’ (p. 138), Robin goes on wanting to believe there is room in the city for outsiders like himself and his friends, who struggle to ‘[carve] their own pockets into it, spaces where they were not just tolerated but thrived’ (p. 171), despite the increasingly unguarded racism of their fellow students. At a crucial juncture in Robin’s life – the point at which he finally needs to make a choice between imperialist Babel and revolutionary Hermes – he sees the city as something out of a story for children: ‘it looked like another, parallel Oxford, an Oxford of the faerie realm […] its spires and turrets promising riddles and adventures and a world of abstraction in which one could get lost forever’ (p. 259). And even after he has committed himself to direct action against its values, Robin continues to see it as a delightful ‘dream’ that has been ‘shattered’ by a rude awakening (p. 433), a charming ‘doll’s house’ that offers ‘a twee approximation of the real world for boys who would never have to truly engage with it’ (p. 459), a fairy tale ‘castle’ whose ‘magician’ has been ‘thrown out’ (p. 459), a ‘rotting gingerbread house’ (p. 473). The fantasy of Oxford endures, although by the end of the book it has shrunk to the size of a toy, a figment, a Christmas leftover, dwarfed by the steady growth of Robin’s awareness of the atrocities it accommodates and enables. Those atrocities expand in his consciousness as the narrative unfolds, straining at the fabric of the city as they accumulate until Oxford too is vastly larger on the inside than on the outside, like the Tower of Babel which is its metonymic double.

Dmitry Djouce, Tom Tower, Christ Church, Oxford. A model for Caven’s drawing of Babel?

Set against the Oxford fantasy is the seemingly fantastic possibility of resistance to Empire, of bringing down the Tower and all it stands for; a revolution, in other words, inspired by the 1791 revolution of enslaved people in Haiti. From the beginning, Robin and his friends are aware that the fairy tale appearance of Oxford is an illusion, for all its seductiveness. When Robin first meets Ramy, for instance – his room-mate from Calcutta – Ramy explains that he can only ever find a kind of acceptance from white students by posing as a prince: ‘The English are never going to think I’m posh,’ he tells Robin, ‘but if I fit into their fantasy, then they’ll at least think I’m royalty’ (p. 56, my emphasis). Soon afterwards the two young men are subjected to a racist attack which drives home the fact that they are outsiders, ‘men at Oxford; […] not Oxford men’; but the knowledge proves too painful for them, and they find it ‘so much easier to pretend; to keep spinning the fantasy for as long as they could’ (p. 70, my emphasis). By this time, however, Robin has already met his half-brother Griffin, who works for a secret organization – Hermes – dedicated to promoting opposition to Empire by redistributing the silver of Babel to deserving causes. At first Griffin himself seems somewhat fantastic. His name recalls a character from Alice in Wonderland, the Gryphon, and like his namesake he is both overbearing in his conversation and associated with the stuff of dreams. When Robin first encounters Griffin he sees a Chinese man much like himself, described as his doppelgänger (a key figure in Freud’s theory of the uncanny, itself allied with his lifelong study of dreams and dreaming), who is being hunted by police through the ‘eerie’ maze of the Oxford streets (p. 66). This man desperately tries to make himself vanish from sight with the help of a stolen silver bar, and his eventual success in disappearing – achieved with Robin’s help – means he does not seem entirely real; Robin later recalls the episode as ‘like falling into a dream’ (p. 69), and later still as ‘dreamlike’ (p. 100). When Robin meets Griffin again some days later the sense of unreality persists: ‘“Am I dreaming?”’ he mumbles (p. 96), though his brother scoffs at the misconception (‘“You wish”’, p. 96). Griffin agrees to devise a code to help them communicate in secret, but for Robin the cypher looks at first like ‘nonsense’, the absurd discourse that pervades Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland (p. 123). He learns, however, to decode it; and gradually Griffin and Hermes begin to seem to him as real as Babel. For a while the fantasy of Hermes and the fantasy of Babel compete for Robin’s loyalties; but the colonial fantasy is finally displaced by a fantasy of retribution, based on the idea of destroying the Tower, which ‘took root and grew inside [him], unfurled until it became less a ludicrous fantasy and more a question of logistics, of how and when’ (p. 434, my emphasis). The notion of the revolution taking ‘root’ ingeniously links it to the roots of words, which translators can use to create their magical silver bars, and to the pub – the Twisted Root – in which the brothers first properly make each other’s acquaintance. Some of the pub’s customers are dangerous radicals, a word derived from the Latin radix, meaning root.

Sir John Tenniel, the Gryphon from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865)

As I’ve suggested, the secret society of revolutionary translators, Hermes, and the Old Library where they make their headquarters, could be described as what’s lost, excluded or jettisoned when translation is used to generate magic for colonial purposes. Their existence is an inevitable consequence of the build-up of anger and frustration in the face of British efforts to establish themselves, through the combined agencies of language and silver, as the dominant race, masters of a global Empire on which the sun will never set.[8] Imperialism, like Marx’s capitalism, harbours the seeds of its own destruction, and Kuang’s metaphor for this is the silver bars used by the scholars of Babel to generate power. The power of these bars, Robin’s tutor tells him, ‘lies in words. More specifically, the stuff of language that words are incapable of expressing – the stuff that gets lost when we move between one language and another. The silver catches what is lost and manifests it into being’ (p. 84). On first inspecting one of these bars, Robin thinks it looks far too small to unleash the energy needed to sustain an Empire: ‘Robin frowned, running his finger along the bar. It seemed so small, too innocuous to produce such a profound effect’ (p. 22). The bar’s seeming smallness expresses the fact that the act of translation contains far more than one might think; not only are meanings lost when translating a concept from one language to another, but meanings are also altered as words get transformed (another meaning of the word translation) by the passage of time. The silver bars draw as much on the etymology of the words inscribed on them – the long history of what they once meant, where they came from, the words to which they are closely or distantly related – as on the differences between analogous words in current languages. As a result, each bar can be seen as a teeming crossroads or meeting-point between cultures, customs, experiences, and socio-political systems past and present. To bind it in the service of just one culture at one moment in history is to compress or confine it – in effect, to shrink it – beyond endurance. On the other hand, when a bar is used to express something too large or complex or paradoxical for its limited function as an instrument of translation to sustain, dire consequences follow: it begins to vibrate with increasing violence, and sometimes explodes, with deadly effect. Bars, then, may either be used for creative purposes, to improve the lives of their users, or for wreaking terrible destruction; the analogy with fire or nuclear fission is obvious. They are vastly larger than they look, like the Tower in which they are invested with their magical properties.

The inward vastness of the silver bars is in fact directly connected to the Tower in a number of ways. They were fabricated there, of course; but silver can also interact with other silver within a certain range, causing it either to sustain or to lose its magical potency. This process is known as ‘resonance’, and can be activated with a set of silver rods kept in the ‘southern wing’ of the Tower’s eighth floor (p. 199). The rods are designed to maintain by their very existence the magical efficacy of the silver bars they match; they ‘resonate’ with the bars, even at a distance, just as the pipes of an organ or the bars of a xylophone resonate to produce notes when filled with air or struck. This makes Robin think, when he first sees the rods in the Tower, of another musical analogy:

Looking out over Oxford, Robin had the impression that the whole city was like a finely tuned music box, relying wholly on its silver gears to keep running; and that if the silver ever ran out, if these resonance rods ever collapsed, then the whole of Oxford would stop abruptly in its tracks. The bell towers would go mute, the cabs would halt on the roads, and the townsfolk would freeze in motion on the street, limbs lifted in midair, mouths open in midspeech. (p. 202)

Imagining the effects that would follow if the resonance rods were to be destroyed (the incapacitating of all the magical silver bars that depend on them and the consequent collapse of the silver-based technology that sustains the British Empire) becomes a key component in Hermes’s struggle against colonialism. Their struggle is underpinned by the conviction that even the smallest of objects – a silver rod or silver bar – contains within itself the capacity to enforce or demolish global systems. If bars and rods can be vastly larger and more potent than they look, the same might be said of the small band of young insurgents who seek to wrest them from the hands of their colonial makers.

Silver and translation, then, as tools of Empire, can also generate the forces that topple empires. This becomes obvious when one examines the language used by the bars’ makers – the translators of Babel – to describe their craft. One of Robin’s tutors, the ironically-named Professor Playfair (he likes to ‘play’, but by no means fairly), often describes his special topic, language, in terms that link it with insurrection as well as with empire. The modern translator, Playfair claims, aspires to remain ‘invisible’ to their reader, so that they operate either like an ideology – a set of political coordinates which masquerade as the natural or inevitable state of things – or an insurrectionist, who must keep themselves hidden in the interests of self-protection. The translator, Playfair goes on, must also be in some sense faithless: ‘translators are always being accused of faithlessness’, he declares (p. 152), and later ‘the act of translation is […] necessarily always an act of betrayal’ (p. 155) (note how he shifts with disarming smoothness from a seeming rejection of betrayal to an active embracing of it). The translator’s faithlessness can be manipulated to produce translated texts that either support colonial interests or bolster the narrative of insurrection. If translators choose not to make themselves invisible, by incorporating unfamiliar words or concepts into their translations, they remind the reader of the foreignness of what they are reading – that there are, in fact, other perspectives in the world which must be accounted for (p. 155) – and this could be deemed to support the anticolonial project; hence perhaps the modern tendency among colonial translators to favour ‘invisible’ translations, using terms and concepts already familiar to the target readership, as against conspicuously strange or foreign ones. Again, the presence of people of colour among the scholars of Babel – people like Robin, Ramy and their friend Victoire – makes the otherness of their specialist languages dangerously visible, from the tutor’s point of view; they must therefore be ‘naturalised’ as far as possible, for instance by giving them European names (such as Robin or Victoire), dressing them in academic garb, and hiding them in plain sight among their white colleagues. The translator, Playfair tells the partygoers, ‘dances in shackles’, meaning they are enslaved by the necessity of following the original text they are engaged in translating; but this need not make them slaves of Empire. They can choose to enslave foreign texts, of course, by ‘naturalising’ them as colonial discourse; but they can also choose to rebel, like the insurrectionists of Haiti, by remaining determinedly faithful to the original language and culture, or by choosing to translate texts and terms with anticolonial connotations.

Anon, Battle of Vertières (1803). The battle took place during the Haitian Revolution

Playfair’s apparently balanced discourse gives the illusion of an unbiased outlook, a truly academic impartiality in the face of the conflicting evidence he puts forward. He seems, that is, to be ‘playing fair’. But underlying all his arguments is the assumption that the translator’s necessary faithlessness must always in the end serve colonial interests. This is partly, of course, because the British Empire has a near monopoly both on silver and on elite translators, the two key components of the translation magic with which it upholds its global concerns. But it is also because betrayal – the definitive property of translation – has always been the most potent weapon of people in power. Kuang has illustrated this concept many times in her fiction, from the multiple betrayals that punctuate the struggle over Nikara in the Poppy War trilogy to the betrayal of an author by her self-proclaimed best friend, accomplished for the sake of fame and fortune, in her prizewinning novel Yellowface (2023).[9] When Playfair offers his students a seeming choice between fidelity to empire and radical rebellion, his aim is to show them that only one of those choices is worth making.

But Playfair’s own arguments also demonstrate the possibility of a very different kind of betrayal: the betrayal of the betrayers, which is not in fact a betrayal at all. Robin, Ramy and Victoria all end up working for the dissident movement Hermes, and could therefore be called ‘traitors’ to Babel, the institution that employs them, pays their wages and instructs them in their craft. But all three are also victims of colonial betrayal, having been recruited by the Empire as translators without possessing all the data they needed to make an informed decision about their futures. All three were born in places that were subject to British colonization, and all three quickly learn that their colonized status means they can never be recognised as equals by their British associates, despite the elaborate rituals by which their equality has been implied: their investment in academic robes, their installation as members of the academic elite, and not least, the fact that a sample of their blood has been stored away in Babel as a security measure alongside the self-evidently indistinguishable blood of their white colleagues. In Babel, too, they quickly learn that they are working against the interests of their own original communities: the people of colonized India, the enslaved workers of the Caribbean, the exploited workers in the treaty ports of China. Betraying the British Empire, they conclude, is the only way in which they can show themselves faithful to their people, and thus relieve themselves of the unbearable pressure of conflicting loyalties that threatens to tear them apart. Betrayal is fidelity, fidelity betrayal, and these paradoxes build up in their minds and bodies to a political explosion as damaging to the superstructure of Empire as the collapse of the Tower of Babel with which the novel comes to a climax.

  1. The two faces of Robin Swift

The explosive force of the three translators’ political awakening is rendered more forceful by the fact that, like the silver bars and the buildings in which they are fashioned, their minds and bodies have so much more in them than they seem able to contain. This is especially true of Kuang’s protagonist, Robin Swift. Every aspect of his personality, from his name to his looks to the various things he stands for, embodies the complex state of the colonised subject, and this astonishing complexity – held within the physically unimpressive person of a self-effacing scholar – is what renders him so much larger on the inside than on the surface. His interior size (the number of conflicting concepts and emotions he embodies) only continues to expand as he gets older and begins to learn the full truth of his situation; and the limits of this incremental expansion are marked by two cataclysmic explosions. The first blast takes place at the point when he uses a silver bar to kill his British father; the second takes place when he uses the rods in the Tower of Babel to destroy the headquarters of the Royal Institute of Translators. Robin’s complexity, then, needs analysis, as investigators might analyse the scattered components of an exploded bomb.

Robin’s name is one place to start. The boy from Guangdong is known throughout the book by his English name, the forename given him in early childhood by his English governess, the surname chosen by Robin himself from the books in his father’s library. Hidden behind this English alias is his Chinese name, which remains unspoken throughout the novel, from the first chapter – when the boy Robin starts to say it to his British father, who interrupts him with a dismissive ‘No, that won’t do’ (p. 13) – to the final sentence of the penultimate chapter, when he sees his dead mother smiling at him and saying his name in her native language. Even at this last moment the reader is not told what it is; it remains a secret part of him, either untouched by British colonialism or effectively erased by British colonialism, depending on your point of view. Erasure (or rather, suppression) is the more likely reading. When asked his name at a key moment in the book by the Chinese High Commissioner in Guangdong, Robin replies ‘Robin Swift’ at once, before realising that it had never occurred to him to give the name he was assigned at birth. By the time this realisation dawns on him, he has lost the chance to assert his Chinese identity in his birthplace, China. That identity only returns to him, in fact, at the point of death – a death whose place and time he chooses for himself, in defiance of the best-laid plans of the British Empire.

So much for Robin’s Chinese name. His English name, meanwhile, changes its significations as he grows. His forename is taken from a nursery rhyme recited to him by his English governess: ‘Who killed Cock Robin?’ (p. 13, footnote), a question which acquires new resonance when Robin himself is killed by the collapsing Tower. When Robin meets his Chinese half-brother and gets inducted into the secret world of Hermes, Griffin takes great pleasure in giving his forename a mythical slant by associating it with the medieval outlaw Robin Hood (p. 99). In doing so he allies Robin with the clandestine organization to which Griffin himself belongs, which steals from the rich (i.e. Babel) to give to the poor (i.e. those communities unable to afford silver and the translation magic it enables). Later we learn that the Hermes operatives describe themselves as a ‘hotbed of Robin Hoods’ (p. 385).[10] Robin’s surname, meanwhile, derives from the author of a famous Irish book, Gulliver’s Travels (1726), which satirizes the British colonial project much as Kuang’s does.[11] Swift’s classic is a political satire aimed at adults, though it has often been read by children, most of whom have little idea of its political significance. Robin chooses Swift’s name for himself as a child, with a child’s perspective. At this point he thinks of Britain and its capital as impossible places diminished by distance, like the tiny lands and cities encountered by Gulliver: ‘London existed to him as Lilliput did: a faraway, imaginary, fantasy place where no one looked, dressed, or spoke remotely like him’ (p. 12). The prospect of going to this fantasy London makes him choose the name Swift out of all the many options in his foster father’s study, because Gulliver was, as Robin will be, ‘A stranger in a strange land, who had to learn the local languages if he wished not to die’ (p. 14). Later, as we’ve seen, Robin’s radicalization makes him see Britain and its cities from an adult perspective, as diminutive things: children’s toys and imaginings designed to conceal the violent methods of their makers behind a screen of charming illusion. By this point in the book, adult readers who know about Swift will be aware of another link between Robin and the great Irish satirist: that both pitted themselves against British colonialism while also working to enhance its power (Swift as an ally of the ruling Tory Government, Robin as a scholar of Babel). At the same time, Swift’s Irishness aligns him with the long history of resistance to British colonialism in that country, embodied in Kuang’s novel by the young Irishwoman Cathy O’Nell, a Babel scholar who also works for Hermes. Robin’s two English names, in other words, not only mark him out as a colonised subject of the British Empire, but predict his eventual rising against that Empire, as an insurrectionist who sees the colonial fantasy dwindle in his mind to the size of Lilliput as he sets himself in opposition to it.

Anon, Gulliver in Lilliput (1912)

Robin’s names, then – English and Chinese – embody his paradoxical situation as both servant and enemy of Empire, making him a zone of conflict whose political implications go well beyond the private and personal. Another place to start with Robin would be with his early family history, which again marks him out from the first as a zone of conflict. The point when Robin loses his Chinese name is the point at which he is handed over to Professor Lovell, a scholar of Babel; and this point has been prepared for by the Professor for many years. It was Lovell who impregnated Robin’s mother and left her to raise him alone in Guangdong. It was Lovell who provided the child with an English governess and plenty of English-language books to ensure he would grow up equally fluent in English and Chinese. It was Lovell who waited patiently for the boy to reach an age when both languages were firmly fixed in his unconscious before coming to claim him. All these actions were carried out with dispassionate efficiency, and without the slightest concern for the wellbeing of Robin’s Chinese mother or for the English governess, ‘Miss Betty’ (p. 5). Both women were no more than tools to an end: to breed a bilingual child whose skills were perfectly suited to the needs of his father, and of his father’s workplace, the Royal Institute of Translators in Oxford. In fact, Robin only really begins to exist for the Professor when the boy has lost both his Chinese family and his Chinese name. Their loss is convenient. Robin realises this when he learns at a later point in the novel that the Professor had the means to save his family from cholera – a silver bar capable of curing all diseases – and that the Professor was even staying near Guangdong when Robin’s mother died, but that he simply neglected to do so. The family, along with the governess who had faithfully fulfilled her function, were sacrificed as surplus to requirements. Robin himself survives as testimony to the real-life impact of scholarly actions; he has been genetically engineered as a servant of Empire, and his future at Babel was plotted before his birth. The shock of discovering how far his life has been predetermined by an unloving father (Professor Lovell’s name here proves ironic, unless we gloss it as ‘Love-ill’) is one of the key factors in Robin’s turn to insurrection.

Robin’s genes, as son of a Chinese mother and an English father, mean that his appearance can be interpreted in different ways, so that he has in effect more than one face. At times he passes as white, as when a visitor to Lovell’s house tells the professor that Robin is the ‘spitting image’ of his British father (p. 31), or when a British official in China refuses to believe that the young man is Chinese (p. 301). At others he is subject to unwelcome attention as a ‘foreigner’ on British soil, as when he travels by coach to Oxford and is asked by an English child if he can see out of his eyes, which (the child claims) look like ‘little slits’ (p. 49). When Robin studies himself in a mirror after being told he resembles Lovell he sees himself for the first time as an ‘alien’: a person of unknown origin, whose brown hair and eyes ‘could have plausibly marked him as either the son of a Portuguese sailor or the heir to the Qing Emperor’ (p. 32). At this point Robin’s paternity is not known to him; but even as a child he knows that the genetic heritage signalled by his looks is something he cannot ask about, something that lies outside the realm of polite conversation, since it implies an extra-marital and interracial union forbidden by British social laws. In this sense, Robin is a person who is effectively lost in translation between the two cultures that shaped him, since the fraught relationship between those cultures cannot safely be given voice. In fact, the eventual voicing of that relationship – which occurs when he meets his half-brother Griffin – signals the moment when the power of resisting his colonially-imposed destiny begins to stir in Robin’s body, leading in the end to his instigation of the Oxford Translators’ Revolution. Robin is a kind of silver bar, whose innate capacity to effect radical change is only realised in the last days of his life.

Robin’s paradoxical double existence as both a willing instrument of Empire and its colonised subject and antagonist comes to the fore in two major acts of translation, one at the beginning, the other two-thirds of the way through the novel. The first of these occurs when Professor Lovell calls on him, as a boy, to act as interpreter between a Chinese labourer and a British sailor on the ship that will carry them from Guangdong to London. The labourer has a valid contract permitting him to work his passage from China to England, but the sailor refuses to let him on board. When Robin approaches, the labourer interprets his face as that of a fellow countryman – ‘the only other Chinese person in sight’ (p. 15) – and turns to him for help in making his case. But Robin already knows enough to be aware that the case is lost. The labourer is being turned away from the ship out of simple racism (the British sailor claims that allowing him on board will spread lice among passengers and crew), and his contract has been rendered null and void by xenophobia. Robin also fears that he himself may well become the target of racism if he takes the labourer’s side, and that if this happens his foster-father may decide to leave him behind in Guangdong as a failed experiment. He therefore tells the labourer simply that ‘Your contract’s no good here’ (p. 16). The statement is not, of course, a true translation of the sailor’s words about spreading lice; it merely sums up the situation without giving any details that might expose its racist roots. It implies a number of things, however, without openly stating them. The very looseness of the translation from the sailor’s English confirms the sailor’s contempt for the Chinese people, which he expresses in linguistic terms: the labourer, he tells Robin, ‘Couldn’t even understand the word bath if I yelled it at him’ (p. 16). The looseness of the translation also confirms the fact that nothing will be done to help the labourer get justice, no matter how diligently Robin works to translate English to Chinese and vice versa; the situation is beyond verbal negotiation. At the same time, a great many meanings are lost in this colonial act of loose translation; and their loss is most vividly realised in the bodily reactions of the two Chinese people at the heart of it.

Sunqua, Canton/Guangdong c. 1830, with European flags flying over it.

The labourer’s reaction to Robin’s non-translation is reflected in his face. It’s a face that displays the effects of the brutal working conditions imposed on workers like himself: it is ‘creased and sun-browned, leathered in a way that made him look sixty, though he was likely only in his thirties’, because ‘All lascars [i.e. non-European sailors] aged quickly; the work wrecked their bodies’ (p. 16). When Robin tells him ‘It’s no good’, the same man’s face expresses a range of painful feelings, offering in effect a compressed history of his life:

A thousand emotions worked through that weathered face – indignation, frustration, and finally, resignation. Robin had been afraid the labourer might argue, might fight, but quickly it became clear that for this man, such treatment was nothing new. This had happened before. The labourer turned and made his way down the gangplank, shoving passengers aside as he did. In a few moments he was gone from sight. (pp. 16-17)

The labourer’s body here becomes a site of conflict: between the notion that he has real worth, expressed in the term ‘indignation’, and the fact that this worth has never been acknowledged by anyone else, as expressed in his ‘frustration’; and between the possibilities of verbal or physical resistance (Robin’s fear that he might ‘argue’ or ‘fight’) and his quick recognition of the futility of such actions (‘resignation’). The labourer ends by using his body to convey his anger as best he can, ‘shoving passengers aside’ as he blunders down the gangplank. Compressed into this passage are all the dynamics of colonialism, which threatens to burst out in a one-man insurrection but ends with the most inadequate bodily expression of frustrated rage, the thrusting of hostile bodies aside as the labourer is forced to walk away from a job to which he is legally entitled.

Robin’s body, meanwhile, reacts fiercely to his recognition of his own complicity with the labourer’s humiliation. His initial instincts are to side with his countryman, both because Chinese workers have always been kind to him and because he ‘associated that face with his own kind’ (p. 16). But the force of Professor Lovell’s thumb ‘digging a groove into his collarbone’ reminds him of the power the Englishman has over him, which in turn affects his body (‘it made his knees tremble’, p. 16), while his decision to reject the labourer’s appeal for help affects his body still more. The boy becomes breathless (he ‘could hardly force his words out’, p. 16), and later feels ‘dizzy’ and ‘cold’, which sets his whole frame ‘shaking’ (p. 17). All these physical reactions stem from his consciousness that he represents the sole conduit between the labourer and the men who seek to oppress him: ‘The choice was his. Only he could communicate it to all parties’ (p. 16). It’s an overwhelming burden for a boy of eleven. His situation as the single point of verbal contact between colonialism and the people it exploits means that before he has even made up his mind what to do, ‘Guilt twisted his gut’ (p. 16): guilt for having such power over ‘one of his elders’, and guilt at his all too predictable inability to help that elder. Like a silver bar overloaded with conflicting meanings, he begins to tremble as if on the verge of detonation. From this point on, Robin responds to moments of heightened emotion with similarly powerful corporeal reactions. When Professor Lovell later subjects the young Robin to a vicious beating, the incident is introduced with a phrase we’ve already heard – ‘Robin’s gut twisted with guilt’ (p. 40) – and culminates with Robin struggling as best he can to prevent his tears from ‘burst[ing] forth’ (p. 42). Robin swells to an unbearable inward size when he confronts Lovell with the question of why he sacrificed his mother to cholera: ‘He felt his chest constrict, as if his heart were a caged beast straining to burst out’ (p. 121). When Robin strives to conceal his murder of Professor Lovell at a party he sweats ‘buckets’ (p. 373), and when he shoots the chandelier in Babel’s front hall to signal the start of the translator’s revolution ‘His whole body trembled, flush with […] vicious energy’ (p. 457). At each key staging post of his journey from obedient imperial subject to insurrectionist, Robin’s body strains and increasingly fails to keep the vastness of his feelings contained within its narrow boundaries.[12]

E. F. Duncan, British ships destroy Chinese vessels, 1843.

Robin’s second major act of oral translation in the book occurs when he returns after many years to his birthplace, Guangdong in south-eastern China. By this time he is a third-year student at Babel, whose first overseas assignment is to serve as interpreter between the British and the Chinese in a negotiation over trading terms which holds a key place in global history. In our universe, the negotiation served as a prelude to the First Opium War of 1841, a conflict that laid the groundwork for the unequal relations between Britain and China for over a century. In Kuang’s alternative universe, it triggers the translator’s revolution, whose chief objective is to prevent the war from happening. Robin’s role as sole interpreter for the British on this occasion places him at a crucial crossroads in the narratives of both Empires, as well as at a crossroads in his own story, as he struggles to make a final choice between his rival commitments to Babel and Hermes.

By the time the incident occurs, Robin is no longer naïve about what the Empire stands for, but has not yet decided what to do with that awareness. For a while he has worked clandestinely for Hermes, stealing material from Babel to be reused for Hermes’s purposes; but then he took fright and withdrew from his commitment to the anti-colonial movement. For a while after that he worked quietly for Babel, unwilling to sacrifice his safety for what may only be a fantasy of revolution. But it’s his return to Guangdong that makes him realise how far his own story remains bound up with that of the people throughout the world whose lives and livelihoods are being destroyed by the British Empire. His mother and family died from cholera when British magic, of the kind wielded by Lovell, could have saved them; the effects of the disease, as the boy Robin understood them at the time, resemble the workings of an opiate substance: ‘He was still conscious, though he’d sunk into a drowsy, half-dreaming haze. Soon, he knew, he’d fall into a deep sleep and fail to wake up’ (p. 5). On his return, he finds that the site of his old house has become an actual opium den, where addicts linger in a half-dreaming haze until the moment when they sink into death. Opium is Britain’s chief import into China, despite its prohibition by the Chinese government; it was for the right to go on importing it legally that the First and Second Opium Wars were fought. The British Empire, in other words, has the same effect as a global plague, bringing death to whatever territories it touches. As in the case of Robin’s family, the human costs of this deadly commerce are of no interest to the British, since the Chinese are barely human to them. As a Chinese man, then, Robin himself is barely human to his British masters; it is only by becoming physically, linguistically and morally indistinguishable from them – by becoming effectively British, and reneging his family, language and culture – that he can attain humanity in their eyes. His experiences in Guangdong, as a child and an adult, confirm for him once and for all that the price of being recognised as human by the British is not worth paying.

This recognition comes to him before he begins his work as interpreter between the British and the Chinese. It is marked, among other things, by his new awareness of Gulliver’s Travels as an anti-colonial text. Whereas in childhood he knew Swift’s satire mainly from its first Book – the story of the miniature kingdoms of Lilliput and Blefuscu – by now the part that most resonates with him is Book 4, in which Gulliver becomes the willing accomplice of a species that regards humanity as less than beasts. ‘[T]here’s this chapter,’ he explains to Ramy,

where Gulliver winds up on a land ruled by horses, who call themselves the Houyhnhnms, and where the humans are savage, idiot slaves called Yahoos. […] Gulliver gets so used to living with his Houyhnhnm master, gets so convinced of Houyhnhnm superiority, that when he gets home, he’s horrified by his fellow humans. He thinks they’re imbeciles. He can’t stand to be around them. And that’s how this… that’s…’ Robin rocked back and forth over the bridge. He felt like no matter how hard he breathed, he could not get enough air. (p. 309)

Robin’s summary of the story here is a deeply personal one. In Swift’s satire, the talking horses can be read, from one point of view, as idealised beings, whose pacific good government distinguishes them from the violent and insanitary tendencies of the Yahoos they enslave. From an anti-colonial perspective, however, they can be read as being as bad as the Yahoos, given their willingness to enslave and kill another species for their benefit. Robin’s interpretation of Book 4 marks one of the many points in his narrative when he undergoes a momentous shift in his point of view. He has till now, he realises, been reading things from his ‘master’s’ perspective – the perspective of the British Empire – and so has looked down on anyone from beyond its boundaries, or anyone who is powerless within them, as his inferiors. But there are many perspectives on or interpretations of things, and the human world is vastly larger, richer and more complex than the British would have it appear. This comes home to him again when he becomes for the second time an interpreter between the British and the Chinese; that is, between the perspectives of rival empires, one of which is intent on colonizing the other.

Louis John Rhead (d. 1926), The Servants Drive a Herd of Yahoos into the Field

This second act of interpretation builds directly on the first. Robin finds himself striving to convey the words of an English merchant, Mr Baylis, to the Chinese High Commissioner, Lin Zexu, as the former seeks to insist that the latter permit British companies to sell opium freely in China, in defiance of Chinese law. Once again, the conversation Robin is assigned to translate is a largely pointless one, because Mr Baylis’s argument has already been made in advance in official letters to the High Commissioner, and also because Lin can only repeat words already uttered by the Daoguang Emperor: ‘I will reiterate to you,’ he tells Baylis, ‘what we wrote to your Queen Victoria, […] that any foreigners bringing opium into China with designs to sell it will be decapitated’ (p. 311). The translation process is therefore unnecessary, as it was in the case of the labourer. The British cannot listen to the Chinese because they see them as mere animals; the Chinese cannot listen to the British because they see them as utterly devoid of reason. When invited by the Chinese High Commissioner to speak to him in private, Robin once again finds himself forced to gloss the words he has uttered on behalf of the British, just as he did when speaking to the labourer. This time, however, he glosses them with a raw statement of the truth as he now sees it. Whereas the young Robin chose to state a truth which avoided highlighting the racism of the British – ‘Your contract’s no good here’ – the older Robin identifies racism as the crux of the matter. When asked by Lin whether, in his view, it’s worth prolonging negotiations with the British in pursuit of compromise, Robin answers: ‘No […]. They want what they want, and they won’t settle for anything less. They don’t respect you, or your government. You are obstacles to be resolved, one way or another’ (p. 314). ‘Disappointing,’ Lin replies, ‘For all their talk of rights and dignity’; and Robin responds, ‘I think those principles only apply to those they find human.’ This second substitution of a gloss for a direct translation exposes one kind of meaning that always gets lost in any attempt to render the words of one language in the words of another: the rooted prejudices that prevent a person from hearing anything spoken by someone they despise. Robin’s second act of interpretation, in other words, makes up for his failure to call out racism in his childhood by casting its shadow over all exchanges between the British Empire and the many people in the world it defines as ‘uncivilised’.

Anon, Lin Zexu, c. 1850

Inevitably, Robin’s translation of the facts for the benefit of Lin is glossed as betrayal by the British Empire he was born to serve. His father, Professor Lovell, rushes at him afterwards and asks, ‘What did you say? […] What did you tell him?’ while shaking him violently by the collar (p. 315). Lovell’s reaction merely confirms the accuracy of Robin’s words to Lin about the attitude of the British Empire to non-British peoples: for men like Lovell they are less than human, and hence to be addressed with violence rather than reason. Lovell’s questions are accompanied by a facial expression that confirms the professor’s own lapse into (or existence in) an irrational, ‘nonhuman’ condition – ‘the look in his eyes was beastly, wholly unrecognizable’ – so that his face can no longer be read as linking him to Robin. Remember, by contrast, how the faces of Robin and the labourer were interpreted by each as having a familial resemblance, and how Robin was able to read the labourer’s life story in his expression. The implied breakdown of relations between Lovell and Robin refutes at a blow Lovell’s characterization of his son as a traitor, since it also implies there is no familial link between them; they are effectively strangers to one another. Lin, meanwhile, responds to Robin’s blunt articulation of the facts – that is, of the unreasoning ‘beastliness’ of the British imperialists – by engaging in a retaliatory act of violence: he has his troops set fire to a cargo of British opium in Guangdong harbour. Between beast-like peoples – or rather, between one people and another that regards the first as beasts, while itself behaving with an irrationality which can be construed as bestial – there can be no conversation, merely sudden explosive bursts of fierce aggression.

Professor Lovell’s attack on Robin, itself prompted by Lin’s attack on British opium-carrying vessels, leads directly to Robin’s fatal attack on his father. On the return journey to England father and son confront each other in Lovell’s cabin, in an encounter that has been ‘a long time coming’ (p. 318), and so brings to a catastrophic head the slow build-up of pressure in Robin’s body, which has expressed itself so far in bodily symptoms: nausea, the twisting of guts, uncontrollable shaking. The encounter involves another act of interpretation or translation, as Lovell seeks to force from his son a confession of the ‘truth’ of what he said to Lin. He is not interested in hearing Robin’s assurances that ‘what happened at the docks wasn’t because of me’ (p. 319); instead he insists that the boy ‘For once […] try to simply say what you mean’ [my emphasis]. The words Robin spoke to Lin, it seems, are not at issue; instead the professor seeks access to what Robin has never expressed, to the meanings that have so far been lost in translation between father and son. These include Robin’s disgust at the British opium trade, his refusal to be its instrument in future, his recognition that he himself has been exploited all his life, and his understanding that he can never be fully a person in his father’s eyes, since ‘personhood demand[s] the blood purity of the European man’, whereas Robin is an ‘impure’ fusion of disparate elements (p. 321).

It’s at this point that Robin decides he can no longer exist as the double or multiple person he has been since childhood:

He had become so good at holding two truths in his head at once. That he was an Englishman and not. That Professor Lovell was his father and not. That the Chinese were a stupid, backwards people, and that he was also one of them. That he hated Babel, and wanted to live forever in its embrace. He had danced for years on the razor’s edge of these truths, had remained there as a means of survival, a way to cope, unable to accept either side fully because an unflinching examination of the truth was so frightening that the contradictions threatened to break him. (p. 321)

But he cannot go on like this, he concludes, existing as a ‘split man’ riven by contradictions; ‘He felt a great pressure in the back of his mind’, as if ‘he would quite literally burst, unless he stopped being double’. He must choose a side, thus ending his status as the unstable zone between incompatible elements, a silver bar at risk of imminent detonation.

The choice is made easier, again, by a face; in this case his father’s face, which suddenly adopts ‘the ugliest expression he had ever seen [it] wear’, with bulging eyes and bared teeth, ‘as if a mask of civility had been stripped away’ (p. 322). It’s made easier, too, by his father’s description of the experiment to make Robin the perfect linguist as an exercise in translation (p. 321) – a piece of academic research unaffected by the human costs it entails – and by Lovell’s refusal to say Robin’s mother’s name when Robin asks him to, so that she becomes yet another thing lost in translation, yet another person sacrificed in the interest of subjecting the Chinese people and their language to British control (p. 322). This second loss of a name ignites a burst of anger in Robin’s body, and even as it does so Robin thinks about the origins of the word anger in Old Icelandic, where it’s ‘tied closely to physical suffering’ and sums up how the emotion ‘simmer[s], then explode[s]’ from the human frame (p. 323). Robin kills his father with a silver bar bearing the word ‘Bào’ and its English translation, ‘to explode, to burst forth with what could no longer be contained’ (p. 324). The instrument of the killing perfectly embodies Robin’s emotions at that moment; and its force, with all its catastrophic consequences – an explosive chain reaction that leads inexorably to the translators’ revolution – derives directly from the many contradictory elements that have gone into these emotions.

Afterwards, Robin seeks to gloss his catastrophic action as an act of self-defence, in another attempted act of translation. He tells himself that he thought his father was reaching for a weapon at the point when he hurled the bar, or that Robin himself was in the grip of an unthinking impulse, or that he did not know what the bar would do to his father when it struck him. But in the end he cannot accept his own translation of the facts into something palatable. He knew exactly what he was doing when he killed his father, because translation magic does not work unless the practitioner holds in his mind the exact meaning of the words engraved on either face of the silver bar. His rejection of his own attempts to translate murder into accident or justifiable homicide confirms his commitment to a singular position, that of an active antagonist to colonialism and its willing human instruments. From this time onward he is no longer a ‘split man’, though his body continues to resonate with the accumulated contradictions that brought him into being. Robin Swift, in other words, no longer has two faces.

Anon, scene in China, c. 1852
  1. The many families of Robin Swift

The death of Professor Lovell marks the end of Robin’s connection to his father’s family. Not that his father was ever really family to him, since he was more notable for his absence – physical or emotional – than for his presence. Robin is, however, blessed or cursed with many other families, which is part of what makes him so much larger than he appears, since each family brings with it a different set of attachments and obligations, loyalties and potential avenues to betrayal. Indeed, every family group to which Robin becomes affiliated finds itself betrayed, in one way or another, often enough by Robin himself. Robin’s hostility to his father, for instance, was ignited by the Professor’s betrayal of his family in Guangdong; though Robin’s own failure to remember his Chinese name suggests that he too betrays his Chinese family, or rather their memory, by committing himself body and soul (for a while) to the man who betrayed them. Lovell also betrays his son Robin, first by failing to tell him about his other Chinese family – the family among whom his half-brother Griffin was raised – then by refusing to acknowledge the fact that he is Robin’s father, and finally by concealing his secret marriage to an Englishwoman in Yorkshire, by whom he has fathered two more children: ‘A girl and a boy, seven and three,’ as Griffin explains, ‘Darling Philippa and little Dick’ (p. 95). Robin’s birth family, in other words, is vastly larger and more diverse than the conventional nuclear family which has come to dominate familial myths since the early days of the industrial revolution.

Then there are Robin’s families-by-association, Babel and Hermes. On his arrival at Oxford, Robin is embraced as an ersatz family member by the Royal Institute of Translators at Babel, whose objective, as Professor Playfair sees it, is ‘to make the other familiar’ (p. 83) – that is, to adopt strange languages, along with their territories, into the British family. (‘Familial’ is the more obvious adjective for this, while ‘familiar’ can have undertones of contempt.) Babel, Playfair tells the new students from distant lands, is to become their home,[13] and he cements the associated feeling of kinship and safety with the help of a silver bar, which has the German word ‘heimlich’ (i.e. secret) inscribed on one side and the English word ‘clandestine’ inscribed on the other. The magic of this bar is to make the students of Babel feel safe and private in the Tower of Babel – to feel completely at home – since what’s lost in translation between the two terms is the other meaning of ‘heimlich’, which is ‘homely’, derived from Heim or home. There are of course secrets in families, however, as Professor Lovell’s example makes plain. The secret of Babel is that its apparently egalitarian treatment of its colonized members conceals the fact that they are really servants or slaves; their translations are used for the exclusive benefit of their masters, the British with their Empire, and if they deviate from this objective they will be promptly ejected from the family circle. Slaves, of course, were subsidiary ‘members’ of Roman families, and a crucial component of the ancient Roman imperial machine to which the British liked to compare their own colonial venture. Their blood oiled the pistons of Roman society, so to speak; and in much the same way, Babel depends on the blood of its staff and students. Their relationship with the Tower is literally cemented in blood, in fact, since vials of blood are extracted from Babel’s workers and kept in storage under the building as a means of protecting it from unwelcome intruders. Only Babel staff and students can pass unharmed through the Tower’s front door, which is guarded by spells designed to unleash a barrage of deadly missiles on unwary visitors – that is, on people whose blood the building does not acknowledge as its own. Professor Playfair, who devises these spells, assures his students as he takes their blood that ‘Now you’re part of the tower’ and that ‘now the tower knows you’ (p. 86). This confirms them as Babel insiders, but also binds them bodily to the Institute, so that they are as much in its power as a child is in the power of its parents or guardians. A Babel student can as easily be cut off from the Institute (by destroying their vial) as Professor Lovell’s children can be cut off if they prove unsuitable for his purposes. No wonder Ramy describes the concept of being ‘known’ by the Tower as ‘a bit creepy’ (p. 86).

Nicolette Caven, Kuang’s Babel inserted into the map of Oxford.

Hermes too represents itself as a global family, but one that is vastly more inclusive than its imperial counterpart. Robin’s arrival in the Old Library feels like a sudden extension of his family circle, since the building resembles a smaller Babel while its inhabitants embrace the mutual acceptance, international outlook and pleasure in sharing knowledge enjoyed by Robin and his three best friends. The revolutionaries of Hermes discuss how to extend the family circle still further by convincing other victims of British imperialism to recognise what they have in common. ‘The point is to build a [global] coalition,’ the conspirator Anthony explains to Robin (p. 405), and this is made possible by the similar problems faced by families across the world: ‘The fate of a poor family in [Guangdong] is in fact intricately linked to the fate of an out-of-work weaver from Yorkshire’ (p. 406). A model for this coalition is provided by the alliance between the revolutionary translators who seize the Tower of Babel in the final part of the book and the unemployed British workers who barricade the Oxford streets in support of the rising. Those workers were introduced into Kuang’s narrative by way of a family reduced to beggary after the father lost his job, when his labour at a northern factory was rendered redundant by technological advances driven by translation magic. Robin first sees the father as a solitary protestor throwing eggs at the Babel students, face distorted by rage (p. 210); but their next meeting involves a moment of mutual recognition, which shows obvious parallels with Robin’s encounter with the Chinese labourer in Guangdong:

One stormy night […] Robin glimpsed a family sitting at a corner of Woodstock Road holding out tin mugs for alms. […] The two small children gave him little waves as he approached, and the sight of their pale, rain-stroked faces made him feel guilty enough to stop and fish several pennies out of his pocket.

‘Thank you,’ murmured the father. ‘God bless you.’

The man’s beard had grown out, and his clothes had got a good deal tattier, but Robin still recognised him – he was, without question, one of the men who had screamed obscenities at him on his way into the tower several weeks ago. He met Robin’s eyes. It wasn’t clear if he recognised Robin as well[.] (p. 214)

The brief, ambiguous moment of mutual recognition harks back to the time when Robin looked into the labourer’s face and saw in it the story of his life as an itinerant worker. That earlier encounter led to an acrimonious parting. The meeting with the factory worker’s family, by contrast, proves prophetic of Robin’s third and final meeting with the same worker, which takes place at the door of the Tower, now held to ransom by the rebel translators. At this point both men recognise each other unambiguously, and Robin finally learns the man’s name: Abel Goodfellow, his surname recalling the impish goblin Robin Goodfellow from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The fact that they share the forename Robin – or in Abel’s case the shadow or memory of that name – confirms the fact that they are now ‘good fellows’, part of a revolutionary fellowship or family which seeks to extend its branches to exploited workers throughout the world. Their last meeting is in fact a warm one, and ends more warmly still, when Abel shakes Robin’s hand goodbye and says ‘God be with you’, echoing his words on the corner of Woodstock Road many months before (p. 533). Abel’s familial relationship with Robin is never made explicit, but Kuang represents his farewell handshake as the polar opposite of Lovell’s emotional coldness: ‘His grip was so warm [and] solid’ (p. 533). Abel’s implied kinship with the young translator stems not from a bid to get power over him, or to make him a member of some exclusive club, as Lovell’s familial manoeuvring so often was; it arises instead from a mutual understanding of their common interests and shared objectives. It’s egalitarian, supportive, inclusive, and emotionally satisfying, and includes no constraint, no build-up of pressure. Abel and his fellow ‘workmen strikers’ represent the possibility of another kind of relationship between Robin and Britain, a relationship based on solidarity between members of the exploited classes, regardless of ethnicity, who pit themselves against all kinds of oppression (p. 486).

Robin’s relationship with his Babel and Hermes families is reinforced in both cases by other family ties. He is tied to Babel, of course, by his father, for whom (as for Professor Playfair) the Tower is ‘the most wonderful place on earth’ (p. 82). He is also tied to it by his chosen family, the three Babel students he meets in his earliest days at Oxford, Ramy, Victoire and Letty. He warms to all three at once, and at one key moment abruptly realizes what they mean to him, sensing it in his body’s core, where (as we’ve seen) he senses all his most powerful emotions:

He blinked, because he’d just registered what this most mundane and extraordinary moment meant – that in the space of several weeks, they had become what he’d never found in Hampstead [i.e. in Professor Lovell’s household], what he thought he’d never have again after [Guangdong]: a circle of people he loved so fiercely his chest hurt when he thought of them.

A family. (p. 132)

By the time this recognition dawns, however, he has already been introduced to the Hermes family, by way of another family tie: his half-brother Griffin. Griffin is Robin’s doppelgänger, his other self. They look the same, owing to their shared paternity: Griffin, it emerges, is the product of an earlier experiment by Lovell, who sought to father a child bilingual in Chinese and English but took Griffin away from his family too young, before the Chinese language became fully engrained in his body and mind. The half-brothers spot the physical resemblance between them before ever they know of their blood ties. They also share the same early history, the same education, even the same passions or desires: Robin harbours an unspoken attraction to Ramy, which arouses the jealousy of their friend Letty, while Griffin, it emerges, was at the centre of a similar love triangle with his friends Evie Brooke and Sterling Jones. Both love triangles culminate in death: Letty shoots Ramy in the Old Library, Griffin kills Evie in Babel, and Griffin and Sterling kill each other in the grounds of Oxford Castle. Even Robin’s own death springs directly from his loss of Ramy, which leaves him willing to sacrifice his life for the revolution. After Griffin’s death, in fact, the two young men seem to merge into one. Robin loses his tentativeness, the resistance to violence that led him to turn against Hermes for a time, and ‘channels’ his dead half-brother at the insurrection, taking on his persona as he and Victoire seize control of Babel: ‘He forced his voice to grow, to take up more space in the room than he ever had’ (p. 451). By this time he and his brother are no longer separate entities, one older and more knowledgeable than the other, one more committed to the cause than his weaker sibling, one so much larger than the other in charisma and outlook that Robin must physically ‘grow’ in order to achieve an equal stature. There is no longer any need for translation between them, that is, of explanations of each other’s political and personal positions. In this scene Robin’s growth reaches maximum capacity, and he finds himself at last large enough to accommodate the many disparate elements that comprise both his and Griffin’s complicated, dangerous inner lives.

Arthur Rackham (d. 1939), William Wilson and his doppelgänger, from Edgar Allan Poe’s short story of 1839

Woven through Robin’s family ties are the betrayals he commits against his many families. He betrays Babel when he agrees to work for Hermes, and he betrays the other members of his chosen family, Ramy, Victoire and Letty, when he fails to let them in on the secret. He betrays Hermes when he is exposed by Babel as a Hermes operative, and chooses to give up the location of one of their safe houses in exchange for his freedom to continue as a Babel student. He betrays his Chinese family by working as an interpreter for the British Empire, which first failed to protect them from cholera and now seeks to control their country through the disease of addiction. He betrays his father’s family in reaction to his father’s repeated betrayals of Robin himself. In many cases he goes on to atone for these betrayals, for instance by saving Ramy and Victoire’s lives when they are caught in one of Playfair’s traps, or by telling the truth about the British to the Chinese High Commissioner, or by leading the translator’s revolution against the Tower whose forces massacred his friends at Hermes. On the other hand, he also atones for his betrayal of Babel by putting an end to his work for Hermes, and later by informing on the secret organization. He reconciles with his father, for a short time, by consenting to work with him in China. His final commitment to Hermes is read as treachery by his friend Letty. Each betrayal also constitutes an act of loyalty, each act of loyalty constitutes a betrayal, and it’s on the basis of these contradictions, Kuang implies, that British imperialism retains its grip on its colonised subjects.

In the closing stages of the book, the concepts of familial loyalty and betrayal come under intense scrutiny. Alone and on the run after the destruction of the Old Library and the massacre of its insurrectionist community, Robin and Victoire find their way to a Hermes safe house where they send out a signal in the form of a beacon to potential allies, using the magic of a silver bar they find there. Later, when they have captured Babel with a small band of fellow translators, they send out another flock of messages, this time written on sheets of paper made to fly across the city of Oxford by another spell. By this time all their family groups have been destroyed, and their quest for a new community looks bleak; as they light their magical beacon in the safe house, an exhausted Robin remarks ‘I don’t know if anyone’s even listening’ (p. 448), while the translator-insurrectionists in the Tower conceal from one another the same anxiety: ‘They were all suffering from […] a creeping dread that this strike might do nothing but damn themselves, and that their cries would go unheard into the night’ (p. 467). On both occasions, however, their calls for help are answered. When they enter the Tower of Babel in the hope of seizing it – two students against an imperial institution – they are soon joined by a little group of like-minded translators, which include Professor Chakravarti, the one person in Britain who seems to have spotted their beacon. Their flying paper messages bring them the support of the British labourers led by Abel Goodfellow, who brings one of the messages with him when he joins them in the Tower. As the taking of the Tower turns into a siege, with the translators on the inside and the British imperial forces on the outside, it gradually emerges that the cause of the translators is a universal one among the working population of the world – more universal, indeed, than the translators themselves had suspected. Abel points out that the striking workers of Britain have been trying to draw attention to affinities between their cause and the cause of the translators for many years – the translators, ironically, had simply failed to understand their language (working-class suffering, the insurrectionist Professor Craft confesses, is ‘a side of the story we don’t often think about, isn’t it?’, p. 495). For all its positive implications, the word ‘family’ also implies an outside: people who don’t belong to the intimate network of friends, protectors, lovers and comrades which identify any family group as residing inside a set of self-made defences or barriers. Abel Goodfellow and his striking workers set up barricades outside the Tower to protect the translators from the British army, but their barricades represent not exclusiveness but ‘solidarity’ (p. 486), a solidarity that implicitly extends itself to all who work for powerful and contemptuous bosses. This worldwide solidarity with the oppressed can hardly be adequately identified as a familial relationship, since there is no nation or population whose members are exempt from it.

The inclusiveness of solidarity exposes the limitations of the family concept. Families invariably involve constraints and obligations which can feel imprisoning. There can be no family without people who are defined as not family – strangers, enemies, aliens, others. The terms ‘treason’, ’treachery’ and ‘betrayal’, which get wielded against their members so often by the various families and quasi-familial groups to which Robin belongs, imply that there are clearly defined rules in place that cannot be broken without transforming yourself into – or exposing yourself as – a stranger, an enemy, a threat. These rules are invariably put in place by authority figures, frequently paternal or patriarchal, who also interpret them and punish breaches as they see fit. An example of such a patriarchal family is Britain itself, which (as an imperial power) identifies certain people as authentically ‘British’ and others – such as the translators of colour who work for Babel – as not British at all, and as incapable of ever attaining Britishness because they are not bound to Britain by blood. The blood kept in vials by Babel does not count; it is merely a failsafe mechanism, not a genuine statement of inclusion and affection. This is why a diverse group of translators from many countries – including a white woman born and raised in Britain – choose to betray the British family, a betrayal which takes the most damning form of all from an imperialist perspective: ‘treason against the crown’ (p. 466).

In the final sections of the book, by contrast, the rules of the translator’s rebellion are not imposed by some patriarchal authority figures but made up collectively, on the fly, by the translators themselves. The insurrectionists react to their chosen situation – a situation of extreme danger, which culminates in an act of collective self-destruction as they bring down the Tower, along with the rods and bars that sustain the Empire, on their heads – in very different ways: they scatter to different parts of the building, where each considers how to reconcile themselves with their imminent deaths, and in the final seconds of the revolution each speaks the words of magic that bring down the Tower in a separate place, in terrible isolation. They work together, in other words, for the same objective, but they retain their individual self-determination at all times, refusing to be moulded into a homogeneous body responding to orders from above; refuse, that is, to become a patriarchal family. In this way they set up an alternative model of relations within a close-knit group which lives and dies in a single village, building or ‘home’.

As a result, at various points in the revolution disagreements arise among the revolutionaries, and these are sometimes resolved with actions that might in a patriarchal family group be defined as betrayal. Professor Chakravarti, for example, finds that at one stage he cannot condone the level of violence that will be committed against the British population by the translators, as they destroy the magic spells which hold buildings, roads, machines, bridges and other crucial elements of the social infrastructure together. There will be too much collateral destruction, he insists, involving innocents: women and children who have never exercised authority on behalf of the Empire. It is agreed, then, that he must leave the Tower; but he is never accused of betrayal, only of choosing a different path because of his convictions. The same is true of Abel Goodfellow, who supports the revolution for as long as he can but will not stay to be massacred with the rest, since he is relied upon by his family and fellow workers. As we have seen, his parting with Robin, who elects to stay, is warmly affectionate; there is never a hint that Robin feels betrayed by his decision. Finally, Victoire too decides to leave before the other insurrectionists bring the Tower down on themselves, like latter-day Samsons. Her reasoning is that the struggle must continue, and that she refuses to be another victim of Empire, another ‘Dying Negro’ (p. 527), to be spoken and written about with a pity indistinguishable from condescension. ‘I want to live, and thrive, and survive them,’ she tells Robin (p. 527); ‘I want a future’. And in choosing a future she ensures that the translator’s rebellion is larger than itself; that it is not confined to a single point in history, but opens out into a complex web of new movements, communities and imaginative possibilities, extending from the imaginary nineteenth century into the lifetime of Kuang’s readers and beyond. She ensures that a future of resistance, courage, commitment, and self-respect in the face of widespread contempt or hostility, is no mere ‘exercise in fantasy’ (p. 511), as Robin sees it. Her decision to break away from the insurrection, to go beyond it, in other words, is as necessary as the insurrection itself.

Like the rebellion it describes, Kuang’s novel is larger in every way than its dimensions suggest – although these are by no means negligible; it’s a substantial book. Babel insinuates itself into the familiar narrative of history, creating a space for itself where no such space existed before, much as Kuang created a space for the Tower of Babel on the map of Oxford, where there is no real space for such an innovation. The translator-insurrectionists worry that their struggle will be forgotten, that their histories will be ‘erased’ (p. 507). One of their number, Ibrahim, even sets about writing a small account of the revolution, which Abel takes with him when he leaves the Tower. The history is designed as an act of translation, a way of interpreting the designs and desires of the revolutionaries – though Robin remains concerned at its inadequacy when faced with ‘the oppressive wrath of denigrating narrative they fought against’ (p. 507). Kuang’s book contains both Ibrahim’s little history and Robin’s doubts as to its effectiveness, and lends them an emotional resonance which they would never have had outside her story; her readers will find their hearts and minds affected by her words as if by a silver rod or bar, thrumming in harmony with the young rebels they have come to know so well. We carry them with us when we finish reading, as Victoire carried the anti-imperialist struggle beyond the Tower.

Kuang’s angry Oxford novel strains at its own seams. It’s full of footnotes, some of which refer to neglected colonial and anti-colonial episodes in real world history, others to aspects of her own story she has no time to develop – most startlingly, perhaps, the story of the love-triangle involving Griffin and his university friends which came to a violent end with Griffin’s death (p. 431). Footnotes imply a vastly larger world than the one contained within a book’s chosen narrative arc, and the reader who pays attention to Kuang’s footnotes may well find themselves setting out on a journey of exploration that takes them off at a tangent from the story of Robin and his friends: for instance, into a history of the Haitian Revolution or of the First and Second Opium Wars. Kuang’s novel, in other words, enlarges our understanding of history, even as it trades in impossibilities involving the magic of translation. Indeed, it subtly redefines fantasy itself, which is often defined as the literature of impossibility. We are at all times surrounded by impossibilities, Kuang tells us, from the impossibility of  condoning Empire – which many of us nevertheless succeed in achieving – to the impossibility of insurrection, which has also been achieved from time to time. Translation itself has often been driven by fantasies, such as the notion that there was once a universal Adamic language spoken by everyone on earth, and from which all languages can ultimately be derived, as diverse families might claim to be derived from a common ancestor. Translation itself, she adds, is a fantastic impossibility. We can never hope to convey the full meaning of a statement in one language by translating it into another. ‘Language was just difference,’ Robin thinks in the final moments of his life, ‘A thousand different ways of seeing, of moving through the world. No; a thousand worlds within one. And translation – a necessary endeavour, however futile, to move between them’ (p. 537). Translation may be impossible, but it is necessary; as necessary as the commitment to constant movement, and the constant reaffirmation of solidarity between communities, which set us in opposition to the rules, constraints and prohibitions of Empires past and present, great and small.

Rebecca F. Kuang

NOTES

[1] See Michael Levy and Farah Mendlesohn, Children’s Fantasy Literature: An Introduction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), Chapter 5, ‘The Changing Landscape of Post-war Fantasy’.

[2] See Genesis 11, 1-9, especially v. 4: ‘And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven’.

[3] The Radcliffe Library is now known as the Radcliffe Camera.

[4] See p. 199: ‘Back at Babel, Professor Chakravarti led Robin up to the southern wing of the eighth floor’.

[5] Indeed, all four of her main characters – four young translators working for Babel – are associated with slavery, in that they replicate the role of the slaves of the Egyptian king Psammetichus, young Egyptian boys who were brought up to speak fluent Greek so that they could keep an eye on the king’s unreliable Greek allies (pp. 82-3).

[6] His colleague Professor Playfair says something similar about Babel on p. 82: ‘It’s the most wonderful place on earth’.

[7] Robin’s tutor, Professor Playfair, later compares entering the Tower for the first time to ‘taking food in the seelie court’ (p. 82). Traditionally, eating food in the realm of the fairies condemns you to stay with them for ever as their slave.

[8] The close link between Hermes and Babel is neatly summed up by the name of the revolutionary organization. Professor Playfair tells his students that ‘There is indeed something special about silver that makes it an ideal vehicle for what we do. I like to think that it was blessed by the gods – it’s refined with mercury, after all, and Mercury is the messenger god, no? Mercury, Hermes. Does silver then have an inextricable link to hermeneutics?’ (pp. 83-4). Later Griffin explains the reasoning behind the name of the group he works for, the Hermes Society. ‘It’s a joke. Silver and mercury, mercury and Hermes, Hermes and hermeneutics. I don’t know who came up with it. (p. 99). Quite possibly it was the Society’s most implacable enemy, Professor Playfair, who gave its members the idea for the name.

[9] See for example The Burning God (2020), pp. 62-3: ‘She’d laid her loyalty at the feet of two masters before. Each had betrayed her in turn. She’d trusted first [the Empress] Daji and then [the would-be Republican leader] Vaisra, and they’d both sold her away without blinking’.

[10] Robin’s first name also echoes a celebrated British colonial text, Robinson Crusoe (1719). The castaway refers to himself so often as ‘Poor Robin Crusoe’ that his parrot learns the phrase. Kuang’s Robin could be said to be in equal parts the isolated subject of Empire, Robinson himself, and the indigenous man he rescues and makes his servant or slave, Friday. It’s noteworthy that we never learn Friday’s true name, only the name Crusoe gives him.

[11] See in particular Gulliver’s account of the current state of England in Book 4, in which he explains the guiding principles of colonialism: ‘Sometimes our Neighbours want the Things which we have, or have the Things which we want; and we both fight, till they take ours or give us theirs. It is a very justifiable Cause of War to invade a Country after the People have been wasted by Famine, destroyed by Pestilence, or embroiled by Factions among themselves. It is justifiable to enter into a War against our nearest Ally, when one of his Towns lies convenient for us, or a Territory or Land, that would render our Dominions round and compact. If a Prince send Forces into a Nation, where the People are poor and ignorant, he may lawfully put half of them to Death, and make Slaves of the rest, in order to civilize and reduce them from their barbarous Way of Living.’ Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels, ed. Robert A. Greenberg (New York and London: W. W. Norton and Co., 1970), p. 213.

[12] Echoes of the encounter between Robin and the labourer can be found throughout the novel, from Robin’s insistence, when he explains his betrayal of Hermes to Ramy and Victoire, that he has a ‘contract’ with Babel (p. 287), to the solidarity he finds with a British worker, Abel Goodfellow, in the final chapters; I touch on this solidarity in the next section.

[13] It’s his student Anthony who uses this term for the first time: ‘Welcome to your home for the next four years’, he says on p. 74.

Amal El-Mohtar, The River Has Roots (2025)

[Warning: this post contains spoilers, and is best read after you’ve read the book!]

Amal El-Mohtar’s first solo novella is a work of fantasy, a fairy tale with supernatural beings and magic in it. But it’s also set in a world that overlaps with our own, where English is spoken, old ballads are sung, and geographical references are made to places that really exist: London, Exeter, Wales, the West Country, the Levant. Impossible metamorphoses take place, but there are also strict rules governing certain aspects of life, such as the formal grammar taught in schools or the number of pennies and shillings that make up a pound. The book is full of beauty and pleasure, from the playful wooing of lovers to the melodies and harmonies of sweet music and fine prose, but it also features a random act of violence which replicates other acts of violence past and present, from the killing of women as witches to the persecution of queer desire. Most strikingly of all, this fantasy ends with a political afterword that draws attention to El-Mohtar’s Lebanese-Canadian heritage, and to the horrors of the war that is devastating Lebanon and slaughtering people in Gaza as she writes. The book, then, is constructed from binaries, opposites and paradoxes, and this dualistic structural principle has crucial things to tell us about the processes of reading and writing fantasy in the troubled twenty-first century.

Every aspect of El-Mohtar’s story looks two ways. Two sisters grow up in a family that faces in two directions; I’ll call them east and west, for reasons that will emerge later, though this orientation is not made explicit in the story. Eastwards they face towards the town of Thistleford, a place of ‘wholesome, settled tameness’ (p. 16), and beyond Thistleford towards the merchants, scholars and monarch who live in and around the metropolis, where regulations govern everything from speech to conditions of trade.[1] Westwards they face towards Faerie, a place so shifty and ambiguous that it has many names (‘Arcadia, the Beautiful Country, the Land Beyond, Antiquity’, p. 5), where people may be lost or ‘marred’ – that is, subjected to unwelcome processes of magical transformation (p. 7). The Hawthorn sisters live in the space between these compass bearings, cleaving to their immemorial duty of tending two ancient willows known as the Professors, which grow on either bank of the magical river Liss. The willows supply their family with materials for trade, ‘the leaves for tea, the bark for medicines and baskets and cordage, the wood for furniture and instruments’ (p. 6), all of which are as much in demand in the east as in the west. The trees are linked to Faerie, both in the magic they filter from the river – which infuses their wood, bark and leaves – and in the many narratives they have engendered. But the Professors also have mortal origins, having once been human lovers who openly ‘professed’ their love, transformed into trees under circumstances that differ depending on who tells the story. Upstream from these ancient willows lie the ever-shifting borderlands of Faerie, the enchanted country where the river has its source. Downstream things become increasingly controlled, so that even the younger willows that line its banks are carefully coppiced to improve their commercial yield. The two sisters who tend the Professors share their tendency to look both ways; the younger, Ysabel Hawthorn, directs her thoughts towards the commonplace east, while the older, Esther, is haunted by dreams of the exotic west; but their love for one another, expressed through song, ensures that their different preferences exist in a state of perfect balance.

Inevitably, however, imbalance threatens their closeness. Esther is courted by two suitors, one of whom hails from the conventional lands downstream of the willows, the other from the mysterious world of Faerie. The man from the east is a prosperous neighbour who wants to marry her for financial reasons – joining her family’s land to his will enhance his commercial prospects – while the suitor from the west is a nonbinary musician who loves Esther for herself and for her art, the art of singing with which she nurtures the ancient trees. Ysabel has some sympathy for the man from the east, whose name is Pollard – a confirmation of his tendency to cut things for his own advantage; in Ysabel’s eyes he deserves some credit for writing Esther some (very bad) poems, giving her unsolicited gifts, and observing at all times the rules of gentlemanly good manners. Esther is disgusted by Pollard (he is a ‘crumb’), and gives her heart instead to the suitor from Faerie, whose name is Rin. Rin operates according to Faerie conventions, not human ones, which means they do not always show up when their lover asks them to, and resist meeting Esther’s family until some unspecified point in the courtship ritual has been passed. Rin, then, could be accused of rudeness by those who do not understand those conventions, Ysabel included. Esther and Ysabel’s different perceptions of the two suitors threatens for a while to open a gulf between them, but the threat is never a serious one. Far more drastic is Samuel Pollard’s reaction to Esther’s rejection of him, which severs the girls from one another through a sudden act of misogynistic aggression.

Photo by Amal El-Mohtar

Pollard murders Esther in a fit of cold rage on the day she betroths herself to Rin, using his gloved hands to drown the young woman in the enchanted waters of the river Liss. The murder splits El-Mohtar’s narrative into two halves, before and after Esther’s death. Before the murder there are many possibilities for the way the narrative might unfold; afterwards there would seem to be markedly fewer. But this is only if you’re not familiar with ballad lore, which very frequently treats murder as merely the midpoint of a life story rather than its termination. As a ruthless pragmatist Pollard is of course ignorant of ballad lore; Ysabel and Esther, on the other hand, know it well, and are thoroughly versed in the ways a ballad can reverse the flow of a narrative with the lightest of touches. (Please pardon the puns in this essay so far – tend/tendency, versed/reverse – since puns and other double meanings are some of the many techniques by which a ballad can accomplish this reversal.) In an imagined world where ghosts are legion, and where a daytrip in one country can take a hundred years in the time zone of another, the past always has the potential to invade the here-and-now, and the dead to gain strange new life.

Which brings us to the binary that lies at the core of El-Mohtar’s novella: the binary of past and future, which are held in constant balance by the fulcrum of the present. In El-Mohtar’s world, magic is a matter of grammar, a word that shares its roots with gramarye, a Middle English term for the theory and practice of enchantment in all its forms (p. 10). The roots of that word live on in its modern form, El-Mohtar suggests – an idea Rebecca Kuang also draws on in her novel Babel (2022) – and can be exploited by academic grammarians based in universities, who have strict ideas of how the magic of grammar should be properly used and studied, or by rogue grammarians such as witches or faeries, who resist institutional attempts to restrict the possibilities of magic and meaning. So the past and the present can affect the future thanks to the individual words we use in everyday speech, which are loaded with etymology: that is, the evidence of changes past, which confirms that words are involved in continuing processes of transformation. Another of these processes is the conjugation of tenses: ‘What is magic but a change in the world?’, El-Mohtar asks, and ‘What is conjugation but a transformation, one thing into another? She runs; she ran; she will run again’ (p. 1). The grammatical transformation of verbs through tenses embodies the possibility of transcending certain rules – such as the rule that when we die our life story comes to an end. In the first half of the novella Esther runs, delighting in the land and loves she is blessed with. At the point of her death she’s consigned to the past: she ran, because she runs no more. For Rin and Esther, though, grammar promises a future for her: she will run again. El-Mohtar’s story fulfils that promise, drawing on stories past to construct a new story that offers a semblance of hope to its readers, albeit a hope that seems to transgress the laws of physics or history.[2]

The two halves of the novella can be seen as analogous to the grammatical process of conjugation. The first half centres on the present, proceeding for the most part in chronological order; the second half jumps around in time, beginning with a flashback to the time when the sisters strayed into Arcadia as small children and ending with a promise for the sisters’ future happiness. The sisters’ lovers, too, could be seen as aligning themselves with certain tenses. Rin is aligned with the past, since they come from Arcadia, which is also known as Antiquity, while Samuel Pollard is aligned with the future, since he is interested only in the profits that will follow if he joins his lands, through marriage, with those of the Hawthorns. The sisters, meanwhile, embrace both past and future. As lovers of old ballads they embrace the past, while as lovers of riddles, murder stories and promises they embrace the future, since the pleasure of these three forms lies in the expectation of a resolution not yet reached: the solution to the riddle, the revelation of the murderer’s identity, the keeping (or breaking) of a binding oath. The key problem faced by the sisters is how to reconcile the binaries they embrace: a delight in the past and the future, an attraction to our world and to Arcadia, Esther’s competing love for Ysabel and Rin, Ysabel’s love for Esther and her desire that Esther should make herself happy by marrying Rin. Arcadia turns out to be the place where such reconciliations can happen, and where binaries can be dispensed with, as the nonbinary being Rin would seem to confirm.

Image by Kathleen Neely, one of her beautiful full-page illustrations for The River Has Roots.

Let’s go back to grammar, though, for a while. The ancient willows tended by the sisters are associated with grammar-as-magic, in that they filter it out of the river with their roots, ensuring that magic suffuses their being from stem to crown. They are also associated with grammar-as-narrative through the stories that are told about them, composed of grammatical sentences but varying widely from teller to teller, each variation being infused with different meanings and implications. These stories arise from the sense the Professors exude of possibilities past, present and to come, as El-Mohtar tells us near the beginning:

If you were to stand and behold those […] two trees – if you were a stranger to the land, unaccustomed to the sight – you might hear a kind of hum in the air, or feel it as a thickness in your chest. You might think that something about the shape of those trunks, the sweep of their twisted crowns, reminds you of something, or someone, you’ve lost – something, or someone, you would break the world to have again. Something, you might think, happened here, long, long ago; something, you might think, is on the cusp of happening again. (p. 3)

The language of these trees, their grammar and magic, is an international matter, transcending spatial and cultural borders; a ‘stranger to the land’ can read it, though the long-lost thing or person it invokes will differ, depending on who does the reading. The Professors’ embodied language transcends time, too, in that it speaks of the past and promises that what happened once will happen again. In this it resembles the stretch of the river Luss that runs from the gates of Faerie to the roots of the ancient pair of willows, through the so-called ‘Modal Lands’. The vegetation that grows along that stretch of river transcends time by violating the rules that govern the seasons, so that ‘spring bluebells mix with autumn asters, and towering cattails [i.e. bulrushes] scatter frosted seeds over beds of blooming marigolds’ (p. 2). By dedicating their lives to the service of the Professors, the two sisters commit themselves to the trees’ capacity to overthrow the rules of space, time and the natural order, as fairy tales, fantasies and ballads do whenever the mood takes them.

Murder, you might think, is not like this. It can only be read in one way, since it’s a savage and irreversible fact, whose brutality consists not just in the violence by which it is perpetrated but in the absolute nature of its consequences: murder once committed can never be undone. That, at least, is Samuel Pollard’s understanding. But the Professors deny this absolutism, in that they memorialise in their shapes the place where loss occurred, keeping its memory alive in those who can read them, native or strangers. They also deny this absolutism if you believe the story that they were once lovers who were murdered: somehow the lovers remain stubbornly present in the form of trees. They deny this absolutism in a third way, too: murders may be terminal, but they can occur again and again through generations. Violence against women, young people and queer lovers has taken place again and again in the course of history. At the same time, that violence has never succeeded in ending what it seeks to end. The Professors are still there, bearing silent witness, like words inscribed on the bark of a living tree.

So too is love, in all its manifestations. In their childhood the sisters, Esther and Ysabel, seem inseparable, like the willows; they love each other more passionately than anyone or anything else. They are, however, separated by time. Not only are they of different ages, with Esther the elder by two years, but as time goes by their tastes incline in different directions: ‘Ysabel loved pickles where Esther couldn’t abide the smell of vinegar; Esther took to foraging while Ysabel preferred gardening; Ysabel was fascinated by boys and their company while Esther found them tedious and enjoyed being alone’ (p. 10). Both sisters love ballads, such as Tam Lin or Childe Owlet, but Ysabel prefers murder ballads – accounts of shocking acts of violence committed in the past – while Esther likes ballads with riddles in them, which challenge their listeners to solve the verbal puzzles they contain in the here and now, as the ballad is sung. These preferences are not so very different, of course: murder ballads may include riddles inviting their hearers to decipher the killer’s identity (a well-known example is the ballad of John Barleycorn, which seems to describe the murder of a human being but also describes the everyday process of brewing beer; Esther sings this ballad at one point to express her negative feelings about Samuel Pollard). The sisters, then, remain compatible, despite their differences. But Esther’s delight in riddles confirms her greater attraction to grammar as practised by ‘wild’ grammarians – witches and other practitioners who repudiate the rigid rules favoured by institutions – an attraction that manifests itself in her love for the nonbinary faerie, Rin; while Ysabel’s delight in murder ballads means that she finds herself drawn instead to Esther’s murderer (though at this point she has no idea that a murder has been committed), seeking comfort from Samuel Pollard after her sister’s disappearance and getting engaged to him in a bid to fill the void it left in her life. Fortunately, the day of Ysabel’s betrothal is also the day when Esther returns from the dead, against all odds, to denounce her killer; and she does so through a riddle-ballad and a murder-ballad, the first being a secret song composed by the sisters to bring them together whenever they are separated, the second being a versified account of her own murder. At this crucial point in the narrative, then, the sisters’ different tastes converge to expose Pollard, as riddle ballads and murder ballads combine to frustrate his attempt to leave Esther behind him for ever. By mysterious means love overcomes divergent tastes, just as it overcomes the divergent cultures of Esther and Rin.

Image by Kathleen Neeley

When Esther composes riddle ballads of her own, they sometimes depend on time; that is, on the fact that past, present and future may radically alter the nature of a person or a thing. She explains this principle to Rin on the day of their betrothal, as she parses a riddle she sang on the way to their meeting-place. The riddle begins ‘I gave my love a cherry that has no stone / I gave my love a chicken that has no bone’ (p. 44); and as Esther points out,

There are two ways to answer these riddles […] With the past, or with the future. We think of the cherry or the chicken as unchangeable things, and the song pokes at those assumptions. How is a cherry not a cherry? Well, when it’s a flower. How is a chicken not a chicken? Well, when it’s an egg. The song says, this thing you are used to, it has a past, and that past is part of it; what the cherry was before the cherry is part of the cherry. […] But there’s another version of the song, with different answers – the answers to the question, what is the cherry after the cherry? […] The cherry that’s baked in a pie, for instance, has no stone. The chicken that’s stewed in a pot, it has no bone. The song says, this thing you are used to, it has a future, and the future is part of it, too. (pp. 46-7)

The gift Esther gives her love – the gift of herself – is therefore a changeable object; she was once a baby, and will one day be a cadaver. Rin, too, is changeable: they first manifest themself to Esther as a storm, then as an owl, and only on the third occasion as a being in human form, though even in that form their appearance can vary greatly. Love, then, may endure, but its endurance is premised on change, and this pair of lovers, like the sisters, are separated by time; Esther is mortal, while Rin is not; Esther’s life will come to an end, while Rin’s will run on indefinitely. Esther can also sing, while Rin, like all the inhabitants of Faerie, has no singing voice – whence their attraction to Esther’s singing. At the same time, Rin’s musicianship means they can complement Esther’s songs by playing the harp; and the constant movement of music through time provides El-Mohtar’s story with the perfect analogy for the constant movement of love between two people. Esther and Ysabel sing together even as they grow older and change their tastes, and their differences prove complementary, as the chords of Rin’s harp prove complementary to Esther’s voice. Without constant change there would be no music, and no story either, whether that story is told in verse (like a ballad) or in prose (like a novella).

A musical performance and the performance of a story are also determined by time in the sense that no two performances are identical; El-Mohtar reminds us of this as the sisters play variations on the songs they sing to the willows.[3] Pollard, by contrast, thinks the magic of the ancient willows can be reproduced – that is, copied exactly, without variation. After Esther’s murder he turns his romantic attentions to Ysabel as if she were Esther’s double, and in courting her he seeks to persuade both Ysabel and her father that the magical pair of willows on the Hawthorn lands are no different from commonplace willows of the kind that grow on his property – that they are effectively doubles of each other, indistinguishable even by the most discerning of tastes. He illustrates his point by presenting Ysabel with one of his many unsolicited gifts, ‘a beautiful lap desk […] enchanted in Exeter just for her’ (p. 88); and he proceeds to use two seemingly identical willow wands to animate a feather quill, which writes at the desk without the aid of human hands in response to the wands and a spell he speaks in Latin. One wand is made of wood from a tree near London, the other of wood from the Professors. The first produces a piece of doggerel verse full of horrible clichés, addressing Ysabel as ‘My little love, my willow’, while the second pens an urgent message to her: ‘Demand better’ (p. 89).[4] The poem penned by the wand from a commonplace tree is crudely reductive, metaphorically reducing Ysabel to a voiceless plant suitable for commercial exploitation, while the message penned by the Professors’ wand has a riddling double meaning: demand better verbal art, it implies, but also, ask better questions, or demand a morally better man, one not tainted with your sister’s blood. The timing of the message, however, is off. Ysabel responds to Pollard’s performance by running to the ancient willows and singing the secret song she composed with Esther – the song intended to reunite the sisters whenever they are separated; but nothing happens, and afterwards in disappointment she accepts Pollard’s gifts and marriage proposal numbly, demanding from him ‘nothing at all’ (p. 89). The rhythms of a well-told narrative can’t be rushed, any more than a well-sung melody can be hastened to its resolution. It is not yet time for the truth about Pollard to emerge, and time tries truth, as the old proverb tells us.

The timing of El-Mohtar’s narrative deserves attention too, for the manner in which it swerves back and forth through the history of the Hawthorn sisters, as if mimicking a river’s winding course through hilly country. The story of Esther and Ysabel is not told in chronological order, even in the first half of the novella. On p. 10, for instance, we learn that only one grammarian/magician has ever passed through Thistleford on the way to Arcadia, and that this one ‘never came out again’; it is not until the second half of the narrative that we learn more about this person. On p. 17, we’re told that ‘People sometimes fell into or out of Arcadia by accident’ and that ‘Esther and Ysabel had as children’, but again we don’t learn more until the second half of the narrative. The parts of the story told out of time, so to speak, always relate to Arcadia; for instance, we first hear about Esther’s Arcadian lover Rin on p. 11, but only hear about their first meeting ten pages later; and we only get the full details about Esther and Ysabel ‘falling into […] Arcadia […] as children’ – and meeting there the grammarian who travelled through Thistleford to Faerie – after Esther’s murder, on p. 59. Everything about Pollard, by contrast, is told in strictly chronological order, as if in conformity with his narrowly pragmatic outlook.

Image by Kathleen Neeley

The Arcadian rejection of rigid chronologies is confirmed for us at the beginning of the section in which Esther gets engaged to Rin; and it quickly emerges from this passage that we humans are already familiar with the phenomenon of temporal relativity, even before beginning to consider the customs of Faerie. ‘There are lands that are near to us geographically,’ El-Mohtar points out in the second paragraph of this section,

but far from us temporally: London is not Londinium, though it’s built from its bones. There are lands that are near to us temporally but far from us geographically: we can be certain that at this moment, in Italy, someone is sitting down to breakfast with a newspaper dated roughly the same as ours, though we cannot expect to reach them in time to join them for the meal. (p. 43)

Arcadia combines both these properties, being ‘always both at a remove and always immediate; always near to hand and very far away’ (pp. 44-5). Its inhabitants are ‘a people to whom time [is] a kind of instrument, distance a kind of music’ (p. 45), and El-Mohtar explains how this works by giving us Esther’s time-dependent riddles about the cherry and the chicken, in which the cherry is always also the blossom which gave birth to it and the pie in which it will be baked, the chicken always also the past egg from which it hatched and the future stew or broth in which it will be cooked. Relative time in Arcadia is demonstrated elsewhere by a real live chicken – the hen which the Hawthorn children accidentally chase into Arcadia, and which goes on to live a preternaturally extended life in that country, either because time works differently there or because the chicken is simply happy.[5] In the story of Esther and Ysabel’s childhood visit we learn that time works differently for children and adults: children are not encumbered by strict schedules, which means they ‘can trip in and out of all manner of places whether you’re careful or carefree’ (p. 64), so that there is little difference, for them, between the time that passes in our world and the time that passes in Arcadia. Human adults, on the other hand, are ‘differently burdened’ (p. 64), with appointments to keep and responsibilities to uphold, which means that for them a short interval spent in the place without schedules – Arcadia/Faerie – can take up much more time in their native country, where an Arcadian day may last a century or more. Once again, however, this variation in time is familiar to the reader. Everyone remembers how differently time seems to pass in childhood than in maturity. El-Mohtar, in other words, is keen to point up the differences between our familiar everyday world and the world of Faerie, but also the many ways in which both places overlap. Both children and Arcadians, for instance, find it hard to read a person’s age (p. 62), and this affinity between mortals and immortals helps to ensure that Arcadia is never othered in the novella; it is merely rendered strange, as things in our world can be rendered strange by a trick of the light or the operation of the changing seasons.

It’s to this end, I think, that El-Mohtar shows us Arcadia from the perspective of the human grammarian who settles there, a woman called Agnes, rather than from the perspective of a native Arcadian. Agnes is the person who meets the young sisters when they ‘fall into’ Arcadia, and who helps them get home safely. She is also the person who finds Esther after her murder, again in Arcadia, and shows her how to return to her family a second time. Agnes travels to Arcadia by invitation, not as a colonial explorer or would-be tradeswoman; she first set out on her journey to that country, she tells the children, at the behest of an old Arcadian mill on the Liss, which she heard in a dream ‘call[ing] out in a sorrowful voice for someone to bring work again to its empty body, to fill its hollow silences with the sound of water and wheels’ (p. 63) (the mill ran, it no longer runs, but it hopes to run again). The mill embodies the magical changes or ‘complex translations’ that take place in our world, as in Faerie (p. 69): the changes that turn wheat into bread or barley into beer.[6] It also embodies a certain economic outlook. It seeks ‘work’, as an artist or craftsperson might, to satisfy the needs of its ‘body’, and we later learn that while something must always be exchanged for the products of its labour, an empty sign like a coin will not suffice. Instead, Arcadian economics demands that one thing be exchanged for another of equal value; or to be precise, by another thing which is deemed to be of equal value at the time the exchange is made. Such exchanges take place quite frequently between our world and Arcadia, El-Mohtar suggests. For example, the children stray into Arcadia while chasing one of the Hawthorn family’s hens, and Agnes takes in the hen by its own request (‘I think she might like to keep me company a while’, p. 65) and as partial recompense for her action in showing the children how to get home. Later, Agnes sends three dozen eggs to the Hawthorn family by way of Rin, as part of the ongoing system of exchanges between the two families which her rescue of the children set in motion. A hen in exchange for the lives of two little girls is not much to ask for; so Agnes has the right to go on sending eggs to the family from the hen, and also to make requests of her own, such as that the sisters sing a new song to the ancient willows in support of what she calls her ‘research’. Exchange is as important as change in Arcadian culture, and the objects of exchange are always changing, as music changes when played at different times on different instruments or in different arrangements.

The importance of exchange in the novella is as an alternative to the power-games encouraged by capitalistic commerce. Capitalism considers everything to have a value in coin, which means that those who possess a great deal of coin have power over those who do not. The gift exchange system considers instead that everyone has the wherewithal to offer something in exchange for something given, so that even the penniless child who is lost in a foreign country has something to offer in exchange for much-needed assistance. Pollard’s commitment to capitalism is demonstrated by his plying of Esther with expensive unwanted gifts and refusing to accept anything in exchange except her hand in marriage. Each gift he presses on her brings with it an obligation to recompense the giver in the kind of coin he will accept, and it’s implied that no amount of negotiation can alter the nature of that coinage; gold is always more valuable than silver, and a compliant woman more valuable than a defiant one. In addition, the gifts of capital must always be paid for in material objects – even when these take the form of a woman, who implicitly becomes an object when dispensed like a gold or silver piece. The gift exchanges of Faerie, by contrast, are a matter of constant negotiation and renegotiation. Rin deems Esther’s songs, when they first hear them, to be a gift, which means that Rin feels obliged to Esther until such time as both can agree what Rin might offer her in exchange. The first two gifts Rin offers to Esther are unacceptable to the mortal woman, since Esther has not yet spoken to Rin and does not yet know the terms under which they are offered; but the third gift – a series of lessons in playing the harp (Rin is an accomplished harpist and Esther wants to learn) – ensures that the meetings between the two will continue for a while, by mutual consent, and so too will the artistic, emotional, and erotic exchanges between them. When the lessons come to an end, something new must be found to keep up the trade of love between them. The Arcadian gift exchange economy, then, is predicated on the ever-shifting nature of relationships and people, and assumes those people to be equal, despite all their differences – or because of them. The gifts of capitalism, on the other hand, are predicated on monetary value alone, and give an unequal share of power to those who have amassed large quantities of capital, narrowly defined. The effects of this presumption of inequality between people can be murderous.

Image by Kathleen Neeley

Pollard’s murder of Esther confirms the violence that sustains the capitalist economy. It takes place after Rin and Esther have exchanged rings in token of their love – the final stage in their series of mutual Arcadian exchanges, which culminates in an exchange of their selves, whereby Rin agrees to become part of Esther’s world by joining her family, and Esther promises to sing to them for the rest of her mortal existence (Rin, after all, is immortal, so that the time they spend with Esther will pass in the blink of an eye).[7] The exchange having been confirmed, Rin returns to Arcadia to put their affairs in order; after which Pollard emerges from the shadows, compliments Esther on her new ring, and points out that it belongs to a value system he does not acknowledge: ‘I’d have given you gold’, he tells her (p. 50). Esther rejects him one last time: ‘I don’t want you, I never wanted you, I could never want you’; the phrase conjugates her present, past and future, expunging Pollard from all three (p. 51). In exchange, Pollard proceeds to drown her in the river Liss. He does so both to banish her from his own future and because he believes she can be readily exchanged for her sister: ‘you’re not the only Hawthorn girl,’ he sneers (p. 51). For Pollard, murdering Esther is a simple solution to the economic problem he has set himself: how to join his lands with the more valuable lands of his neighbours. But for Esther, lover of riddles, a murder can never be simple. It’s a riddle (‘When is a woman not a woman? When she’s dead’, p. 78), and the best riddles have more than one answer.

The best riddles also encompass more than one problem. Esther’s courtship of Rin, and Rin’s of Esther (it’s always a two-way process driven by mutual desire) is complicated by Esther’s equal love for her sister; Esther cannot agree to live with Rin in Arcadia because that would involve the betrayal of a promise she made to Ysabel when they were children, that she would never leave her (p. 67). Rin, on the other hand, cannot easily consent to live in our world because it is too full of grief (as Yeats pointed out in his poem ‘The Stolen Child’) and of rules Rin does not understand (p. 48).[8] The negotiations about their love need to take account of both of their wishes, but also of the wishes of Esther and Ysabel. Ysabel’s grief when Esther vanishes arises from the mistaken belief that Esther has made a hard-and-fast choice to live with Rin at the expense of the promise she made to Ysabel. Such a choice is the kind Pollard might be expected to make, one-sided and non-negotiable. Hence Ysabel’s eventual resignation to the idea of marrying Pollard; she believes Esther has wholly committed herself to Arcadia, so she wholly commits herself to the culture and economics of the mortal world. But Esther’s commitment to the riddling Arcadian economics of desire and consent means she would never settle for such a singular solution to her emotional dilemma. And ironically, Pollard’s attempt to impose the capitalist solution on Esther by killing her – a solution achieved against one party’s consent, and to the profit of the other – generates a new set of problems yet more complex than the ones Esther faced before her death. Esther’s competing loves for her faerie lover and her mortal sister, reconciled by the terms of her engagement to Rin (which allowed both Esther and Rin to remain with Ysabel at Hawthorn House), are set at odds once again, and compounded by the competing rules that govern death in our world – where it is terminal – and in Arcadia – where it is not. The riddle set for Esther has been rendered more elaborate, and nothing delights Esther, even when dead, than an elaborate riddle.

The biggest riddle of all, of course, is how desire can overcome the challenge posed by violent death in the mortal world. The scholar Rosemary Jackson famously described fantasy itself as a kind of engine driven by desire, which aims to compensate for deep dissatisfaction with the world we live in by inventing impossible alternatives to it – alternatives which often involve expressing certain hidden desires, in the sense of articulating them, and also expressing those desires, in the sense of getting rid of them, pushing them away.[9] Esther’s murder, if it had come at the end of El-Mohtar’s novella, would have made it a tragedy, an expression of desire which pushes it away by erasing it. Coming in the middle as it does allows the narrative to stress the impossible desires that are triggered by a sudden, fatal act of violence, since the narrative continues after these desires have been set in motion. The first such desire is that the person who dies might continue to have desires, as those who survive her do; imagining those desires, like imagining the moment of death, is common practice among people who have lost loved ones under such circumstances, a fact that motivates many ghost stories. The second desire is that the violent act had never been committed – that the act itself should have been impossible. The third desire is to reverse the act. All these desires will seem absurd, especially to someone who does not believe in life after death, yet even non-believers may cleave to them at times of grief, if only in their dreams. In El-Mohtar’s novella, however, all three desires can be fulfilled by an artist with a way with words. And each of us can be such an artist if we are willing to adopt the riddling perspective on the world which words make available.

Image by Kathleen Neeley

As soon as Esther drowns, El-Mohtar reminds us of this riddling perspective and how it works. The section of the book immediately after the murder opens with the riddling sentence, ‘The River Liss is always changing’ (p. 55), and immediately draws attention to its doubleness; grammatically speaking, the sentence can mean either that the river is always changing itself or that it is always changing the things and people that come in contact with it. The sentence also marks a change in the narrative, in two senses: first, that the narrative itself changes form, and secondly, that a change occurs in the narrative. After Esther’s drowning, we’re told, the river changes direction, taking her body back to Arcadia, whereas Arcadia was previously the place from which it flowed. It also changes Esther, taking advantage of the fact that Rin gave her a signet ring to mark their betrothal to transform her into a cygnet – a young swan (the pun makes that form available, we’re told, p. 72). The swan, one imagines, is a mute swan, the most common kind in England, whose name implies (quite wrongly) that it is voiceless. One legend about the mute swan tells us that it can only sing when dying, and the legend, if we remember it, might give us hope that Esther will somehow retain a voice in spite of death – and perhaps be able to sing again, despite the fact that she is going to Arcadia, where all singing is eventually silenced. The river’s two changes – its change of direction and its transformation of Esther – give additional hope of these further changes to the rules that have governed the narrative so far. Its new course, along which the protagonist is carried, takes the narrative for the first time into Arcadia itself, a place that has so far been only a promise, a game, a mystery, a dream; so the narrative changes direction as the river does. As a result, the riddling rules that govern Arcadia get foregrounded, where in the first half of the novella the rules of the mortal world were foremost. In Arcadia the impossible becomes possible, lost desire can be recovered thanks to the strength of a person’s yearning, and the magic implicit in grammar – which enables a single sentence or verse to mean many things – becomes a practical proposition, a guiding principle of life and death. This is not to say that the magic of grammar is absent from the mortal world – El-Mohtar has already told us that there are grammarians in her version of that world, mostly based in schools, who use that magic in strictly regulated ways. Rather, magic is the everyday stuff of Arcadia, not limited by the rules set by academic professors but professed instead by all and sundry, even birds and mills and trees. It is woven into the fabric of that country, as it is into the fabric of the Professors, and this remakes the narrative into something more fantastic than it was before.

This change is expressed in another sentence from the section immediately after the murder: ‘The River Liss swallowed Esther like a cherry pit or a chicken bone, and poured her down its throat towards Arcadia’ (p. 55). The riddle Esther sang to Rin asked when a cherry is not a cherry, when a chicken is not a chicken, and answered by telling us that both cherry and chicken can trace their being to a time before they were either, and to a time after their cherry and chicken identity has mutated into something else: a cherry pie, a stew. Pies and stews are useful in the mortal world: they sustain its human inhabitants. Cherry pits and chicken bones are not (though one can make a healthy broth out of the bones before discarding them). So El-Mohtar’s sentence both extends Esther’s riddle, developing it in a new direction, and suggests that Arcadia is a place where things that have been ejected by the mortal world may find a home, given new life by being digested and absorbed by a healthy body – that is, by Arcadia itself. Digestion, of course, can mean understanding something and in that way making it one’s own. The second half of El-Mohtar’s narrative, then, involves a process of mentally and emotionally digesting something: that violent death can be defied, but only if one adheres to a set of rules every bit as challenging as the rule that says death puts an end to a person’s life.

In Arcadia, riddles have an urgency they do not possess in the mortal world, because inventing them can save lives and working them out can work a person out of a bind. Between them, the grammarian and naturalised Arcadian, Agnes, the native Arcadian, Rin, and the newly dead mortal, Esther – restored to her original form by Rin under Agnes’s guidance – invent a series of riddles that will enable Esther to inform her sister of her fate. The riddles will also expose Pollard as a murderer, and reunite Esther, Ysabel and Rin at the end of the second half – impossibly, wonderfully. For the series of riddles to accomplish this impossibility, Ysabel must learn to read them, and to take the actions they encourage her to take by denouncing Pollard, punishing him, and making her way into Arcadia, which is now the only place where her sister can live on in human form. I don’t want to go into detail here about how this impossibility is accomplished; what matters here is that El-Mohtar’s Arcadia makes it possible. The old adage says that death can be found in Arcadia, too (et in Arcadia ego), but El-Mohtar insists that death there can be made into life, and that the way to accomplish this is to understand or digest the infinite possibilities made available by language or grammar – to understand them and to act on them. And this brings us to perhaps the strangest moment in the novella: the Acknowledgments which serve as its epilogue.

Image by Kathleen Neeley

Everything else in El-Mohtar’s novella can be described as in some way familiar, despite its strangeness (and ‘familiar’ holds connotations of ‘family’, which makes this familiarity appropriate in a book devoted to the love between sisters). The novella plays variations on multitudes of pre-existing narratives, just as a piece of music must necessarily play both deliberate and accidental variations on pre-existing pieces of music, making something new and beautiful out of them. El-Mohtar mentions one of these narratives in her Acknowledgements: Hope Mirrlees’s funny, haunting, melancholic fairy novel Lud-in-the-Mist (1926), in which a river has its source in Fairyland and carries the influence of the fairies into the world of mortals, spawning an ungovernable outbreak of art, music and dancing among its staidest inhabitants. Lud-in-the-Mist is partly inspired by Christina Rossetti’s great ballad Goblin Market (1862), in which one sister rescues another from the titular goblins by finding a way to circumvent the rules that govern trade between humans and fairies; the same could be said of The River Has Roots, whose plot revolves around the love between sisters. The Border ballad Tam Lin is another influence on the novella; in order to restore Esther to human form, Rin is forced to cling to her as she changes shape, just as Janet in the ballad must cling to her lover Tam Lin as he undergoes many terrifying transformations before she can rescue him from the clutches of the fairies. Another Border ballad, Childe Owlet, is both referenced in the text (p. 22) and invoked by Pollard’s murder of Esther when she rejects him (Childe Owlet is similarly murdered by the woman he spurns). A third ballad, The Bonny Swans by the Canadian singer-songwriter Loreena McKennitt, has been acknowledged by El-Mohtar as a major source, although it tells of an elder sister who murders her younger sibling out of jealousy; El-Mohtar has changed the narrative to reflect her own love for her younger sister. There are echoes in the novella, too, of Lord Dunsany’s foundational fantasy The King of Elfland’s Daughter (1924), both in the fact that the borders of El-Mohtar’s Faerie are always changing – as they do in Dunsany’s novel – and in the phrase ‘the lands we know’ (p. 43), which recalls the famous phrase ‘beyond the fields we know’ that appears more than a hundred times in that narrative. Elsewhere, El-Mohtar modifies the phrase; near the beginning of the novella she refers instead to ‘the lands we think we know’ (p. 1, my emphasis), suffusing the everyday with the epistemological uncertainty which is the stuff of Faerie. One last literary reference is made with appropriate lightness by El-Mohtar’s Faerie character, Rin. When Rin tells their lover Esther ‘I’ve travelled light, I’ve travelled dark, and I’m still on my way’ (p. 34), they invoke Naomi Mitchison’s great fairy tale Travel Light (1952), about which El-Mohtar has composed an influential online essay.[10] Mitchison’s book is written from an international perspective with a powerful female enchanter as its protagonist, and in her essay El-Mohtar wonders what would have happened if she had encountered such a book at the age of seven, instead of another book that shaped her love of literature, Tolkien’s The Hobbit (1937). With the exception of McKennitt’s ballad, all the literary allusions listed here come from the Western Archipelago made up of England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland, and El-Mohtar’s three English degrees, her delight in Mitchison and her abiding love of The Hobbit establish her as thoroughly rooted in the traditions of reimagining or re-enchanting the archipelagic landscape within which she sets her own novella.[11]

But El-Mohtar is Lebanese-Canadian, and her essay on Travel Light begins by invoking her first reading of The Hobbit at the age of seven ‘in a flat overlooking Hamra street in Ras Beirut’. The River Has Roots is set in an alternative England, but it is everywhere haunted by El-Mohtar’s Lebanese heritage, which peeps out of the text at unexpected moments, some of which can be recognised by the reader, others of which are autobiographical and must therefore be glossed by El-Mohtar herself. One such autobiographical detail is the chicken chased by Esther and Ysabel as children into Arcadia. As the Acknowledgements explain:

When I was seven and my sister was five, we were living in Lebanon, and our mother took us to visit friends in a village called Kfarmishki. We chased a chicken past the boundaries of our friends’ neighbours’ yard, and soon found ourselves lost; a village is a small place, but we were smaller, and we’d never been there before. All of a sudden nothing looked familiar, and we had no idea how to get back to the lands and people we knew. (p. 132)

This reminiscence, which briefly aligns Esther and Ysabel with Amal and her younger sister Dounya (who shares the book’s dedication), suddenly launches the writer into thoughts of Lebanon and ‘the children there now; the children murdered, displaced, orphaned, trapped’ (p. 132). Those children might have been El-Mohtar herself, or her parents, or her grandparents, she tells us, since ‘every generation of my family has been shaped or defined by imperial war’ (p. 133). In Lebanon, time can repeat itself on a loop as suffering inflicts itself on successive generations, with few hints of resolution; time, then, works differently there, as it does in Faerie. It has also been claimed in ‘Right-wing talk’ that Lebanon isn’t a country at all, just as ‘there is no such thing as a Palestinian’, so that the millions of people in the region who have been slaughtered and displaced do not really exist – much like the fairies. Further parallels emerge on a rereading of the novella. Arcadia is at one point compared to the Levant, the area in which Lebanon and Palestine are located, as being a place to which one can travel, though not ‘regularly, reliably or particularly safely’ (p. 44). Immediately afterwards comes the paragraph in which El-Mohtar reminds us that some countries seem to be for ever distant from others, either because of the passage of time (which separates London from Londinium) or because of geography (which separates England from Italy). The Levant might be one of these, since it’s a term that predates the countries of which it is now composed (indeed, it’s identified as ‘archaic’ in certain dictionaries, just as Faerie is sometimes known as ‘Antiquity’, p. 5), and many of those who talk about it have never set foot inside its boundaries. Palestine might be another, since a land called Palestine once existed, may exist in the future, but does not exist in the present (Arcadia too is ‘always in the past, or always in the future’, p. 47). Boundaries themselves are problematic in the Levant; the border between Lebanon and Israel, for instance, has long been contested, while Palestine, in the minds of many, doesn’t have borders at all. Faerie shares, then, its fluctuating borders with Lebanon and Palestine, though Faerie’s borders seem to change of their own volition, in response to the land’s changing moods or climate, while Lebanon’s and Palestine’s have been a source of constant strife with neighbouring countries and populations.

Another reference to El-Mohtar’s Lebanese identity peeps out in the song sung by the sisters to the Professors at the change of every season. The lyrics of the ‘Professors’ Hymn’ are in a language the sisters do not speak: ‘they could not say what language it was, only that the shape of the words fit so differently into their mouths that they felt their voices shift in deference to it’ (p. 9). But a visiting woodworker from the Levant tells their mother that it sounds like Arabic, though ‘a dialect she’d never heard’, and goes on to explain its meaning: ‘it was […] a song about the North Wind opening doors and carrying messages to and from a beloved in exile’. The lyrics, then, invoke the problem of sustaining love in the face of separation and distance, the problem Esther must address when she is violently separated from her sister and robbed of a voice capable of denouncing her murderer. Art, it seems, finds a way to speak across time and space, conveying the deepest of emotions to those who need to hear them articulated, and Esther owes her awareness of this fact to the only song she knows in the Arabic language.

In fact, the Professor’s Hymn and its Arabic origins are woven into El-Mohtar’s narrative throughout its length. At a promotional event in Glasgow, El-Mohtar explained that the ‘nonsense la words’ in the long refrain of the Professors’ Hymn invoke a kind of song – the mlolah – that used to be sung by women during the British Mandate in Palestine, as a means  of conveying subversive messages in code to relations or lovers involved in the resistance movement.[12] On the audiobook of The River Has Roots, El-Mohtar and her sister sing a mlolah called Tarweedeh Shmaali – the Lovers’ Hymn – as a stand-in for the Professors’ Hymn, thereby rooting the Hawthorn family’s musical tradition in the turbulent history of El-Mohtar’s own family (the music has Levantine roots, in other words, as well as the river). In the novella, Ysabel and Esther compose a similarly coded song in the form of a riddle ballad as a means of communicating with one another in time of need. On returning from the dead in the shape of a magic singing harp – the only shape in which she can communicate with mortal listeners – Esther uses this riddle ballad to identify that harp as Ysabel’s sister, thereby giving credence to its earlier account of her murder, which it sang as a murder ballad. The riddle ballad, then, serves as a kind of signature validating the murder ballad; and in confirming Esther’s identity it succeeds in overthrowing Pollard’s assertion, as a wealthy and respected male member of the local community, that the account of the murder was a lie put about by the nefarious foreigner, Rin. In response, the assembled listeners assent to Pollard’s punishment as proposed by Ysabel: to be transformed through the grammar of the Liss into a willow tree, whose branches bleed whenever they’re cut. By this means, the Professors whose love was honoured by the sisters in song are joined on the banks of the Liss by a murderer whose crime was exposed by those same sisters in song. There could hardly be a more convincing affirmation that one willow is not the same as another, or a more satisfying reversal of the usual process whereby women are silenced and spoken for by powerful, articulate men.

This is, of course, wishful thinking, that is, a fairy tale or fantasy – terms that have often been used with a sneer. So too is the link between Palestine or Lebanon, as countries that have been said not to exist, and Faerie or Arcadia, imagined places that lead a charmed existence blissfully untroubled by the sorts of politics that deny a country’s existence. This is not quite true, of course – the pastoral has been used as a vehicle for political satire by writers from Virgil to Sir Philip Sidney, and the politics and economics of fairyland have been carefully detailed in old folklore, as Mirrlees reminds us in Lud-in-the-Mist. But the fact remains that both genres are often deemed to be the lightest of light reading, and that the genre in which El-Mohtar is writing – fantasy fiction – is frequently dismissed as childish fare, like The Hobbit or Travel Light. Texts of this kind are invisible to professedly ‘serious’ readers, just as the fairies are invisible to ordinary mortals except on the rare occasions when they choose to show themselves.

Invisibility itself is, of course, political. In Ibtisam Azem’s 2014 novel The Book of Disappearance, translated into English by Sinan Atoon in 2019, all the Palestinian Arabs in Israel spontaneously vanish, without warning and without explanation.[13] The episode seems to wipe out at one blow all the problems associated with Palestine, from the question of the two-state solution to the necessity of justifying the occupation of Palestinian land by Israeli settlers. But Palestinian voices continue to haunt the world after the disappearance, whispering from the corners of rooms, the shadows in the streets and the pages of books about the Palestinian past and the possibility of a Palestinian future, should the Palestinians reappear as suddenly as they vanished. Palestine, the novel suggests, does not exist in the present, but only in the past and perhaps the future; yet this means it exists in the present, too, since memory and hope are finally ineradicable. As I mentioned earlier, El-Mohtar’s Arcadia is said to exist only in the past and in the future, never in the present, like ‘a country in surrender’ whose inhabitants dream of self-determination (p. 47). These dreams preserve their country from obliteration, as Rin points out to Esther; ‘that is how it defends itself’, they gently suggest. Time treated lightly, as Arcadia treats it – not as a set of rules but as endlessly malleable raw material, like the tune of a traditional song – resists the tyranny of changeless, monotonous repetition. Travelling lightly, remembering the past but unencumbered by it, is itself a form of self-determination, whether or not one finds a permanent fixed location to end one’s travels in.

El-Mohtar’s novella does enter Arcadia, but only after Esther’s violent death, and then only briefly. Once there, we see only one location: Agnes’s mill, where she lives with her daughter Rowan and a long-lived hen. It’s at the mill that the narrative ends, with Esther and Rin preparing to share a meal with Agnes and Rowan, only to be interrupted by the sudden, triumphant arrival of Ysabel, carrying a child on her shoulders. Ysabel has found her way to Esther – just as Esther found her way to Ysabel – in fulfilment of a promise: at the beginning of the novella, when Esther swore she would never leave her sister, Ysabel swore in her turn that if Esther ever migrated to Arcadia she would come and visit her every two weeks to remind her of the words to the ballad Tam Lin. In El-Mohtar’s world a promise is binding, and these promises fulfil themselves in a place where women, children and nonbinary lovers can live in peace, untroubled by politics, economics, or violence, though by no means ignorant of them.

It’s a fairy tale ending, of course – an impossible dream; but it pays homage, I think, to the Arcadias found by exiles in unexpected places. At the Glasgow event, El-Mohtar suggested that the town of Thistleford in The River Has Roots was partly modelled on Chagford in Devon. Chagford is an English village where an artistic community has long established itself, a community dedicated to multiple arts (music, painting, performance, crafts, and literature), like El-Mohtar’s novella, and to the study of folklore in the context of radical politics. For those who live outside Chagford it exists in the mind as a kind of Arcadia, a haven, a dreamland; but it does exist, and creative people have gathered there to work, discuss, and sustain each other, El-Mohtar sometimes among them. It’s with Chagford in mind that I suggested that the orientation of the novel lies on the East-West axis, with Arcadia coming and going on nearby Dartmoor, whose ‘granite outcroppings’ litter the Modal Lands between the gates of Faerie and the entrance to mortal lands marked by the Professors (p. 21). Chagford and Dartmoor lie in the West Country of England, about as far from West Asia as Londinium is from London; but both can prove welcoming to strangers, like the ancient willows whose shape can be read by any traveller with seeing eyes. One such stranger is the American writer-artist Terri Windling, who lives and works in Chagford. Another is the American writer-performer Ellen Kushner, a frequent visitor to Terri’s house, whose novel Thomas the Rhymer (1990) represents Faerie as a land full of riddles and besotted with music, especially ballads. Kushner’s Faerie has in it a seeming bird which is in fact a murdered lover, who must find a way to communicate the manner of his death to his living sweetheart; he does so through a murder ballad, just as Esther does. Kushner’s bird is male, while El-Mohtar’s metamorphosed swan is female; as with all the stories she invokes, El-Mohtar subjects Kushner’s fairy tale to a transformation; but the roots of her novella can be traced to their sources by those who know them, just as the landscape of her alternative England can be traced to that of Devon.

El-Mohtar’s Arcadia is coded as English or Celtic, with its lichen-draped Tolkienian woods and its water mill, which recalls the mill in McKennitt’s ballad The Bonny Swans. The mill would seem to be the polar opposite of ruined Gaza at the time of writing. In it, women and nonbinary people can safely gather whenever they please, to talk about whatever they like. They have plenty of food to eat, and find themselves in a workplace dedicated to labour which is pleasant as well as necessary, labour of the mind as well as the body (Agnes is a researcher as well as a miller, a grammarian as well as a tradeswoman). They can make music there; with Ysabel’s help, they can remember how to sing. Young people such as Agnes’ daughter Rowan and Ysabel’s unnamed child have a future in which they can play and grow in peace, far from the threat of violence. Is it frivolous to bring such a utopian dream-setting into dialogue with the real-life setting of atrocities too frightful to imagine, many of them perpetrated against children? Is it irresponsible to conjure up a story that combines elements of archipelagic culture with a culture that has suffered so much at the hands of British and other imperialisms?

In the novella, the scene at the mill can be read as an act of wish-fulfilment, achieved in defiance of all the laws of reason and physics. To create it, El-Mohtar has a river reverse its course. More radically still, she brings a young woman back from the dead to tell her own story. The narrative, in other words, accommodates the desires invoked by the Professors, whose twisted shapes remind you of ‘something, or someone, you’ve lost – something, or someone, you would break the world to have again’ (p. 3). Fantastic fiction allows us to break the world and remake it in the shape of our desires and dreams. In the process it enriches those desires and dreams, giving them a kind of substance, allowing us to imagine that they might become embodied in some way we could never have envisaged without its help, and by that means bringing them closer to embodiment. Creating a safe and prosperous Palestine requires that the world be broken apart and reassembled in a better shape. With her book, which breaks apart so many narratives and reconstructs them in the form of a small utopia, El-Mohtar offers us a glimpse of what such a world might look like.

NOTES

[1] All references are to Amal El-Mohtar, The River Has Roots (London: Arcadia, 2025).

[2] Running, of course, does not always have positive connotations. El-Mohtar’s novella is as concerned with the tendency of violence and misogyny to rear their heads in successive eras as it is with the irrepressible nature of resistance. ‘She runs, she ran, she will run again’ could as easily refer to running in fear as running for the sheer joy of it.

[3] ‘As Esther and Ysabel grew, as singing became their favourite pastime, they began to play with adding new material to their repertoire’ (p. 9).

[4] The same phrase is used earlier by Esther to describe Pollard, urging Ysabel to ‘demand better’ than this ‘crumb’ (p. 32).

[5] ‘I don’t think it’s grammar,’ Rin says of the chicken’s longevity, ‘I think she’s just happy there’ (p. 34).

[6] Pollard’s resistance to understanding the world in terms of these transformations is signalled by Esther’s comparison of him to a ‘crumb’ (p. 32): what is left over after the bread has undergone all the rest of its changes, without enough substance to satisfy the needs of the bread’s makers.

[7] In addition, the rings are literally made from parts of themselves, having been crafted by Rin from strands of the lovers’ hair.

[8] The refrain of the poem goes:

Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

[9] See Rosemary Jackson, Fantasy: The Literature of Subversion (London and New York: Routledge, f.p. 1981, reprinted 2003), pp. 3-4.

[10] ‘Crossroads and Coins: Naomi Mitchison’s Travel Light’, NPR, January 1, 2014.

[11] El-Mohtar’s delight in riddles perhaps reflects her love of The Hobbit, which famously contains a chapter called ‘Riddles in the Dark’. As I wrote this essay I kept thinking of Adam Roberts’s fine discussion of Tolkien’s work, The Riddles of The Hobbit (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), which identifies fantasy in general, not just the histories of Arda, as a genre obsessed with riddling.

[12] See Christina Hazboun, ‘Don’t Leave: Reviving the folk songs of Palestinian Women’, Middle East Eye, 21 December, 2021.

[13] My edition was published in 2024 by And Other Stories.

The Fantastical World of Mervyn Peake: Islands and Seas

[This is the text of the talk I gave at the British Library on 24 February 2024. The talk was designed to accompany a mini-exhibition of the same title, itself designed to supplement the major exhibition Fantasy: Realms of Imagination which came to a close that same weekend.

This explains why the post is so image-rich; I couldn’t make my case without the use of multiple pictures. Some of the images aren’t too good, since the recent cyber-assault on the British Library website meant they couldn’t send me files containing the images I needed. As a result I had to use photos from books I owned, and in two embarrassing cases, photos taken in the mini-exhibition itself. Please forgive the results!]

Cover of first edition of Treasure Island illustrated by Peake.

The writer-artist Mervyn Peake had a lifelong obsession with islands; G. Peter Winnington’s seminal monograph on Peake, The Voice of the Heart, includes a whole chapter about them.[1] Peake’s favourite book as a boy was Treasure Island (1883), and the place he kept returning to throughout his life was the Island of Sark, a one-time nest of pirates off the coast of Normandy. He first lived on Sark as a member of an artists’ commune in the 1930s, went back to live there with his family between 1946 and 1949, and visited several times in the 1950s.[2] Mervyn Peake’s most famous literary creation, Gormenghast Castle, is a building so vast that nobody can ever know it in its entirety; it’s landlocked, but Peake keeps comparing it to an island, cut off from history by its resistance to change, cut off from the outside world by its steadfast refusal to recognize that world’s existence. In the second of his three great Titus novels, Gormenghast (1950), it even becomes an actual island after a flood. His other works are filled with islands of one sort or another: from the pink island to which the pirate Captain Slaughterboard retreats with the love of his life, the Yellow Creature, in Captain Slaughterboard Drops Anchor (1939), to a floating lump of ice the size of Kent on which a nameless explorer and his companion, a ‘turtle-dog’ named Jackson, find themselves stranded in Letters from a Lost Uncle in Polar Regions (1948); from the many strange and colourful islands Peake painted in the illustrations to his book of nonsense poetry, Rhymes Without Reason (1944), to the boat fraught with all the animals and people in the world in his play of the 1950s, Noah’s Ark. In this talk I’d like to suggest that his love of islands, and of the strange seas in which his islands are located, tells us something important about his love affair with Fantasy. In a number of ways, I think, both Mervyn Peake and many other people of his time were islanded – a word Peake used in his poetry; and their islanding found its most potent expression in the impossible worlds they conjured up, many of which feature in the Peake mini-Exhibition in this building.

Kuling, early 20th century

Peake was born in 1911, in a resort for missionaries called Kuling (now Guling) in Jiangxi Province, eastern China. He lived the first eleven years of his life in Tientsin, now Tianjin, in northern China, where his father, a missionary doctor, ran the MacKenzie Memorial Hospital.[3] In this port city the Treaty of Tientsin was signed in 1858, at the end of the Second Opium War, a conflict started by the British and French; the treaty opened several new Chinese ports to foreign trade, permitted Christian missionary work in China – of the kind Peake’s parents practised – and legalized the importing of Opium, which gave the British a crucial advantage in the Chinese market by literally addicting Chinese people to the products of the British Empire. The Peake family was effectively islanded in Tientsin, since they lived inside the hospital complex, a rectangular chunk of late Victorian Britain segregated from China by a protective wall. Peake’s Tientsin childhood was islanded from the rest of his life by what he calls a ‘misty sea of time’, so that he later felt ‘severed’ from it, since ‘the pictures in my mind seem not to be part of me, but are like some half-forgotten story in a book’, containing adventures that happened to an entirely different child.[4] Having spent several years of my childhood in Singapore I know what he means; the images I have of that part of my life are remarkably vivid and resonant, but stand out from the rest of my memories precisely because they have so little in common with anything that happened after I came to live in Britain. Peake coming to Britain from China at the age of eleven, in 1922, may have felt profoundly islanded from the bulk of the British population who had not been through these experiences – though he went to a boarding school full of similarly islanded children, Eltham College, which catered for the sons of missionaries like himself.

Peake, The Ancient Mariner

The book-like quality of Mervyn’s memories of China helps explain, I think, his willingness to turn to illustrating books in the Second World War – something that happened, he claimed, because he couldn’t get hold of paint after he had been drafted into the army. Many of the books he illustrated feature protagonists severed from the world they know: from the Baker, the Banker and the Billiard-player in Lewis Carroll’s poem The Hunting of the Snark (1941) to Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner (1943), adrift in a ship full of corpses; from Carroll’s Alice books (1946) to Johann Wyss’s The Swiss Family Robinson (1949), where an entire middle-class family finds itself stranded on an impossible island crammed full of beasts from all five continents.[5] Immersion in books like these tends to isolate the reader, especially the child who is capable of cutting themselves off from the world for as long as a story lasts. Peake describes this childhood reading experience with amazing intensity in a poem he wrote in 1942, when a nervous breakdown led to him being hospitalized in Southport. Patients at the hospital were distinguished from the general population by the distinctive sky-blue suits in which they were dressed. Here’s how he sums up his state of mind at this difficult time of personal isolation in the middle of the Second World War:

Blue as the indigo and fabulous storm
Of a picture book long lost where islands burst
Out of the page, exploding palm on palm,
Are we, whom the authorities have dressed.
For we are bluer than the fabulous waters
That lap the inner skull-walls of a boy
So that his head is filled with brimming summer’s
Dazzling rollers which make dull the day
Surrounding him, like an un-focused twilight,
Such waters as uplift a rippling acre
Of naked jelly through the sunfire drifting
With at its centre a vermilion ember
Across whose fire the transparent eyelids rove
O fiercer than the azure lights that flare
At the lit core of fantasy.[6]

I love Peake’s comparison of the boy’s mind while reading to the mind of a swimmer caught in tropical breakers, his eyes squeezed shut against the salt water but still able to see the sun shining through the ‘naked jelly’ of the waves as a ‘vermilion ember’, reddened by the veins in his eyelids. The eyelids themselves are rendered ‘transparent’ by sunlight, and move or ‘rove’ in response to the movements of the eyeballs behind them. That’s a glorious image for the sensation of reading or remembering particularly vivid picture books, which spark an inner light that makes ordinary daylight into ‘an un-focused twilight’. That inner light, Peake tells us, is ‘fiercer than the azure lights that flare / At the lit core of fantasy’; fiercer, perhaps, because the images in illustrated stories are more focused than those conjured up by the unaided imagination. Peake’s retreat from the humiliating experience of being in Southport Hospital, and of leaving the hospital building to be paraded along the esplanade in a bright blue suit with an orange tie, was to retreat to this realm of exploding islands where his imagination could have free play, like the swimmer no longer constrained by the law of gravity. In fact he retreated to his own picture book quite literally in Southport. As therapy for his breakdown, the staff there encouraged him to write the later chapters of his first novel about Gormenghast Castle, Titus Groan (1946). Part of the process of composition involved drawing pictures of the major characters, some of which you can see in the Fantasy Exhibition next door.

Peake, illustration from The Swiss Family Robinson (c. 1949)

The final picture in the Peake mini-Exhibition, showing a boy from the Swiss Family Robinson lassoing a turtle from a raft amidst the foaming tropical seas (c. 1949), perfectly complements this account of the boy whose mind is shaped for the life of an island castaway by vivid pictures in books. It bursts with youthful energy, straining to escape the page’s rectangle. Notice how the curves of the turtle’s head and shell are echoed by the curves of the barrels and sail on the raft, how the raft and its users have been tilted to one side by the waves and the straining turtle, how the waves themselves are exploding into lacy shawls of foam while the boy who holds the rope hauls with all his might against the turtle’s direction of travel. The picture is dominated by the diagonal line of the taut rope that slashes across the middle and the two tilted right angles it strains between, the hard right angle of the mast and the soft right angle formed by the turtle’s neck; the hardness on the one side and the softness on the other show clearly who is going to win this tug of war. The brilliance of the tropical sunshine is conveyed by the shadows that conceal the boy’s eyes, the shadows on the upper rims of the barrels on the raft, the shadows on the underside of the turtle’s neck and flipper. Peake’s art was shaped by the work of an artist who specialised in illustrating action scenes like these in books for boys, Stanley L. Wood, and in early days he signed his pictures Mervyn L. Peake as if in homage to his idol.[7] Another favourite book of his, Under the Serpent’s Fang (1922-3) by J. Claverdon Wood – about pirates on the island of New Guinea – was illustrated by Stanley Wood, and Peake pays homage to Wood’s strenuously energetic pictures for the novel in a talk he gave on book illustration in the 1940s. This picture strikes me as one of Peake’s most Wood-like images.

Stanley L. Wood, Frontispiece to Under the Serpent’s Fang (1922-3)

Peake’s islanding, as I’ve described it, was not exclusive to himself. Throughout his life he gravitated to other people who had been islanded in one way or another. The Irish nationalist writer James Stephens, author of the Fantasy classic The Crock of Gold (1916), who emigrated to England after Irish independence because he was disappointed by the kind of country Ireland had become. Gordon Smith, Peake’s best friend, whose childhood had also been spent in northern China. The avant garde sculptor Jacob Epstein, an American Jew who suffered from British conservatism and antisemitism and whose work Peake defended in a poem.[8] The Eltham schoolmaster Eric Drake who founded the Sark Group of Artists in the 1930s, and who was another child of Chinese missionaries. The writer Maurice Collis, another Irishman, who found himself at odds with the British imperial project he was expected to uphold as a civil servant in Burma, and whose version of the Ramayana, The Quest for Sita, Peake illustrated in 1949;[9] and many more. Maeve Gilmore, Peake’s artist wife, was herself islanded, first by her strict Catholic upbringing, then by the many pressures on her as a woman artist and a mother of two in wartime, whose husband was first drafted into the army then invalided out of it. Peake describes Gilmore’s particular kind of islanding in one of his poems:

Always you are remote and islanded
In silences that so belie the ardent
Torrents that course beneath your gentle clay[.][10]

Only recently have the ‘ardent / Torrents’ of Gilmore’s creativity been heard and seen as they deserve to be, thanks to a major exhibition of her work at the Voltaire Gallery in 2022.

Peake, ‘Floating Islands on the Waves’ (c. 1928)

Countries, too, were in some sense islanded in Peake’s lifetime by seismic events that severed them from the past. China was severed from its long imperial history by the revolution of 1911, the year of Peake’s birth, which established the Chinese Republic. Britain was severed from its own imperial past by the trauma of the First World War, which lent urgency to the radical questioning of imperialist values that found expression in artistic movements between the wars, Surrealism, Vorticism, Cubism and the rest. Starting with Ireland, Maeve Gilmore’s father’s birthplace, the British dominions were breaking away like floes breaking off a Polar ice cap. The sense of having been cut off by these seismic breakages from the colonial past – like Arctic explorers stranded on one of those ice floes – is what gave rise, I think, to the genre of fantasy as it developed between the wars. The first picture in the mini-exhibition (c. 1928), which shows floating islands precariously balanced on heaving waves, encapsulates the experience of having been uprooted and come adrift which many people shared in the 20s and 30s. It invokes, as the notes suggest, Hokusai’s famous print ‘The Great Wave off Kanagawa’ (1831);[11] but Hokusai’s picture is stabilized by the presence of Mount Fuji in the background. Peake’s seascape is all upheaval and turbulence, with no stable land in view; though its cartoonishness, the pastoral calmness of the floating islands and the single drop dripping off the crest of the biggest wave suggest that the young artist was untroubled, as yet, by the turbulent world he had inherited. There’s no indication that his islands have been colonised or subjected to missionary activity, and this may explain their pastoral appearance. The imagination could invent countries where the toxic inheritance of imperialism could be offloaded onto goblins or dragons, as it is in Tolkien’s The Hobbit (1937), which takes place in a world that’s fallen to pieces after some bygone quasi-mythical age of unity and prosperity, leaving a trail of islanded settlements in its wake.

Hokusai, ‘The Great Wave off Kanagawa’ (1831)

Peake’s own imagination inclined to piracy. Pirates can be seen as enemies of imperialism, though they can of course also serve as its parasites and stooges. They have a contempt for human laws, national and international, and a well-earned reputation for random acts of violence; but they’ve also been linked to anarchism, the political movement that rejects authority of all kinds. The seventeenth-century pirate Roberts drew up a celebrated set of egalitarian laws to be observed on the ships he commanded, while the most famous example of pirate anarchism on land is Libertalia, a democratic pirate republic set up on the Island of Madagascar by a Frenchman, Captain James Misson, in defiance of the Empires that were carving up the world between them at the time. The story of Captain Roberts is told in The General History of the Pyrates (1724) by Captain Charles Johnson, thought by some to be a pseudonym for Daniel Defoe; Johnson’s account of Libertalia comes in the second volume (1725). Peake may well have known the General History, which is a source for his favourite novel, Treasure Island, and his interest in Madagascar may also have been piqued by the fact that his grandparents and uncle were missionaries there – that it was in some sense the ‘family island’.[12] In fact Peake uses Madagascar as a metaphor for the process of making a family, in a poem he wrote after the birth of his first child, Sebastian, in January 1940. Addressed to Maeve, the poem represents birth as a process of islanding for everyone who experiences it:

Grottoed beneath your ribs no longer, he,
Like madagascar broken from its mother,
Must feel the tides divide an africa
Of love from his clay island, that the sighs
Of the seas encircle with chill ancientry;
And though your ruthful breast allays his cries,
How vulnerable
He is when you release him, and how terrible
Is that wild strait which separates your bodies.[13]

By this point in Peake’s life, after the outbreak of the Second World War and having been called up for military service – he was awaiting mobilization as he wrote – the sea surrounding each human island has mutated into something much more ‘terrible’ than the comic-book waves of the first picture we looked at. And the island metaphor he chooses for his son – that of Madagascar – is associated with the precariousness of piracy as well as its anti-authoritarian credentials. Captain Misson’s pirate republic, Libertalia, is said to have been destroyed in an attack by Malagasy warriors; Misson himself drowned at sea a short time after. Captain Roberts was killed in a skirmish when struck in the throat by grapeshot. Piracy for Peake, as for many others, always had two aspects, the spirit of freedom, adventure, egalitarianism and loyalty on the one hand, the spirit of violence, random cruelty, treachery and imminent sudden death on the other. The strain between these two aspects of piracy is key to the power of Peake’s fantastic imagination, which rejects simplistic dualisms of good and evil while retaining a deep consciousness (as the son of a missionary must) that these dualisms govern many understandings of the way things work – including, at times, his own. Peake repeatedly represents himself as an uneasy double figure, made up of a ‘rebeller’ and a ‘conceder’, as he puts it in his wartime poem ‘They Move With Me, My War-Ghosts’ (1941) – a conceder being someone who concedes to or is complicit with the horrors being perpetrated in Europe.[14] He embodies these two aspects of himself in the figures of a cold angel and a fiery, sensuous centaur or devil – though these figures don’t neatly align with the notions of rebelling and conceding, or bad and good. He locates this ‘double cargo’, as he puts it, in a ship,

[…] half love,
And half, that rides
The self-same sea-groove with wild laugh
Across these fickle, these infested tides.[15]

That the ship is a pirate ship seems likely enough, given that it’s invoked by a writer-artist who dressed as a buccaneer in the 1930s (complete with earring) and whose obsession with pirates is still startlingly present in his late novels Mr Pye (1953), about an eccentric missionary on Sark who takes to wearing a piratical bandanna to conceal a pair of growing horns,[16] and Titus Alone (1959), in which the self-exiled Earl of Gormenghast becomes the unofficial leader of a loosely-knit anarchist rising against the authorities of a nameless state, seconded by a man called Muzzlehatch with a rudder nose and a one-time sailor called Anchor, both of whom have a pirate’s hatred for the law and its instruments.

Mervyn Peake, illustration for Treasure Island (1949)

The dual nature of pirates, as deeply attractive emblems of adventure and resistance and as murderous salt-water thieves, was visible everywhere in the pirate books being published in the first half of the twentieth century, from William Hope Hodgson’s The Ghost Pirates (1909) to John Masefield’s Lost Endeavour (1910), J M Barrie’s Peter and Wendy (2011), Under the Serpent’s Fang (1923), Gerald Bullett’s The Spanish Caravel (1927), Richard Hughes’s A High Wind in Jamaica (1929), Arthur Ransome’s Peter Duck and Missee Lee (1932 and 1941), Daphne du Maurier’s Frenchman’s Creek (1941) and Eric Linklater’s The Pirates in the Deep Green Sea (1949). These divide themselves broadly into texts that favour the pleasures and perils of piracy and texts that celebrate the victories of agents of the imperial law against piratical opponents. Often the same book does both. Treasure Island, for instance – the granddaddy of them all, along with R M Ballantyne’s The Coral Island (1857) – adopts the point of view of the order-loving upper and middle classes, embodied by the shipowner Squire Trelawney, the physician Dr Livesey, and the cabin-boy Jim Hawkins, a family friend of the Doctor’s. Trelawney and Livesey regard their quest for buried treasure as wholly legitimate, since any profits will go to themselves, members of the ruling elite. But Stevenson also represents their class enemy and rival in the treasure hunt, the sea-cook and pirate Long John Silver, as a deeply charming man, capable of drawing middle-class medics and upper-class shipowners into the web of his geniality as easily as he seduces his working-class shipmates into mutiny against them. To the Squire and the Doctor, Silver poses as a loyal member of the servant classes, well content with his station; to his fellow pirates he is a cunning, ruthless killer; but to everyone he is admirable, including the reader, who delights in his capacity to switch sides and personalities whenever it suits him. Even his willingness to murder people who resist his advances offers evidence of his astonishing energy, versatility and poise. When Silver kills the sailor Tom for refusing to join his mutiny he first seeks to sweet-talk him with honeyed words, then suddenly leaps away ‘with the speed and security of a trained gymnast’ and hurls his crutch to knock Tom down, charging after it ‘agile as a monkey, even without leg or crutch’ to bury his knife ‘up to the hilt in that defenceless body’.[17] Peake’s full-length picture of him in the mini-Exhibition (from 1947-1949) wonderfully invokes his seductiveness. He’s got a beautiful face, with heavy lids, prominent eyelashes and a fine head of curly hair, and he peers sideways out of the picture with a smile, suggesting his capacity to extend his influence well beyond his physical proximity. His powerful body is visible through his clothes, and there’s a general sense that he’s disorienting, conveyed both by the way his body tilts in two directions as he leans on his crutch (his leg, left arm and head tilt in one direction, his torso and right arm tilt in another), and by the shading in the background, whose lines begin to curve sideways as they rise from ground level, passing from the horizontal through an area of cross-hatching until they’re diagonal to the rectangular frame of the picture at the level of Silver’s head, so that everything seems in motion and off-balance.

Silver’s politics are interesting, too; it would be easy to see them as rooted in the Enlightenment ideal of rational democracy, as against the feudalism of the Squire. Silver abides by the Roberts code of piracy, being elected captain by his messmates, giving them the vote on key decisions, and assuring them that all will have an equal share in the buried treasure. The name he and his pirates give themselves – gentlemen of fortune – makes them equals, unlike the Squire and Doctor, who embrace the class distinction between themselves as gentry and the commoners who work for them. No wonder the hero of the book, Jim Hawkins, seems to fall in love with Silver, like Peake in his boyhood. Every picture of Jim in the exhibition has him tilted at all angles like Long John Silver: tossed on the waves in Ben Gunn’s coracle…

clinging to the bowsprit of the Hispaniola…

aiming his pistols at Israel Hands as he leans from the Hispaniola’s crow’s nest:

In each picture he comes closer to being a pirate, culminating in the moment when he runs his fingers through the treasure of Captain Flint in Ben Gunn’s cave:

The pirate Silver coveted that treasure, the former pirate Ben Gunn dug it up, the half pirate Jim Hawkins got a share of it; what really divides them? In Peake’s pictures, as in Stevenson’s book, Jim is tainted with Silver’s anarchism. John Silver is the embodiment of resistance to the authorities that frown on exploratory teenagers like Jim – though the pirate also claims to have plans to become a conventional gentleman, and even a member of parliament. Not too conventional, however. In an age when slavery was legal in the British Empire, Silver’s lover – who we never meet in the book – is Black. The sea-cook roves far more freely beyond the imperial frame, it’s implied, than most of his white British male contemporaries.

Map of the Three Principalities, as featured in The Dusky Birron (1929-31)

There’s a queer element to piracy, as anyone knows who’s followed the HBO series Our Flag Means Death. Peake seems well aware of this fact, and the two pirate books he wrote and illustrated – The Dusky Birron and Captain Slaughterboard Drops Anchor – attest to his awareness, whether or not he acknowledged it openly. The unpublished Dusky Birron (1929-31) was a project he developed with his friend Gordon Smith, and it has a distinctly Chinese quality, as the two authors drew imaginatively on their shared experiences of China. Smith wrote the words, Peake drew the pictures, and the book begins with a sailor man being marooned by pirates on a group of islands, whose monosyllabic names – Soz, Ho, Foon, Chee – bear a faint resemblance to Mandarin, which both Smith and Peake could speak. The first picture from the book in the exhibition shows a European ship sailing through a giant flooded forest, possibly the pirate ship that marooned the sailor…

while the second shows the pirates themselves, looking thoroughly European…

Apologies for the quality of this photo!

But the next two pictures show some very Chinese-looking rocks and mountains…

Lawrence Bristow-Smith, a former British diplomat in China, compares the rock where the Maranesa sits to the rock formations in traditional Chinese gardens, ‘slabs and blocks of stone assembled to form a fantastic, exaggerated landscape with water, paths, steps, bridges and carefully-planted shrubs and trees’.[18] The mountain scene, meanwhile…

Apologies for this photo too!

recalls the Chinese practice of shan shui hua, ‘mountain water art’, as exemplified by Huang Gongwang’s ‘The Remaining Mountain’:

…so that the place where the sailor man finds himself contains a variety of aesthetic elements assembled, like those Chinese gardens, into a ‘fantastic, exaggerated landscape’. In Gordon Smith’s account of the book, the sailor-man’s guide through this fantastic landscape is the Dusky Birron, a naked man with flowing hair and the beard of a prophet:

and the two companions spend most of the book looking for the ideal place to set up house together. They find it at last in Chee, the most laid-back island in the archipelago….

This is not, then, a story of colonisation but of companionship between people of different cultures, in a land full of exiles; the Maranesa, for example, comes from Borneo, but seems happy living in Soz alone on his ‘pointed stone’, as Smith’s words put it. The sailor, by contrast, finds a friend to share his life with, as his mentor and fellow adventurer. There’s a Chinese connection here, too, I think. Peake’s surviving notes for an unwritten book about China – sometimes conceived as an autobiography, sometimes a work of fiction – are full of such cross-cultural friendships, from the Chinese boy who lures a red-haired British boy from his bed into the world beyond the hospital compound, to the one-eyed Russian boy with no shoes whom Peake calls his ‘God’; from Peake’s friend Tony Liang, who ‘did drawings which were copies of Lawson… dogs and parrots and monkeys’ – probably Lawson Wood, who drew animals for The Boy’s Own Paper – to the Chinese boy befriended by a British girl called Laura on a winter’s journey across the mountains.[19] These relationships are full of the seduction of the unfamiliar, something that works both ways in the case of the boy with red hair, whose appearance marks him out as exotic to his Chinese guide.

That seduction turns boldly queer in Captain Slaughterboard Drops Anchor (1939). The Captain sails his ship, the Black Tiger, between ‘little green islands’ on the ‘bright blue ocean’, accompanied by a crew of bizarre eccentrics clearly inspired by the crew who sailed with Captain Hook in Peter and Wendy.[20] Billy Bottle the bosun, for example, has arms so long that he can knock ashes out of his pipe without bending down; Hook’s shipmate Noodles has equally unusual arms, since his ‘hands were fixed on backwards’. Timothy Twitch is ‘the most elegant in battle, his left hand especially’, just as Hook’s shipmate Gentleman Starkey was ‘once an usher in a public school and still dainty in his ways of killing’…

Slaughterboard’s shipmate whose portrait we see in the exhibition, Charlie Choke, ‘covered all over with dreadful drawings in blue ink’, is closely related to Hook’s shipmate Bill Jukes, ‘every inch of him tattooed’…

Slaughterboard seems immune to the charms of these men, even the elegant Timothy Twitch, but when he spots a Yellow Creature through his telescope he can’t resist its beauty…

That his attraction is erotic as well as aesthetic (he spends hours, we’re told, admiring the butter-yellow colour of the creature against the blue of the ocean) is implied by the fact that many commentators think Peake modelled its face on the face of his wife, Maeve Gilmore, who posed for him hundreds of times throughout their marriage; Maeve also features, if you look closely, among the tattoos on Charlie Choke’s left arm.[21] The creature’s gender is indeterminate – Peake sometimes gives it the pronoun ‘it’ and sometimes ‘he’ – as is its species, since its ears and bristly horns are not quite human. Slaughterboard’s first reaction to it is that of the colonial slave-trader or collector; he sends his men to catch it, then carries it off for his own amusement. On board his ship, too, he at first treats the Creature as an exotic object to be displayed to his fellow sailors, who quickly grow tired of being urged to admire it…

But as time goes by, the power dynamic begins to shift. One by one the crew is killed off until only the Captain and the Yellow Creature are left, and by this time they behave as equals: they dance and eat together…

…and the Captain begins to show an interest in the Yellow Creature’s home environment, the island where he found it, and eventually turns the ship in that direction. The book ends with the Captain and the Creature living together in married bliss; the Creature does the cooking, and they both enjoy the company of the other islanders, or lazily fishing for wonderfully strange fish from the island’s ornamental-looking piles of stones. As Peake’s son Fabian points out in his introduction to the 70th Anniversary edition, the pair of them seem to have found utopia. More specifically, they have found their Libertalia, complete with its stock of unprecedented fauna. The anthropologist David Graeber has recently argued, in his book Pirate Enlightenment, or The Real Libertalia, that the roots of Libertalia lie in the fusion of pirate culture with the indigenous people of north-east Madagascar; just one of the many cultural fusions that have shaped the island’s history.[22] Captain Slaughterboard and the Yellow Creature duplicate this fusion, their gleeful rejection of apartheid or segregation placing them a million miles from the British imperial project. Or the German one, of course; the book was published in 1939, and the first edition was mostly destroyed in a German bombing raid.

The magic of Captain Slaughterboard is its refusal to embrace the sort of conventional moralising that dominated contemporary children’s narratives. The Captain exists outside the imperatives of Empire all the way; his initially colonial actions are a personal choice, and he seems free to dispense with colonialism whenever he feels like it. In J M Barrie’s Peter and Wendy, Captain Hook is tormented by social anxieties, brought on both by his public-school education and by Peter Pan’s self-evident superiority as a pirate and an anarchist to himself. Stevenson’s Long John Silver is intensely conscious of the forces of the social hierarchy ranged against him – of the power of the ruling classes and the disastrous lack of discipline among his fellow pirates – which means he suspects from the start that things can’t possibly go his way. By contrast, Captain Slaughterboard rules his narrative ‘every inch’, as he rules his ship. There are no naval officers, squires or missionaries in his story, just the strangest of sea-wolves and the weirdest of creatures. Instead of moral trajectories, Peake’s book is full of limbs and torsos getting out of control, clothes flying in all directions, bursts of sea-spray, spurts of cannon-smoke or pipe-smoke, and a ship that expands and contracts like a living organ, its decks covered in writhing bodies, flapping swathes of canvas and unbalanced bottles of rum…

The Captain’s resistance to moral imperatives makes him wholly indifferent to the slaughter of his men – we never hear how they died, and he never mentions them again after their deaths. He only pays attention to the fascinating details of the Yellow Creature’s appearance – its delicate body, arms and legs, its enormous eyes, its long, drooping nose, which offer the perfect foil to his own massive body and hands, his button nose, his tiny eyes….

The Captain’s eyes look at everything with cunning; even when introduced by the Yellow Creature to its friends on the island he watches them slyly as if measuring their market value…

But his cunning consists in the recognition that the only treasure he needs is what gives him pleasure: his brightly-coloured lover and the seemingly infinite variety of creatures on the island and around its shores.

Peake: poster for the movie Black Magic, with Sidney Toler playing the detective Charlie Chan in ‘Yellowface’ (see the novel by R F Kuang)

Peake was familiar, of course, with the racist caricatures of Chinese culture that circulated between the wars, from the fictions of the so-called Yellow Peril – such as Sax Rohmer’s tales of Dr Fu Manchu – to the crude pastiches of China that featured in British pantomimes like Aladdin, or Albert Arlen’s play The Son of the Grand Eunuch (1937), for which Peake designed the costumes.[23] He also had friends like Maurice Collis who had a serious interest in South and East Asian art and history, and a father with similar interests who brought him brushes from Hong Kong after the war, giving him a chance to experiment seriously with Chinese painting techniques. Captain Slaughterboard embraces Peake’s childhood in China by representing a kind of queer marriage between formerly hostile cultures, as well as between Chinese and European schools of art. As a statement about its particular moment in British history – on the cusp of the Second World War, when the earth itself was tilting off balance – this picture book seems to me well worth revisiting in our own unbalanced times.

[For an account of pirate references in the Titus/Gormenghast books see my blog post ‘Mervyn Peake and the Poetics of Piracy’.]

NOTES

[1] See Winnington, The Voice of the Heart: The Working of Mervyn Peake’s Imagination (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2006), chapter 3, ‘Islands’.

[2] For more on Peake and Sark see my blogposts ‘Mervyn Peake on Sark’ and ‘Mervyn Peake and the Queering of Sark’.

[3] The best account of Peake’s life is Peter Winnington, Mervyn Peake’s Vast Alchemies: The Illustrated Biography (London and Chester Springs, PA: Peter Owen Publishers, 2009).

[4] For Peake’s ‘Notes for a Projected Autobiography’ see Peake’s Progress: Selected Writings and Drawings of Mervyn Peake, ed. Maeve Gilmore (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1981), pp. 469-487.

[5] The dates given here are those of the first editions of Peake’s illustrated versions.

[6] For the full poem see Mervyn Peake, Collected Poems, ed. R. W. Maslen (Manchester: Carcanet, 2008), p. 120. For more on Peake’s Southport experience see my blog post ‘Mervyn Peake at Southport’.

[7] See Winnington, Mervyn Peake’s Vast Alchemies, p. 56.

[8] See my blog post ‘Fantasy 1939: Mervyn Peake and Jacob Epstein’.

[9] See my two blog posts, ‘Maurice Collis and Mervyn Peake, Quest for Sita (1946)’, Part 1: Text and Part 2: Drawings.

[10] ‘Tides’, in Peake, Collected Poems, p. 129.

[11] See Mervyn Peake: The Man and his Art, p. 36, which cites Peake’s friend Gordon Smith describing the Puy de Dôme near Clermont-Ferrand in France as ‘a most charming hummock, like a miniature Fujiyama’. Smith and Peake saw this ‘charming hummock on a French holiday together in 1930, two years after the date assigned to the picture, ‘Floating islands on the waves’. For a full account of the holiday see Smith, Mervyn Peake: A Personal Memoir (London: Victor Gollancz, 1984), pp. 14-20.

[12] See Winnington, The Voice of the Heart, p. 57, footnote 1: ‘it was the family island, so to speak’.

[13] Peake, Collected Poems, p. 78.

[14] Peake, Collected Poems, p. 93.

[15] Peake, Collected Poems, p. 94.

[16] See Peake, Mr Pye (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1978), p. 205.

[17] Robert Louise Stevenson, Treasure Island, illustrated by Mervyn Peake (London: Methuen, 1976), pp. 96-97.

[18] Lawrence Bristow-Smith, ‘The Chinese Puzzle of Mervyn Peake’, Peake Studies, Vol. 3, No. 3 (Winter 1993), pp. 37-39.

[19] Peake, ‘Notes for a Projected Autobiography’, Peake’s Progress, pp. 471, 474, 477-478, 483.

[20] All quotations are taken from Mervyn Peake, Captain Slaughterboard Drops Anchor, 70th Anniversary Edition (London: Walker Books, 2009). This edition is not paginated.

[21] See Winnington, Mervyn Peake’s Vast Alchemies, p. 130.

[22] David Graeber, Pirate Enlightenment, or the Real Libertalia (Dublin: Allen Lane, 2023).

[23] See Winnington, Mervyn Peake’s Vast Alchemies, p. 107.

The Ambiguities of Karin Tidbeck’s Amatka (2017)

[In the week when Loreen of Sweden won the Eurovision Song Contest, I’m putting up a post – quite coincidentally, of course – about one of the great Swedish writers of speculative fiction, Karin Tidbeck. This post marks the return to functionality of The City of Lost Books after a period offline caused by a bug in one of the University of Glasgow’s servers. The episode taught me about the precariousness of one’s online existence. Tidbeck taught me about the precariousness of human existence itself, as mediated by language. My thanks to Helen Marshall and Kim Wilkins, organisers of the What If Consortium sponsored by the University of Queensland, for introducing me to Tidbeck’s work.

The post contains many spoilers, so only read on if you’ve read Amatka or if you don’t mind spoilers too much!]


In an interview for BOMB Magazine, Karin Tidbeck mentions a familiar distinction between two kinds of writers: ‘There’s this concept of writers being either “plotters” or “pantsers”: plotting a story out before they start, or flying by the seat of their pants. I’m definitely a pantser’.[1] Both of Tidbeck’s novels emerged from a long period of gestation, taking the author by surprise as they underwent a slow transition from pupa stage (a collection of poems that became Amatka [2017], a set of linked short stories that became The Memory Theater [2021]) to full-blown novelistic butterflies.[2] Improvisation is clearly integral to Tidbeck’s writing process; and while this is true of many writers, in Tidbeck’s case it’s improvisation that has been honed by long practice in a highly specialised field of performance.

The prizewinning novelist and short story writer is also a participant in Nordic LARP – Live Action Role Play – for which they have been writing scenarios for most of their life. It’s no coincidence that their latest novel has a theatrical title, or that Amatka acknowledges an entire supporting cast of co-enablers in its composition: as Tidbeck puts it, for them ‘It truly takes a village; so many people have been helpful in the creation of this story’ (p. 217).[3] LARP performance, too, involves input from many equals who combine to generate a work of collective improvisation, as a cast of players act out roles based on a pre-agreed scenario, without an audience apart from the actors themselves. Its topics can be as lighthearted as a fantasy adventure set in another world or as serious as imagining yourself into the position of queer people in the AIDS epidemic of the 1980s, of Palestinians under occupation, or of a planet where your gender is determined by the time of day when you were born. LARP discloses the intellectual, emotional and psychological value of play, the politics of improvised performance, the performativity of social interaction, the possibility – indeed, the necessity – of cultivating mutual trust and mental flexibility no matter what your age, as a means of collectively reinventing the forgotten past and imagining a better future. To me, Nordic LARP sounds frightening as well as fascinating, and I’d love to try it. For Tidbeck, it may well be fundamental to the way they think. And this may in turn be key to understanding the unique experience offered by their extraordinary novel Amatka, and what it has to say to a world in Climate Catastrophe, led by leaders hellbent on preserving the status quo.

In 2021 I took part in an online workshop at which Tidbeck spoke with passion about Nordic LARP – one of a series of workshops organised by the What If Consortium, about which I’ve written elsewhere. In the same interview Tidbeck spoke about their fascination with learning languages – they speak six in all, and have translated their own work from Swedish to English and from English to Swedish in an exercise that clearly fascinates them as much as any other creative process.[4] Translation can resemble a live action roleplaying game, in that the restrictions it places upon you highlight the different possibilities available in different situations, the different available styles encourage you to see the world through different lenses, the different grammatical structures suggest different underlying philosophies for different linguistic communities. Tidbeck describes their own variety of written English as an invented composite dialect, made up in equal parts of the British English they learned at school and the American English which is ‘the language of MTV and the movies, and, later, science fiction paperbacks’.[5] As a speaker of British English, I notice the Americanisms in Tidbeck’s style, as I read, more than the British dialectical usages which are my native tongue. And for me these Americanisms work an unusual kind of magic. They superimpose a New World grammar on what seems an Old World story – its Old World-ness suggested both by the Slavic and Nordic names of its characters and by the echoes of European history in the society they inhabit. This effect is perfect for Amatka, which takes as its setting a colony or cluster of colonies established by people from the world we know (mostly Russians and Swedes, to judge by their names) in a nameless place whose location is never identified. The colonists fled to that world with the aim of establishing the ‘ideal society’ (p. 44); but the new place – the planned utopia – has an air of being worn out from the opening sentence of the narrative. Its social structure recalls that of other experiments in collective living such as Soviet Communism or the Marxist-Leninist communes of the 1960s and ’70s, and the story that unfolds there seems familiar from countless literary dystopias from We to A Clockwork Orange, 1984 or Kafka’s The Castle. For me, its New World language suggests a veneer of up-to-date modernity thinly applied to a system that unimaginatively echoes long-outmoded efforts to refashion the world along egalitarian lines through the imposition of increasingly authoritarian and inflexible rules, driven by a ‘one-size-fits-all’ mentality. This mentality even extends to the clothing the colonists wear; none of the characters in Amatka wears garments that fit, and everything is designed for function rather than style: ‘She looked a little peculiar with the hat on; her hair stuck out from under the rim and the earflaps stood straight out. She pushed the hat back a little, tucked her hair in, and tied the flaps. That made it look a little better’ (p. 25). Clothing, in fact, plays a central role in the novel, just as costumes do when pooled and exchanged in a theatrical game among friends.[6]

If the names in the book are often Slavic, Tidbeck themself has suggested that their work has a loosely Nordic character, associating it through certain cultural markers with a cluster of countries in Northern Europe: Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway and Sweden. In an Afterword to their dazzling story collection Jagannath [2012] Tidbeck lists a few of these markers – a love of festive rituals, the idealization of the working class by the ‘intellectual left’, the soft Swedish dad, all of which find echoes in Amatka – while describing Nordic culture as at once profoundly susceptible to fantastic ways of thinking and unaccommodating when it comes to providing space for fantastic narratives in print. ‘One sensation peculiar to the Nordic culture of my upbringing,’ Tidbeck writes,

is that we really do live on the edge of fairy country. With a small population that’s mostly gathered in towns, vast stretches of countryside could contain any number of critters. Many folktales, and other stories I grew up with, such as the ones by Finno-Swedish author Tove Jansson, show reality as a thin veneer behind which strange creatures move.[7]

This is the North that’s familiar to me, a British reader who lived in Stockholm as a small child and inherited books, comics, pictures and objects from that epoch of my family’s history. It’s the North of the Nobel Prize-winning author Selma Lagerlöf, whose The Wonderful Adventures of Nils (mentioned briefly in The Memory Theater) presents its readers with a folkloric map of Sweden packed with diminutive tomten, underwater cities, statues that come to life at night, giant butterflies, and articulate beasts and birds; of Astrid Lindgren, whose The Brothers Lionheart imagines a succession of Nordic worlds opening out from one another at the point of death, making each new world a link in a never-ending bracelet or chain; of Ingmar Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander, set in a world where the dead watch the antics of the living as if in a paper theatre, while children with strange abilities watch the antics of both the living and the dead; or of Ali Abbasi’s movie Border, where customs officers on Sweden’s national borders themselves exist on a border between mortals and the hidden world of the trolls.[8] For Tidbeck, the borders between the human world and fairy country are rendered permeable by the metamorphic possibilities of language, which in turn react to and have a direct impact on the metamorphoses undergone by our bodies in response to emotion, diet, maturation, thought, curiosity, desire and fear. The thin veneer that exists in Nordic countries between the known and the unknown for her consists (among other things) of words, clothes and skin, all of them infinitely permeable surfaces hiding strangenesses unacknowledged by biologists or the compilers of dictionaries.

Amatka is set in a location on the other side of the veneer that separates our world from the strange, the unsettling, the potentially lethal. It’s a place where things are made with words in a very literal way, changing shape if the word that defines them is not regularly repeated aloud by their users, and preferably marked on them too with writing or a printed label. But this nameless place is hardly a conventional fairyland, Nordic or otherwise. It’s a colony committed to conformity, set in a landscape whose uniformity echoes the values of the colonists, with miles of uninhabited tundra interrupted by featureless bodies of water utterly bereft of the inventive fauna of the folktales. In this place improvisation is deemed to be highly dangerous, and childhood games that imaginatively transform one thing to another pose a very real risk of materially transforming the renamed objects into something new – or of reducing them instead to a semi-liquid, quasi-organic ‘gloop’, the primordial substance mined from the soil of this alien world to construct – well – more or less everything the colonists think they need. Metaphors are dangerous, too, since they can reshape the things they describe into something different, or else more gloop. In deference to this constraint on the inhabitants of their invented world, Tidbeck tells their narrative without recourse to metaphor, unfolding the adventures of the protagonist in pellucid prose whose refusal of ornament – once one notices it – takes on the virtuosic quality of an exercise in Oulipo, the French literary game that imposes apparently arbitrary restrictions on its practitioners such as writing an entire novel without the use of the verb ‘to be’. Tidbeck has explained that metaphors are barely used in Swedish, but their absence from Tidbeck’s English makes the language seem pared-down, reduced to essentials, a suitable instrument for a strictly regulated life lived on a frontier on the brink of the unknown – and on the brink of dissolution through the unregulated use of words.[9]

The plot of Amatka is simple. Vanja has been sent to the colony Amatka by the newly-founded private company she works for, which has asked her to assess demand among the colonists for new hygienic products to replace the mostly state-made hygienic resources they have used till now. Her work, then, is concerned with the treatment of human skin, that organic barrier between the colonists and their alien environment. Her researches find that the Amatkans are subject to many skin diseases and conditions, such as psoriasis and eczema, symptomatic of their difficult relationship with the world they inhabit – or perhaps with the society they are part of, whose every waking moment is marked by the stress of maintaining the shape of the objects around them, from toothbrushes, suitcases and bedclothes to the contents of the factories or desks they work at (if they don’t keep naming them they turn to gloop). In the course of her work she falls in love with a citizen of Amatka, a medic called Nina, and decides to stay. At around the same time she unearths evidence of a resistance movement against the Central Committee of the colonies, the governing body based in her home colony of Essre to which all the Committees of the other colonies are finally answerable. Despite her love of the conformist Nina, Vanja finds herself steadily drawn into the resistance movement, largely through her friendship with Amatka’s librarian, a man called Evgen, and the poetry he invites her to read, the work of a colonist called Berols’ Anna. The novel closes with a revolution which involves the breakdown of the verbal tyranny that has governed the colonists’ lives, and a similar breakdown in the composition of their bodies, above all their skins, rendering them impossible to focus on, unbarricaded, unshielded, naked to the world. Something similar happens to language in the revolution, as it ceases to be policed and instead becomes creative and infinitely malleable, the verbal equivalent of the gloop that can be reshaped into anything you choose by those who dare to commit themselves to the idea of revolutionary reshaping.

The trajectory of the novel, then, is from rigidly rules-based organization to improvisation, from strict linguistic and social limitations to unrestricted verbal and social fecundity, from fear of the place in which the colonies are located to a passionate embrace of it, a quest to know it, to merge with and reinvent it, and in doing so to enter a new phase of evolution. The experience described may be not so very different from the experience of learning to improvise in a Nordic LARP community, starting out tentative and awkward, growing in confidence as the performance unfolds within the limitations of the pre-agreed plot. Alternatively, it resembles the philosophical shift that will be necessary to live in harmony with the environment – to discover, in fact, that we are the environment, and cannot segregate ourselves from it with an artificial barrier constructed from the languages of otherness, authority, human self-interest, mental discipline, technological control. In this novel, opening up to other people (falling in love, for instance, as Vanja does with Nina) is no different from opening up to our reliance on the intimidatingly strange material world of which we are part.

If Amatka is a narrative of social revolution, it is also a tale of (partial) psychological healing. The book opens with Vanja in a state of unacknowledged depression, having recently recovered from a medical problem that involved treatment, we later learn, in a fertility clinic. The roots of her depression are deep ones. Her father was arrested as a dangerous dissident when she was a child, having first made her his confidante when he indulged in whispered, alcohol-fueled rants against the system late at night, when the rest of the family were asleep in bed. Unhappy with her job, negligent in her verbal naming or ‘marking’ of her possessions – as a result of which she soon finds her toothbrush and her suitcase reduced to gloop – without a partner or close friend in her home town of Essre, dominated by her more conformist older sister, her ‘general disinterest’ can be measured by the amount of savings she has available to spend on warm clothes when she first arrives in Amatka (p. 25); up till now she has had nothing and nobody to spend her credits on. Her depressed state of mind reflects, for the reader, the depressed state of the colonies, cut off from the world they came from and equally cut off from the world they now inhabit.

This state of isolation and exile is brilliantly evoked in the novel’s opening chapter. Here we find Vanja taking the train journey from Essre to Amatka on board a train which embodies the colonists’ collective material and psychological condition. The passenger car in which she travels is full of bunks, having been ‘built for migration, for transporting pioneers to new frontiers’; but its generous capacity is pointless in a world where exploration has given way to a daily struggle for survival within the perimeters of established settlements (p. 3). Everything in it is strictly functional, from the ‘rigid and uncomfortable’ seats to the bland food provided in the pantry: ‘stew with a base of mycoprotein’, to be eaten cold from a can, root vegetables to be cut into chunks and eaten raw (pp. 3-4).  It has no windows, cutting the passengers off from the drab but somehow terrifying landscape through which it travels – partly to suppress their fear of it, partly because there is nothing to be seen outside in any case ‘except the empty steppe: billowing grass, some hillocks, and combes’ (p. 5). Most disturbingly of all, everyday objects in the carriage have their names written on them in ‘large and comforting letters: WASHBASIN, PANTRY, TABLE’, the labels loudly proclaiming the possibility, even the likelihood of their imminent disintegration (p. 4). Everything is utterly familiar and undifferentiated, yet the continuing existence of these familiar things cannot be taken for granted; the fear felt by the colonists is that the things they need will be taken away from them by irresponsible acts, or merely by forgetfulness, by neglect. One is reminded of the way that the presence of imagined objects needs to be constantly reaffirmed in a mime show or improvised scenario, the way they can disappear or lose shape if the performers fail to reinforce their presence by naming them repeatedly or shaping them often with their hands and bodily movements.

The colonists’ identities, too, are always on the verge of dissolution – Vanja’s more so, perhaps, than the rest, since she has little self-confidence, little certainty about where the system ends and her personality begins. The standardization of their names identifies them as little more than objects or functions in space and time. Vanja’s full name, for instance, ‘Brilars’ Vanja Essre Two’, starts with a fusion of her parents’ names (Britta and Lars), followed by a Slavic personal name, and ending with the name of her home colony and where she stands in the chronology of her parents’ offspring (she is their second child, hence ‘Two’).[10] Their bodies, too, are both grimly functional and neglected. When Vanja looks at herself in a mirror on the train she sees that she has lost weight since the last time she noticed her appearance, that ‘her belly no longer sagged from fat but from loose skin and flaccid musculature’ and that ‘her legs were no longer firm’; she has been reshaped, in fact, by the demands of her dull and sedentary job, so that her clothes no longer fit her (p. 5). Her skin no longer fits her either, with the result that to her own eyes she looks much older than she is, accelerating towards an annihilation as complete as that of an object reduced to the gloop of which it is made. We later learn that the records of individual citizens kept in the annals of the colonies are reduced to the minimum after their deaths in order to save paper: name, date of birth and death, profession, cause of death (p. 121). The functionality of the records surrounds the dead inhabitants of the colonies with a featureless waste of unrecorded time, as drably grey and uniform as the landscape surrounding the colonies.

Gradually, however, as the book goes on, we learn that Amatka and the other colonies can be seen as a form of Utopia. That, at least, is how the ruling Committee of each colony describes them and how their more conformist citizens understand them: a perfectly egalitarian community set up in opposition to unspecified but clearly inferior alternative ways of living, now lost in the wasteland of the unrecorded past. But it is a deeply ambiguous Utopia. Indeed, all utopias can be seen as ambiguous, since utopianism itself combines two contradictory impulses: towards radical change (from the material conditions under which the writer and their readers live) and towards total stasis (most Utopias are strictly policed to prevent transition to a less desirable state). Anyone with a preference for change will find themselves stifled by inertia, anyone rendered anxious by transitions will be maddened by the inevitable tendency of societies to mutate and slide into new shapes. All Utopias, then, are Dystopias for some, and Amatka’s Utopia is no exception, since any dissent is savagely punished and any form of eccentric behaviour can be interpreted as dissent. Like the original Utopia of Thomas More, each colony is organised on geometrical principles, with an administrative tower-block in the centre – the all-seeing watchtower of Jeremy Bentham’s panopticon – and rings of residences, factories, plant houses and recreational facilities arranged around it, under its eye. The worst of punishments fits the crime for which it is most often exacted, loose or disruptive talk: it involves the surgical destruction of the speech centre in the brain, rendering the citizen inarticulate and hence incapable of participating in the life of the commune. One might call this poetic justice – irresponsible speech being rewarded with enforced silence – if it were not for the fact that enforced silence implies an incapacity for poetry of any kind, just or unjust.

So far so familiar; but Tidbeck is unusually dextrous at making her Utopia seem homely as well as intolerable. Its most loyal citizens can be affectionate, funny, compassionate, mutually supportive; its rebels are not motivated by hatred or anger so much as affection, compassion, mutual supportiveness, even a sense of humour, recognising as they do the sheer absurdity of trying to keep things stable in a world predicated on the need for metamorphosis (birth, growth, death, eating, drinking, successive sleep states, etc. etc.). Both sides, too – loyalists and rebels – are intensely conscious that they themselves have conspired to construct the oppressive Utopia from which some seek to be liberated, and that consensus or complicity is essential both for maintaining the commune as it is and for overthrowing it and installing a new order. The alternative Utopia of the rebels is closely related to the Utopia of the loyalists, being compounded of the same elements, the same desires and dreams and needs. The personalities involved in both sides are not crudely distinguished as ‘good’ and ‘bad’. Some of the revolutionaries, like the sarcastic retired doctor Ulla who cohabits with Nina and Vanja in their communal dwelling, can be infuriating, while Nina’s commitment to the colonies is based in a sense of responsibility to other people’s welfare which has also (presumably) driven her to become a nurse, and which makes her deeply sympathetic to Vanja’s loneliness and depression, despite the opposite points on the political spectrum each of them occupies. Even at the point where Nina betrays Vanja to the ruling Committee near the end of the book, she does so in the conviction that the committee will do what’s best for Vanja as well as for the commune; it’s their merciless treatment of Vanja that finally pushes Nina into joining the revolution. For Nina, Vanja’s body is a utopian space; the visitor from Essre is in her eyes a ‘beauty’, despite Vanja’s own conviction of her ugliness and premature ageing, and despite Vanja’s attraction to the dissidence Nina fears (p. 96). By this means – by seeing her as beautiful – Nina instils fresh confidence in Vanja, a confidence that ironically helps to propel her into the arms of the revolution (to which Nina later follows her).

Other Amatkans, meanwhile, have little interest in either conformity or rebellion. Nina’s children by her housemate Ivar, for instance, have been separated from their parents since birth, raised like the rest of the commune’s children in the so-called ‘Children’s House’. They find it hard to get used to being with their parents each weekend, and spend much of their time staring at adults and clinging to one another as representatives of the sole community they really recognise. Ivar, meanwhile, who works in the commune’s subterranean mushroom farms despite his dislike of being underground, and who is unable to obtain a transfer to more congenial work in the Plant Houses, conforms even while he succumbs to acute depression. This isolates him from his fellow colonists, precisely thanks to the damage caused him by his willingness to conform. Ivar, then, is neither a heroic revolutionary – since he never rebels – nor a loyal colonist – since his eventual suicide is treated by the Committee as the ultimate betrayal, a permanent withdrawal of necessary labour from the struggling collective he was expected to preserve. For both Nina and Vanja, on the other hand, he is a beloved friend. Each of them recognises in him an aspect of themselves, despite their seemingly contradictory positions, and each appreciates him for what makes him himself: his love of strong coffee, his delight in making things grow, his tenderness toward the children he shares with Nina. There are no absolutes in Tidbeck’s commune, since there are no absolutes in the words, sentences and personalities from which it is constructed.

It is no surprise, then, that both colonists and revolutionaries share a love of poetry. The ‘wholesome fun’ enjoyed by the Amatkans at gatherings every Sevenday includes regular readings of poetry written by Berols’ Anna, who is revealed in the course of the narrative as the de facto leader of the revolution (p. 61, p. 159). Poems, of course, can be descriptive, and Anna’s poems meticulously describe the various Plant Houses or agricultural conservatories that form the outer circle of Amatka. When Vanja first reads them she finds they stabilize the mundane objects and actions they invoke, as all language should when responsibly uttered: ‘In Berols’ Anna’s poetry, all things became completely and self-evidently solid. The world gained consistency in the life cycle of plants, the sound of a rake in the soil. Breathing became easier’ (pp. 44-5). As Vanja grows in sympathy with the revolution, however, the same poems offer evidence of change as well as of stability – of becoming as well as of being: the plants are always growing and dying, the rake moves the soil, sound and breath dissolve in air. And some poems harbour double meanings thanks to the possibility of reading them ironically, like Berols’ Anna’s hymn in praise of the Central Committee (‘We thank them / for telling us/ What to do / what to do’), which Vanya assumes at once to be ‘sarcastic’ (p. 78). The novel’s readers, meanwhile, might understand the poems as doing both, making and unmaking as they are read or spoken. In them, revolution and reactionary conservatism are shown to spring from the same soil, the same impulses towards shaping a community and a home.

Colonists and revolutionaries also share a love of music. The wholesome fun of a Sevenday gathering involves singing and dancing as well as poetry recitals. Some of the singing is dedicated to preserving the shapes of things against the danger of change; this includes the ‘Marking Song’ taught to young children so that they can name the necessary objects they make use of every day, protecting those objects from disintegration into gloop. When the revolution finally breaks out, the revolutionaries sing a version of the same song, though with a different intent: an opening out of the song’s meaning rather than a closing down and consolidation of that meaning. What the revolutionaries sing is ‘something like “The Marking Song,” but the words were different; it was a song of making and unmaking, a song not of things that were, but that could be’ (p. 216). Indeed, music plays a key role in the revolutionary transformation of Amatka. At one point in the novel, after a minor falling-out with Nina, Vanja makes her way to the lake outside the commune – a lake that has already begun to manifest signs of the coming change, since it freezes each night at sunset and unfreezes with a sound of thunder at the break of dawn, in defiance of the laws of physics. As she sits on the shore of the lake, Vanja sees an old woman standing nearby, holding a long pipe half submerged in the water. When the water freezes, the woman lifts the end of the pipe to her lips and begins to play it like an alp-horn, effectively turning the frozen water into a musical instrument, a tuneful communication system summoning fellow revolutionaries to her aid. Later, pipes begin to manifest themselves in the ground beneath Amatka, in the form of a mysterious network of tunnels that extend into the tundra beyond the city limits. Noises are heard in the tunnels – voices, buzzing, thunder – and later from the vertical pipes that give access to those tunnels, and which sprout from the ground beyond the city in increasing numbers. The pipes wail and groan like the pipes of a church organ, as if the ground itself were singing, or as if an improvised musical instrument were finding voice for the very first time. In their interview with BOMB Magazine Tidbeck speaks of their legendary great-grandfather who had only five fingers but who nevertheless built ‘an organ out of a sofa’; an interest in improvisation was clearly an integral part of their family saga long before they discovered LARP. The elderly revolutionary Ulla, meanwhile, reminds us that pipes or tunnels may be used for ‘travel’ as well as for making sound (p. 132). Music may be a repetition and affirmation of what’s known and loved, or it may transport us to strange new territories, like the train that carried Vanja to Amatka. In Tidbeck’s world it does exactly both, and revolution arrives like a remembered experimental tune, heavy both with nostalgia and with the joy of the unexpected, the innovatory, the yet-to-be.

The family likeness between reaction and revolution is embodied in the spaces where both are fostered. When Vanja finally learns (of course from the conservative Nina) how the revolutionaries left the city under the leadership of the poet, Berols’ Anna, to set up a rival commune on the featureless tundra, she discovers that the habitation they made for themselves differed little from the design of the colonies they had abandoned: ‘It looked sort of like a colony – a ring of little houses and a commune office’ (p. 169, my emphasis). But the sky above this new commune is alive and full of lights, unlike the grey unchanging skies above the old one, while the walls are painted not with the appropriate noun (‘wall’, ‘window’, ‘door’, and so on, lending solidity to the objects they embellish) but with representations of things ‘not there’, transforming them into narratives rather than nouns (tales of utopia, the no-place, perhaps) (p. 170). Apartments, too, can be spaces of revolution or reaction. When Berols’ Anna fulfils her promise to free Amatka – that is, to fulfil its potential to remake itself along radical lines – she is accompanied on her march to the colony by the old woman Ulla, who formerly shared an apartment with a group of friends from across the political divide. Living together in that apartment were the idealist conformist Nina, the unhappy conformist Ivar, the would-be revolutionary Vanja, and Ulla herself, the fully-fledged insurrectionist. Within that apartment were hatched both plans for liberation and plans to betray the liberators to the Committee. Each physical space in the novel, then, is a theatre, full of possibilities, yet constrained by a set of rules. Each performance in each of those spaces depends on an interaction between the performers, as a sentence depends for its sense on the interaction between its grammatical parts. Rebels need conformists to define themselves against; conformists are equally dependent on rebels to understand for themselves what needs to be suppressed, expelled or resisted. And individuals mutate from conformist to rebel, as Vanja mutates in the course of the novel, emerging from her isolation, depression and atrophy into the catalyst and herald of a new era.

Organs themselves in Tidbeck’s work are, so to speak, organic, mutating from one function to another, militating against the laws of biology. The skin is a fine example. Berols’ Anna writes poems about the Plant Houses that form the outer ring of the concentric circles of buildings that comprise Amatka. Her interest, then, is in what could be called the ‘skin’ of the colony, the protective architectural membrane that protects its interior organs from the perceived threat of what lies beyond. Yet the Plant Houses are already mixed with the Other, since the plants they contain spring from the soil of an alien world. So it’s no surprise, when the revolution breaks out, to see one of the Houses bursting apart to release a ‘stream of furiously flapping greenery’, while another sprouts ‘six unsynchronized, rickety legs’ and trundles off across the steppes in a bid for freedom (p. 212). Meanwhile the mysterious tunnels under the colony – the arterial conduits that convey the bacterium of revolution from one part of the communal body to another – spontaneously mutate into Plant Houses full of semi-sentient ‘fruiting bodies’, which were once the colonists who maintained the underground mushroom farms (p. 214). And skin itself often ceases to be a membrane, announcing its identity with the earth and its products, or with the abject inner organs, even as its owners struggle to keep it contained and in good condition, moisturized, blemish-free and snugly clothed. The eczema suffered by the mushroom farmers turns their skin into fertile ground for fruiting bodies, like the caves where they tend their fungi. When the people imagine or speak the malleable earth of this new world into new bodies – such as imitation cats or fish, sketchy copies of the nonhuman creatures they left behind in the world they fled – the bodies in question differentiate themselves from their lost originals by failing to distinguish between skin and  flesh: their outer membrane envelops no bones, no veins, no organs, no brains, just undifferentiated gloop from head to toe, like living plasticine or clay (pp. 198-9). The earth of the colonies itself resembles either a membrane or an unprotected inner organ, instinct with life. When a neglected everyday object turns to gloop, the gloop feels somehow warm, alive and potent, capable of evolving into something – anything – under the right conditions (p. 175). Towards the end of the novel, Vanja even adopts a blob of gloop as a kind of pet, mutating it at will into useful everyday tools designed to further the revolution.

Yet the capacity for metamorphosis can be exploited for reactionary purposes as well as revolutionary ones. The past can be moulded by the Committee to erase narratives that threaten the integrity of the colonies; Berols’ Anna’s commune, which drew about a hundred colonists out of Amatka into the tundra, is reimagined by the Committee into a disaster which killed the colonists and their leader – thereby shutting down the narrative instead of opening it out, and putting an end to the possibilities of improvisation. The complexity of individual experience is retrospectively reinvented, thanks to the crudeness of the colonies’ records, into simple descriptors of life, job, death, and a set of dates. When the sensitive colonist Ivar discovers the hidden tunnels under the mushroom farm where he works, he is told that he is suffering from delusions; by erasing his account of the tunnels, reducing him to silence, the Committee hopes to wipe them out of existence – and will wipe him out of existence, too, if he persists in asserting the truth of his narrative. In the end, the contradiction between the Committee’s version and his own drives Ivar to wipe himself out of existence; and he accomplishes this by removing his outer membrane – his coat and shoes – and exposing his skin to the murderous cold of the freezing lake. Ivar’s suicide, in fact, represents his most radical act. He kills himself using a feature of the landscape which is impossible according to the laws of conventional physics, a lake that freezes and unfreezes nightly regardless of the prevailing air temperature or weather conditions. Ivar gives himself up to the new world, in other words, embracing it as the Committee will not. In response, the Committee erases even the barest record of Ivar’s life from its archives. But it cannot erase Ivar himself without erasing the community he was part of: his friend Nina, with whom he had children; the children themselves; his co-workers; the roommates who reacted to his story of the tunnels in different ways. In giving himself up to the world, Ivar shows the way to the revolutionaries, who eventually learn to become the place they find themselves in, as he did, giving themselves ‘to the world’ in a daring gesture of making and unmaking, hope and despair (p. 214).

Tidbeck’s dystopic Utopia, then, defines itself by its dangerous capacity to be two or more things at once, and in this it is closely related to the so-called ‘fairy country’ of European literature and folklore, despite its differences from familiar representations of that space. Tidbeck’s story collection Jagannath contains two stories set in that country, both of which were later incorporated or absorbed into The Memory Theatre. Both stories concern themselves with the human relationship with time, and in particular with our simultaneous desire to inhabit a world impervious to change and a world that is always changing. Time also, of course, has a central role in Amatka, not least as something that happens to one’s body (think of Vanja looking in the mirror, contemplating the way her own body has been altered by time and suffering, or her later contemplation of Ivar’s body, changed for ever by its period of suspension in the ‘frigid water’ of the lake [p. 154]). Bodies mark time, too, in both of the fairy stories in Jagannath. The first of them, ‘Augusta Prima’, tells us what happens to the body of an immortal being when she finds a watch.[11] Once the watch is set in motion it changes its formerly changeless finder, who starts to age, while at the same time she becomes aware of the wearisome changelessness of the garden where she lives, which has preserved her in an immutable state up to the point when the clock began to tick. The discovery, too, makes something clear about the politics of fairy land: that the disconnected shreds of time it does contain affect the working classes – the unfortunate changelings who are stolen, enslaved and tortured by their fairy masters – very differently from the masters themselves, who remain unchanged from one generation of servants to another. Fairy land, in other words, like many other places, is a utopia for its rulers and a dystopia for its workers, though here the distinction between them is not merely confirmed but reinforced by their different experiences of chronology. The stolen children are ritually slaughtered when they reach maturity, in a bid to expel even the memory of time and change from the paradisal garden; while the immortals wake each morning at the beginning of what is effectively the same day. The children live in a state of nervous anticipation, perpetually fearful of a sudden change that will wipe them out of existence; the masters live in endless ennui, driven insane by the knowledge that everything everywhere will always be the same, and that there is nothing more to existence than what they have. And a somewhat similar temporal structure rules in Amatka, though the elements of it are slightly different.

At the beginning of Amatka, when Vanja boards the train to the colony where the rest of the novel is set, we learn that something strange has happened to time in the course of her journey. Long journeys in this new world can sometimes cause machines to malfunction, and her wristwatch gets ‘stuck at one o’clock’ because ‘mechanical things sometimes didn’t behave like they should between the colonies’ (p. 5). We might think of the tricks performed by time on long-haul journeys, or in SF stories that feature Faster-than-light-speed travel, or of the warpings of mortal time experienced by voyagers to fairy land such as Oisín, or by fantasy adventurers like the Pevensies in the Narnian chronicles. At the same time, Vanja notes in the mirror the signs of passing time inscribed in her own body; movement goes on, despite the lack of precision instruments with which to measure it, and this is also true of Oisín, who finds that he has aged when he gets back from Faerie. Augusta Prima’s fairy garden has a similar effect on mechanisms: ‘Mechanical things usually fell apart as soon as they came into the gardens’ domain’ (p. 116), dismantled by the will to immortality embodied in the garden by its creators, just as time has been rendered meaningless in the colonies by the ruling Committee’s systematic erasure of the past. In both train and garden, however, chronometers are rendered unfamiliar by Tidbeck’s descriptions of them: Vanja’s watch is ‘the clock on her wrist’ or ‘the little clock’ (p. 5), which gives it an unusual weight and mass for its size and function, while Augusta Prima’s watch is a ‘little machine’ with ‘Three thin rods […] attached to the centre’, moving round the disc ‘in twitching movements’ and making a noise like the beat of a mouse’s heart (115). The mouse analogy, in a realm that has by this stage in the story shown a propensity for casual cruelty to small, powerless beings such as the changelings, makes the watch sound vulnerable; but the strangeness of these two watches gives them an imaginative power beyond the timepieces we know from our own experience. As a result, Augusta Prima proves more vulnerable still, becoming seized by a desire to ‘know’ about the mystery of time as embodied in the watch, and gradually succumbing to physical change as her knowledge grows.

Vanja too, on arriving at Amatka, becomes afflicted with the desire to know, in this case about the mystery of Amatka’s past – a past embodied in the train which caused her watch to stop (the train is ‘built for migration, for transporting pioneers to new frontiers’, but its ‘capacity was pointless’ in a world where such frontiers no longer exist [p. 3]). Vanja’s quest for knowledge leads her to another apparently damaged machine, a giant subterranean contraption whose intended function – as an agent or symptom of change – is as mysterious to her as the watch’s was to Augusta Prima (p. 149). Like the watch, Vanja’s underground machine changes its discoverer, and with her the colony whose past she has been investigating; her interest in it sets it in motion and its motion restores the tunnels to their role as agents of travel, transformation and trauma. A similar extension of Augusta Prima’s experience of time to the rest of the fairy country is implied in the short story ‘Aunts’, where the inhabitants of a fairy glasshouse or orangery find themselves changed by a fleeting visit from Augusta Prima, who clutches a round, metal, ticking object: clearly the watch.[12] Before this moment, the titular Aunts have existed as part of a perpetual cycle of birth, growth and death, sealed into the ecosphere of the glasshouse in perpetuity, self-fed and self-consumed. With the arrival of Augusta Prima and her watch the cycle is broken, and nobody knows what will happen next, either in the glasshouse or in the garden of which it seems to be the beating heart. Knowledge and time, then, are both creative and destructive, breaking down the composition of the objects and people caught up in their transactions, creating new possibilities from the breakdown, and triggering in the people who witness it either terror, delight, or both. And eternity too has a dual nature, locking its denizens into a happy circular dream, entrapping its victims in a recurring nightmare.

Knowledge, and the impulse to knowledge called curiosity, is a threat to the philosophy of stasis that governs both the fairy garden and the colonies. In the garden it is ‘common knowledge’ that time stands still, and that ‘Whenever one woke up, it was the same day as the day before’, a Groundhog Day of pleasure for the masters and torment for the children they have enslaved (p. 118). Augusta Prima’s sudden awareness that there may be other times and other ways of living gives her access to new knowledge which is far from ‘common’. Amatka too, as we’ve seen, is committed to repetition, since this is the only means of preserving its shape: ‘As morning comes,’ declares a poster in Nina’s bedroom, ‘we see and say: today’s the same as yesterday’ (p. 97). Vanja’s quest for knowledge about the past of the colony challenges this mantra repeatedly, as she discovers (for instance) that enormous chunks of the colony’s history have been strategically fabricated by its historians. If fairy country is a beautiful but dangerous illusion, kept in check by rule-based games such as parties and games of croquet, so too is Utopia, a collectively imagined space whose shape and extent is strenuously maintained by the policing of the inhabitants’ words and actions. It is kept in check by parties too, ‘games and organised play’ (p. 158) at each colony’s leisure centres, which ensure that even the citizen’s spare time is policed, observed and linguistically restricted. The key item of knowledge in both books is the recognition that the worlds in which they are set are no more than games, and that a player may choose to change the rules or leave the game altogether, although deciding to do so will put that player in mortal danger, according to the rules of the game they are choosing to leave.

The location of fairy country is notoriously uncertain; and the same is true of Utopia, whose name means ‘no-place’ or ‘placeless’. In Vanja’s world, the fact that the location of the colonies is unknown is one of the pieces of knowledge kept strictly hidden from the people by the Central Committee. Vanja’s father reveals it to her in her childhood in a whispered confession which gives the imparted knowledge both the delightful air of a bedtime story and disturbing connotations of child abuse, which is so often represented by the abuser as a shameful secret to be concealed from other members of the community. Lars’s whisperings to his daughter, in other words, are another of the ambiguous spaces with which this Utopia is filled. As Lars bends towards her in the dark, his beard tickling her cheek and his ‘whispered words’ smelling of alcohol, he imparts to her the explosive fact that ‘No one knows where we are. But we’re not allowed to say that’ (p. 39). At this point the reader finds themselves torn between the notion that he is imparting to her his inmost knowledge in a gesture of supreme parental trust, and the competing notion that such knowledge is too heavy a burden to be shared with a child; that this is, in fact, an irresponsible act on the part of a parent. Lars goes on to restate the fact of their placelessness as a bedtime story, like the most famous tale of that famously ambiguous tale-teller Lewis Carroll: ‘then he seemed to sober up and began to tell her a story about how people had found a hole in the world, and passed through, and ended up in this place. But where “this place” was, no one knew, not even the committee’ (p. 40). At this point Tidbeck seems to be reminding us that fairy stories, children’s stories, can serve as holes in the world through which we can glimpse the shapes of forbidden topics, though they withhold judgement as to whether or not a child might be harmed by such glimpses.

The link between Lars’s ‘hole in the world’ and Carroll’s famous rabbit hole forges another link to ‘Augusta Prima’, whose games of croquet on the lawns of the fairy garden – their chief aim being to break the heads of players and the enslaved children known as ‘pages’ – recalls the violent game of croquet in Alice in Wonderland, set in a garden which is metaphorically or potentially littered with severed heads. The tunnels that riddle the ground beneath Amatka recall the dream-maze threaded by Alice’s White Rabbit; the wayward workings of watches in Amatka and the fairy garden invoke the Mad Hatter’s squabble with time itself (since when, the Hatter tells us, Time ‘won’t do a thing I ask!’);[13] while the curiosity of both Vanja and Augusta Prima recalls the unflagging curiosity of Alice herself, who finds Wonderland and Looking-Class Country ‘curiouser and curiouser’ as she plunges deeper and deeper into their interiors. Amatka, in fact, is more Looking-Glass country than Wonderland. In the second Alice book it’s Humpty Dumpty who declares that any word can mean exactly what he wants it to mean (or in Amatkan terms, make exactly what he wants it to make), while the loss of Alice’s name in the Looking-Glass wood is invoked by the identikit names bestowed on the colonists, or the permanent loss of speech imposed on dissidents as punishment by the regime. Key to both Amatka and the Looking-Glass country is the question of who is dreaming the whole shebang: in Alice’s case, whether it’s the Red King, Alice herself, Lewis Carroll, or the reader, while in Amatka the choices are Vanja (who dreams often, and often cannot tell whether she is dreaming), or the Central Committee, or the colonists, or Tidbeck and the reader, or a strange fusion of all these. After all, the colonists’ ruling committees are elected by the colonists, while Tidbeck (like a good LARP player) allows themself to be ruled by both colonists and committees for as long as they are writing, as does the reader, for as long as they are turning the pages of Tidbeck’s book. So the novel can be read as a commentary on the acts of reading and writing (both of which ‘take a village’, according to the acknowledgments), which can in turn be used as analogies for the workings of power in any given society or culture. The clear allusions to Carroll’s Alice books underscore the centrality of reading and writing to the narrative, as do the many acts of reading and writing performed by Vanja herself, whether she is borrowing the works of Berols’ Anna from the colony’s library or reading and storing away the records of Amatka’s citizens in the archives.

The Alice books have often been described as nightmares rather than dreams, with Alice under constant threat of being beheaded, driven mad, or having her personality denied or eroded. But Lars’s story of the ‘hole in the world’ also gestures towards another great work of literature: Ursula le Guin’s utopian masterpiece Always Coming Home (1985). In this book – published just one year after the date of the most famous of dystopias, 1984 – Le Guin imagines a future version of California in which humans live in harmony with the land, in a manner that consciously recalls the lives of the native Californian peoples whose cultures were the lifetime preoccupation of the author’s anthropologist parents, Theodora and Alfred Kroeber. In one story in Always Coming Home, a member of this future utopian community, the Kesh, finds his way through a ‘hole in the air’ into the urban California of the 1980s, when the book was written.[14] He is horrified by the pollution, the absence of natural beauty, the noise and the bustle; but before he leaves, he spots one modern woman in the city crowd who is not like the place’s other inhabitants. Recognisably one of his own people – a woman of the Kesh long before the Kesh came into existence – she is conscious of her context as the others are not, stranded and isolated (it would seem) by having been born with an environmental outlook far in advance of her time. Many of Tidbeck’s short stories speak of similarly isolated individuals who find it hard to connect to their fellow humans; individuals who seem to have wandered through some hole in the world from some other place into our own. ‘Mom’ in ‘Some Letters for Ove Lindström’ is one example; the titular ‘Rebecka’ is another; so are the two sisters in ‘Reindeer Mountain’ and the dead human stranger from whose waistcoat pocket Augusta Prima purloins the watch. ‘Some Letters for Ove Lindström’ even contains an anticipatory echo of Vanja’s father: there are certain conditions, the narrator observes, that invoke for her the idea that there is something strange that exists very close to everyday reality, some location analogous to what Tidbeck calls the fairy country. ‘When I was little,’ the narrator observes,

I could sit for hours looking out the window. It could be because of a certain kind of music, or because it was dusk, or a certain slant of the light. There was a sensation in my chest, a churning. I couldn’t put words to it then. But it was a knowledge that there was something out there. That there was a hole in the world. And a longing to go there. (p. 24)

The passage is packed with experiences that get echoed in other Tidbeck stories: the weird ‘churning’ in the protagonist’s chest, which for Vanja in Amatka can represent the grinding of the gears of the machinery of desire, curiosity, or fear – all sensations closely related to one another in the effect they have on her body, and all of them invoked by her discovery of the mysterious machine in the tunnels beneath the colony. The word ‘knowledge’ is used in this passage as it is in Amatka, to signify the consciousness that there are things unknown, lacunae worth locating and confronting, not glossing over; things, in fact, that may never get taxonomized in the official historical or scientific records. There is ‘longing’, here, too, for things unknown, as there is in the novel; and this word is worth pausing over. At the end of the English edition of Jagannath Tidbeck lists a number of words they could not translate from Swedish, and one of these is ‘vemod’ (related, I guess, to the German Wehmut, and akin to the Japanese concept of natsukashii as Erika Hobart describes it here). Of ‘vemod’ Tidbeck writes as follows: ‘think of it as a wistful sorrow about something that is over or a quiet longing for something else. As a friend of mine put it, “smiling through tears”’ (p. 155). I don’t know if vemod is the word used in the Swedish version of the passage from ‘Ove Lindström’ I just quoted, but the sensation Tidbeck describes here certainly ‘shines through’ her work in general, just as they claim it ‘shines through in much of our culture’. The woman in Le Guin’s story presumably feels it, that longing for ‘something else’ which has not yet come into being, but which is held in mind as wistfully and sorrowfully as something long past and irrecoverable.

Amatka also echoes another of Le Guin’s Utopias, her classic representation of anarchism The Dispossessed. The subtitle of that novel is ‘An Ambiguous Utopia’, and as we’ve seen, the title perfectly describes the colonies of Amatka.[15] Like Tidbeck’s novel, The Dispossessed is concerned with time that’s out of joint, and with a quest for knowledge, its protagonist being a physicist who wishes to reconcile the seemingly irreconcilable principles of simultaneity and sequentiality – or to put it another way, of stasis and change. The anarchy of Anarres in The Dispossessed is both deeply attractive, in its commitment to absolute equality among its citizens, and riddled with corruption, like Amatka’s Central Committee. Words in The Dispossessed are always political: the colony speaks a tongue that was invented by its founders, intended to jettison possessive pronouns and hierarchical concepts, though certain words in it, such as the word for ‘egoizing’, can be used as tools of oppression by the more conservative colonists against those who seek knowledge they deem unnecessary, and therefore luxurious, wasteful, capitalistic.[16] In Amatka words are even more political, of course, shaping the world as they are spoken or inscribed. Its colonies are more communistic than anarchistic, reflecting Sweden’s long love-affair with socialism; several stories in Jagannath take place in ex-communes, such as ‘Some Letters for Ove Lindström’, which is full of vemod for an ‘old schoolhouse’ rented out to a ‘bunch of hairy communists from the city’ (p. 17), or ‘Reindeer Mountain’, which revolves around a family home inhabited by six identical reclusive uncles, or ‘Brita’s Holiday Village’, about a tourist destination that never took off which becomes home to a bizarre egalitarian community – most unnervingly egalitarian, perhaps, in its attitude to incestuous inter-generational sex. As in Anarres, Amatka’s children are raised collectively, while love between parents and children is tolerated but discouraged as a distraction from the most responsible form of love, which is for the community. Love between adults, too, comes under pressure in Amatka, as it does in Anarres, where couples must accept postings to separate workplaces in response to the needs of the collective or risk being branded ‘egoists’. Vanja finds love with the woman who puts her up when she first comes to Amatka; but unlike Vanja, Nina is wholly committed to the idea that the colonies represent the best of all possible worlds, and this leads her to betray her lover for what she considers the best of motives. Ambiguity, for Tidbeck as for Le Guin, is where we live, and any political ideology struggles to accommodate this fact as it seeks to form a habitat for its principles. Poetry, music, drama and the visual arts offer spaces where ambiguity can be embraced, but these spaces are always being policed by ideologues with no tolerance of or interest in its ubiquitous presence in human experience. Ambiguity may be everywhere, but acknowledgement of it is rare and vulnerable, always on the verge of being snuffed out, though capable of reasserting itself through, for instance, double meanings, dreams or inexplicable events.

The most moving form of ambiguity in Tidbeck’s work is that of the committed radical who finds it difficult to accommodate their personal needs to their political convictions. The socialist loner; the anarchist who requires a consistent daily schedule for their mental wellbeing; the lover more committed to their chosen partner than to the collective they love – or vice versa; the innovator with a passion for the past; a number of Tidbeck’s protagonists fall into one or more of these categories, and in consequence fail to find a place for themselves in any human community. Or rather, they drift in and out of human communities, always gravitating towards the peripheries of group activities or discussions, afflicted by their ability to see things from a radically different perspective to the one on which the group agrees. In ‘Some Letters for Ove Lindström’, ‘Mom’ spends a few years in a household of ‘starving activists’ but eventually wanders away, her reasons for staying and leaving equally opaque to friends and family. It is hinted that she may have ‘been through something difficult’ in the past – perhaps suffering at the hands of an abusive husband (Jagannath, p. 23) – but this doesn’t explain her disappearance from the place where she was welcomed and cherished. Similar rumours abound about great-grandmother Märet in ‘Reindeer Mountain’. On the one hand she may be one of the vittra, beings who look like humans ‘but taller and more handsome’, and who live inside mountains like the Irish Sidhe (Jagannath, p. 81); on the other she may have ‘had a hard life’ in some isolated human community, given her decision to ‘run away and never speak to her family again’ (p. 82). The protagonist of The Memory Theatre, a young girl called Dora, suffers from the after-effects of the abusive environment of the fairy gardens, where children are enslaved, abused and used as targets in violent games; yet she is not the same as the other children, both because of her parentage – part fairy, part vittra, which means she is taller and stronger than most – and because of her inclinations: she needs solitude as much as or more than company, and becomes distressed by excessive noise or action. Again, her needs may be ascribed either to her psychological make-up – it would be easy to place her somewhere on the autistic spectrum – or her supernatural origins, her literal roots in the stones and solitude of the Nordic mountains by way of her vittra ancestry. Tracing her needs to the supernatural liberates them from the discourse of (dis)ability, instead inviting attention to their specific attributes and their association with the nonhuman environment, the neglected wild spaces. At the end of her story, Dora chooses to return to those wild spaces despite her deep attachment to her adopted brother, Albin – a fellow victim of the gardens – and the eccentric company of supernatural players he elects to join, and of which she has briefly been a part. The dramatic cooperative known as the Memory Theatre is a true utopia for Albin, but for Dora its bustling, convivial atmosphere is in the end unbearable for more than a few months at a time. Becoming a stone among stones, a vittra among the calm and isolated vittras, is much more conducive to her true identity, the identity she was forced to jettison when she lived among the violent lords and ladies of fairy land.

Like Dora and perhaps Mom and Märet, Brilars’ Vanja is the victim of trauma: the trauma of her father’s arrest and murder for so-called crimes in which he implicated her as a child, and the trauma of having been forced to try to conceive children of her own which she did not want. Both forms of trauma set her apart from the community norm. Well-adjusted female colonists are expected to bear children – and to want to bear children – for the sake of the colony’s survival, while the crime for which her father was punished was that of privileging a quest for knowledge above the need to erase any knowledge that might harm the community – a crime Vanja too commits through her quest for Amatka’s past. Thanks to this double trauma she finds herself both inside and outside two social groups: that of the old colonies she was born into, and that of the revolutionary new colony established by Berols’ Anna on the mysterious steppes beyond the limits of the colonies. Vanja begins by behaving like a committed colonist, but becomes increasingly conscious of the damage sustained by individual colonists – such as her flatmate Ivar – thanks to the community’s unyielding stress on the needs of the collective over those of the individual. Like Le Guin’s maverick physicist Shevek in The Dispossessed, Vanja is a loner, unable to commit herself fully even to the tiny community of an apartment, or of a pair of lovers such as herself and Nina. She is always gravitating towards the outside of any given space in which she finds herself, aching for alternatives she doesn’t herself fully understand.

At the same time, Vanja is not wholly at one with the revolution she seeks to bring about.  Once Vanja has become conscious of the revolutionary movement in Amatka, she works tirelessly to bring it about; but the language of the revolutionaries, as spoken by Berols’ Anna when she finally meets her, confuses her. As Anna herself puts it, ‘The word… the language. Is too small’ (p. 195), unable to encompass the experience of absolute freedom, of being ‘everything’ in the new world beyond the colonies. Anna’s appearance as a revolutionary leader, too, makes her seem alien to Vanja – dazzling, more-than-human – while even her lover Nina, once she has joined the revolution, seems physically too much for her, as if ‘her body had become too small to contain her’ (p. 214). Instead of melding with one another, as some of the colonists do (a father, for instance, melds with the daughter he slapped, as if in homage to Vanja’s complex relationship with her own father), the lovers scorch each others’ lips when they kiss for the last time in the novel: ‘They burned. Blisters formed where their tongues met’ (p. 214). Even before this, the women’s relationship has often been painful, fraught with misunderstandings, punctuated by hurtful exchanges; the kiss may be taken as a metaphor for the nature of their love up until this moment. And at the point when the kiss takes place, Vanja’s tongue has already been disenfranchised from the post-revolutionary world. In punishment for her revolutionary activities, Amatka’s surgeons destroyed her speech centre, which means she will never make herself perfectly understood again, either to her lover or to the organic, sentient gloop out of which the new world will be sculpted. The blisters on her tongue, then, also represent her painful relationship with speech itself, with participatory communication, with membership of the community she has revolutionised. She has been stranded in the past, infantilized, condemned always to be the uncomprehending child who listens to her father’s urgent whispers in the dark. Even the expression of the revolutionaries’ love for her confirms this infantilization: ‘you will remain […] as you are, separate. But we will carry you. […] We will always carry you, little herald’ (p. 216). Few novels have an emotional high point as intense or multivalenced as this.

For me this is the great achievement of Tidbeck’s ambiguous Utopia: that it finds a way to comprehend, to celebrate and to mourn those revolutionaries who are constitutionally ill-fitted for participation in revolution. I suspect there are many such revolutionaries in the world: the fellow travellers who never joined the body of the revolutionary caravan, the non-party members who worked to further the party’s cause, while always uneasy about certain aspects of the doctrine it upheld; the communists who disliked communal living, the anarchists who yearned for order, the many, many partisans who only ever wanted peace and quiet. The actors in experimental theatre companies or LARP workshops whose passion for acting competes with their preference for self-effacement. Ambiguity can characterize one’s attitude to what one passionately believes in. Perhaps it always should. And there is no genre in which that idea could be better articulated than the weird hybrid of science fiction, fantasy, nonsense, fairy tale, surrealism and Live Action Role Play that comprises Amatka.

NOTES

[1] The interview can be found here.

[2] Tidbeck describes the process of writing Amatka in an interview for The Beat Blog, here. The process of writing The Memory Theatre is detailed in the BOMB magazine interview (see footnote 1).

[3] All quotations from Amatka are taken from the Vintage Books edition of 2017.

[4] ‘As for language, I have always been enamored with different languages and the musical sound of words. Language is what makes the world, it changes how we see the world; in the novel, language and sound are pure magic. I’ve studied six languages all in all, so the love for languages will always be threaded through my writing.’ https://bombmagazine.org/articles/karin-tidbeck-interviewed/

[5] Jagannath (New York: Vintage, 2018), ‘Afterword: Transposing Worlds’, p. 152. All quotes from Jagannath refer to this edition.

[6] Other clothes that don’t fit include the outsized medical overalls Vanja borrows from the hospital supplies (as her friend Nina comments, ‘The important thing is they’re not tight across your bottom. That could make lifting patients embarrassing’ [p. 48]). The dissident librarian Evgen meets Vanja at one point ‘buttoned into an enormous overcoat with a thick collar’ (p. 106), as if to hide his radical tendencies from hostile eyes, while surgically damaged political prisoners wear ‘torn and dirty overalls’, as if to reinforce their outcast status (p. 115). Ivar expresses his sense of having been betrayed by his community by removing his outer clothes and setting himself adrift in a freezing lake. Proximity to your friends, meanwhile, gets expressed in Amatka through intimacy with their clothing. After Ivar’s suicide his best friend Nina wears one of his sweaters and sleeps in his bed, face buried in his pillow (p. 162), thereby prolonging his presence in her life beyond his death; and before this Vanja finds solace when she is separated from her lover by ‘resting her nose on the sleeve of her sleep shirt’ and breathing in ‘the scent it had absorbed from Nina’ (p. 103). Clothes conceal and protect, in other words, but they also reinforce deep connections between their wearers.

[7] Jagannath, Afterword, p. 154.

[8] The mention of Lagerlöf’s novel can be found in The Memory Theater (New York: Pantheon Books, 2021) at p. 135.

[9] ‘The Swedish [version of Amatka] has no metaphors, or synonyms, or homonyms, because it’s not part of the Swedish language. Since they were “forbidden” in the book, I had to write them out of the [English] prose as well.’ (I may have misunderstood this statement of Tidbeck’s!) https://www.comicsbeat.com/sdcc-17-interview-author-karin-tidbeck-uncovers-the-dreamlike-storyline-of-amatka/.

[10] See the ‘Edict: Name Usage’, Amatka, p. 199.

[11] Jagannath, pp. 113-124.

[12] Jagannath, pp. 125-133.

[13] The Complete Illustrated Works of Lewis Carroll (London: Chancellor Press, 1986), p. 69.

[14] Ursula K. Le Guin, Always Coming Home (London etc.: Grafton Books, 1988), p. 154.

[15] Ursula K. Le Guin, Hainish Novels and Stories, ed. Brian Attebery, The Library of America, 2 vols. (New York: Literary Classics of the United States, 2017), vol. 1, p. 613.

[16] See Le Guin, Hainish Novels, vol 1, pp. 640-641.

Fantasies of War in the Poetry of Mervyn Peake

[This essay was first published in Peake Studies, Vol. 10, No. 4 (April 2008), 5-23, and can also be found online here, beautifully typeset by Peter Winnington. Among other things, it’s a supplement to my edition of Peake’s Collected Poems.]

Wartime sketch

Mervyn Peake was pre-eminently a war poet. Of course not all his poems concern themselves directly with armed conflict, but the condition of warfare infects the tissue of his major verse, shaping and distorting it whatever its primary subject. He began to publish poems in 1937, during the long approach to the Second World War, each step of which they record, from the bombing of Guernica to the September Crisis; and he wrote the bulk of his verse between 1939 and 1945.[1] Even his post-war poems continue to worry away at the themes and traumas of his wartime experiences. How could it be otherwise, when he suffered a nervous breakdown in 1942 after two fruitless years in the army, and later witnessed the aftermath of war in France and Germany, above all at Bergen-Belsen concentration camp? Like many who lived through it he internalized the global crisis, making it part of his inward landscape. He may even have laboured at times under the horrible illusion that the war had sprung fully-fledged from his imagination, like a monstrous version of the winged horse that springs from the floor of a station concourse in his poem ‘Victoria Station. 6.58 p.m.’.[2] It is this possibility I would like to look at here, with the help of a few fragments of poetry I was not able to include in my edition of his Collected Poems.

From The Drawings of Mervyn Peake (1949)

Peake’s imagination, after all, could be a fearsome place. From the beginning to the end of his writing career it preoccupied itself with violence, to the extent that artistic creation and physical aggression seem at times to be locked together in an intimate symbiotic relation ship inside his head. The relationship may be encapsulated in the duel scene between two rival lovers in Titus Groan, where the men, both sculptors, hack away at each other’s naked bodies in a knife-fight that parodies the process of carving a work of art from a block of wood.[3] Peake wrote this fight during the war, when it might be thought his imagination was unusually concerned with bloodshed. But one of Peake’s earliest surviving poems, a long Masefield-inspired narrative called ‘The Touch o’ the Ash’ (1929), constructs a story from an act of still more horrible brutality.[4] In it, a tyrannical ship’s captain flings an old sailor into the furnace of his vessel, in grotesque anticipation of the Nazi atrocities. The old sailor has his revenge; through a titanic act of posthumous will-power he makes a new body from the ashes of his old one, and visits the captain three times at night, killing him on the third visit after driving him insane. Clearly then, from the start of his career Peake was willing to make poetry from violence; aggression was part of his imaginative make-up. One wonders whether this had anything to do with his childhood experiences in China. He was born in 1911 during a savage civil war, which his father recorded in a series of graphic photographs; and as he grew up, his father’s work as a missionary doctor brought Peake into close proximity with pain and death. From an early age he watched him perform surgery, including amputations, and saw long lines of maimed or diseased patients entering and emerging from his clinic.[5] Did these youthful encounters with dismemberment and debility haunt his dreams, reconstituting themselves from the material made available by war, as the old dead sailor in ‘The Touch o’ the Ash’ repeatedly reconstitutes his body from the grey dust which is all that remains of him after his death?

Sketch

Certainly hauntings of one kind or another are a recurrent motif in Peake’s writing. A poem of 1939, ‘We Are the Haunted People’, figures the helpless lookers-on at the outbreak of war as visited by the shadows of ‘dark deeds’ on the continent – deeds that sow the horribly fertile seeds of propaganda and destruction. Then in Titus Groan (1946), the young earl’s father Lord Sepulchrave is a perpetually haunted soul, his brain thronged with imaginary owls, which eventually merge with the real owls in the Tower of Flints who tear him apart when he brings them Swelter’s corpse to feed on. And towards the end of his working life, Peake represents himself as troubled with apparitions just as terrible as the ones that killed Sepulchrave and the tyrannical captain. A manuscript of Titus Alone from the early 50s contains this fragment:[6]

Out of cloud the face emerges
Every night before I sleep
It is pale as when cold surges
Burn like frost upon the deep
It is pale this head of horror
Save for where its chin shines red
With the blood

The ghostly head, like the ashen body of the old sailor in ‘The Touch o’ the Ash’, is linked with the ‘cold surges’ of the sea; and it would seem that the nightmare recurred with increasing frequency as Peake’s final illness took a grip of him. After his hospitalization in 1958 he wrote the poem ‘Heads Float About Me’, in which phantoms float about the corridors of Holloway hospital terrifying Peake, while being ‘haunted’ themselves by ‘solitary sorrows’.[7] And the most frightening thing about these disembodied heads is that they ‘deny the nightmare / That they should be’. They are real, not just a nightmare; or else they embody something real, ‘the horror / Of truth, of this intrinsic truth / Drifting, ah God, along the corridors / Of the world.’ Since childhood Peake had known the worst of nightmares to be true, not merely fiction; and his experiences in the Second World War drove home ‘this intrinsic truth’ with terrible force.

Recently discovered sketch (c. 1940), with centaurs and soldiers

Two previously unknown drafts of poems he wrote about the Blitz during or shortly after the War give powerful, though quite different insights into the interaction between Peake’s fantastic imagination and the fantastic works of art being shockingly produced by global conflict. The first reminds us of something that Peake was intensely aware of: until he visited Bergen-Belsen in 1945, war’s atrocities were some thing he could only imagine, as he studied the astonishing shapes it left in the urban landscape – the visible marks both of its terrible impact and of its absence, the fact that he has missed the moment when that impact took place. His poems ‘The Shapes’, ‘London 1941’ and ‘The Craters’ (all published in his first collection, Shapes and Sounds (1941)) scrutinize the contours war leaves behind – the mournful beauty of shattered buildings, the emotional impact of the gaping pits and quarries dug by bombs; but for the events that produced them he had to turn to black-and-white newsreels and the colourful pictures furnished by his own imagination. And finding a way to imagine these events responsibly – to disengage them from what might be seen as his predisposition to glamorize violence, to revel in horror, and to delight in extremes of physical suffering for their own sake – was something, I suggest, that he found difficult. The two new drafts offer an insight into his difficulties.

The first of the drafts, ‘I was not there’, is a sketch for a poem first published in his prizewinning 1950 collection The Glassblowers and reprinted in Selected Poems (1975) and Peake’s Progress (1980). In all its published forms the title is ‘When Tiger-Men Sat their Mercurial Coursers’. And it was always printed without its final verse, so that nobody till now has known it had anything to do with the war. Indeed in Peake’s Progress it appears in a section called ‘Other Worlds’, as if to reinforce its nostalgic escapism. In one of his poetry notebooks, however – tentatively dated to around 1946, though many of the verses it contains were written earlier[8] – the poem is given a different title, and a fourth stanza, which fuses the other worldly with the experiences of the Blitz which Peake never lived at first hand:

I Was Not There

When Tiger-men sat their mercurial coursers,
Hauled into granite arches the proud fibre
Of head and throat, sank spurs, and trod on air
I was not there.

When clamorous Centaurs thundered to the rain-pools,
Shattered with their fierce hooves the silent mirrors,
When glittering drops clung to their beards and hair,
I was not there.

When through a blood-dark dawn a man with antlers
Cried and throughout the day the echoes suffered
His agony, and died in evening air
I was not there.

Even when Paul’s voluminous dome reflected
The apple-green and lilac fires; or swelling
Like an enormous Ethiopian breast, raw crimson
Weltered behind its rare
Sweep of plumbed midnight – when the air was madness,
When water shot like blood from serpent hoses,
And excellence was wrested from a nightmare
I was not there.

In this version, the notion of absence – of missing things – is enshrined in the title, whereas the title of the printed version laid emphasis on the visions Peake could conjure up so vividly despite never having seen them. And in ‘I Was Not There’, the central lack or loss is trans formed from a simple threnody for unwitnessed moments to a complex meditation on the relationship between the imaginary and the imagined, two spheres that get fused in Peake’s dreamscapes (and dreams are specifically evoked in the penultimate line). It’s worth reminding oneself here that much of Peake’s war was a time of frustration, as the young conscript was shunted from one army training camp to another in a quest to find some military role for him, while his appeals to have his real talents turned to good use through employment as a war artist were repeatedly turned down. Exclusion from the centre of things here extends from the source of his imaginative energy – the horses and man-horses which figure everywhere in his poems and pictures, and from which his conscription diverted him so fruitlessly – to the dazzling vision of St Paul’s Cathedral under bombardment, miraculously intact among the ruins of the City of London. The poet’s absence becomes an exclusion from ecstasy, both homoerotic and heterosexual, and one might detect in the poem at once the rage of the artist denied access to his art, the intense sexual frustration which is an integral component of military service, and the psychological disturbance generated by war’s perverse conversion of erotic energies and male bonding rituals into integral components of the military machine.

Illustration to a poem by Oscar Wilde

The first three stanzas record scenes of gigantic masculine energy. Each is marked by violence: the restraining of a horse as the rider hauls its head and throat into a semblance of architectural rigidity; the shattering of the peace of a mirror-like pool; the death (as it seems) of an antlered man, whose agony gives new voice and feeling to the old metaphor of the ‘blood-dark dawn’. Each stanza records the encounter between disparate elements: in the first, man and horse, concrete and air; in the second, centaur and water, clamorous thunder and silence; in the third, the antlered man and the air to which his suffering transmits itself. But the previously unknown fourth stanza is much more shocking. The disparate elements – the lights of the blazing city and the cathedral’s racialized darkness; the breast-like dome and the phallic hoses – are fused with more drastic violence than in any of the first three verses. The ‘raw crimson’ of the sky sounds like a wound, and the hoses like severed arteries, hideous pastiches of male and female genitalia. The wresting of excellence from a nightmare makes the agonized sexual act recorded here sound as though it has been forced on its participants, so that the work of art Peake imagines being created by the Blitz is also an act of violation, a dual rape. The stanza makes explicit what is only implicit in the first three stanzas – that the male energies being described there are erotic ones, which culminate in the orgasmic roar of a rutting stag, and that the sexual acts they describe are aggressive. The extent of that aggression is intensified by that fourth stanza, and rendered unnerving by the introduction both of an implied woman and of a racial dimension into the picture. The myth or legend of the first three stanzas thus becomes contaminated, forced to align itself with the abominable motives behind aerial bombardment.

‘Mother and Child’, from Peake’s Catalogue for an Exhibition of Work by the Artist Adolf Hitler (1940)

Many works of art produced in wartime, perhaps, have this sense of being the products of force or compulsion. One thinks of Peake’s well known poem about a Belsen inmate, which is filled with guilt about the cold artist’s eye he brings to the business of sketching the death agonies of a young girl, with a view to working it up into a great finished painting at some future date.[9] The fourth stanza of ‘I Was Not There’ is in some ways worse than this, in that its celebration of the ‘excellence’ of the fire-surrounded dome seems guilt-free. The fact that three clearly fantastical scenes have preceded it liberates the poet from the severe judgement to which he subjected himself at Belsen. Regretting that one was not present at the death of a legendary stag-man is unproblematic; regretting one’s absence from a real-life inferno is not; and it’s not clear from that fourth stanza whether the poet is ready to acknowledge the difference. It would be interesting to know if it was Peake himself or someone else who decided he should cut it when the poem went to press.

Illustration for The Rhyme of the Flying Bomb (c. 1960)

The second of our two drafts comes from an early version of Peake’s long narrative poem, The Rhyme of the Flying Bomb, a revision of Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner (which Peake famously illustrated) written on Sark in about 1947.[10] I suggest in my introduction to the Collected Poems that this is the work in which Peake finally laid what he called his ‘war-ghosts’ to rest, sloughing off his sense of complicity with the global atrocities being perpetrated as he laboured to produce his art.[11] He achieved this exorcism, I think, by having the beauty of the Blitz witnessed by two innocents: a new-born baby (albeit an infant possessed of astonishing powers and unexpected knowledge), and the sailor who finds it in a gutter after a bomb has killed its mother. The innocence of these two witnesses is reinforced by the fact that both are denizens of a different element from the one in which they find themselves. The sailor is a figure from the maritime adventure stories Peake loved as a boy; his language makes him sound like a combination of Jim Hawkins and Long John Silver, the teenager and the murderously avuncular pirate, both of whom are badly out of their depth in wartime London. Cut off by fire from his beloved water, the sailor is confronted by real scenes more savagely absurd than anything in Stevenson’s fiction. And the baby, too, hails from the sea: the sailor calls it ‘little fish’, and when it suddenly gains a voice it reveals that it has shared many of his nautical experiences in previous lives. Together the pair reinvent the burning city as a scene from their seafaring past, turning blazing buildings into ships, flames into sea-flowers and red-hot ashes into the wide red mouths of figureheads. The baby’s comradeship gives the sailor courage to face his death, and by the time the ballad ends the ghastly beauty of the ruined metropolis has been retrospectively brought under control, tamed, as it were, by being harnessed to children’s fictions, without having its impact softened or diminished in the process.

Yet there is something missing from the poem: a specific absence at its core that becomes glaringly obvious once it’s been pointed out. As the pair take shelter in a shattered church, the sailor mounts the pulpit and announces that he is going to tell the baby a story. ‘Now listen to me while I sing you a tale,’ he announces, and goes on:

For the things I’ve forgotten for many a year
Are shouldering into my mind,
Of the time when my heart was a wave that heaved
To the gale of my sea-mad mind.

The infant at first seems keen to hear the narrative, but soon afterwards remembers that it has got plenty of sea-memories of its own, and asks instead to join him in a song. The early draft of the poem formerly held in the Bodleian Library, however, shows that the sailor did at one point begin to tell his tale; and it also shows why the full tale never got told. Here is the relevant section of the draft.

We had been at sea for a month or more
With the rich black coal below
But the storms had swept the bridge away
And the ship was a sheet of snow.

And the shining engines were red with rust
And the winter water lay
In mucky pools all over the coal
In the hold of our ship that day –

And there was no wind, and there was no warmth
And there was no water or food,
And our anchor was plunged in the freezing sea
As deep in the snow we stood.

The masts were gone and all was gone
But a thick white layer of snow
Like a poultice laid from end to end
With the two black dots to show

Where the last two men alive stood stiff
At the side of the ice-bound rail,
When out of the sea with a splash and a shout
Came a thing with a bright green tail.

Its cheeks were red as a sunset fierce,
And its hair streamed out behind
In a tangle of jet-black weed and its eyes
Were as yellow as lemon-rind.

Then up it lifted its great big head
From out of the murky sea
And opened the great salt merman curve
[Of] his mouth that was big as three.

‘And are you the crew of this ship of snow
That has so molested me
By dropping of your anchor at the door of my cave
At the bottom of the winter sea?

‘You have dropped your anchor across my door
And my wife is trapped inside
With our five blue chicks that are crying out their hearts
For a taste of the morning tide.’

Then the two stiff men cried, ‘Sorry we are
To have so disturbed your home,
But our captain it was who ordered us
To lower our anchor down.’

And our captain is dead and the crew is dead
And we are the last to go,
And we have no strength for to work the crank
And to haul back the anchor now.

‘We’re as frozen up as the engines are
And as cold as the ice on the rail.
But where O where did you get that hair
And that beautiful bright green tail?’

The merman he heaved himself aboard
And he swished the decks with his tail
And the white snow flew up into the air
And over the frozen rail.

‘Now I’ll answer you this and many things more,’
He said, ‘but I first must know,
With your arms so weak, what the deuce can be done
About the anchor that you’ve plunged below?’

His cheeks shone red and his yellow eyes
Were as bright as sovereigns in his head.
‘There’s only one thing can be done about this,
So listen to my words,’ he said.

‘You’ll never get home, and you’ll never find food
And you’ll have no strength to stir,
And you’ll freeze to death by the afternoon
If you go on standing here.

‘You must dive with me through the cold black sea
To my cave where your anchor stands,
And there you must marry a mermaid chill
With little white fins for hands.

‘And there you must marry a mermaid sweet
With a tail as long as your arm.
O it’s then you’ll have the strength for to move away
Your anchor from

And the rest is missing. By this point Peake must have known very well that his readers will have forgotten the Blitz, the baby and the sailor, as they mull over the problem of the trap the sailors find them selves in, and meditate, perhaps, on the relationship between this story and the old song ‘O ’twas in the broad Atlantic’. Peake has written himself into a dead end, and he dealt with it in the most sensible way he could: by stopping and going back to take up his tale at the point where the false trail began.

Long John Silver

This wasn’t the first time Peake had written himself into a hole, and on one occasion the hole had been very like this one. His unfinished early novel Mr Slaughterboard comes to a halt with another ship jammed in mid-ocean, impaled this time on a needle of rock improbably rising to within a few feet of the surface miles from the nearest shore.[12] The most notable feature of this ship, the Conger Eel, is its magnificent library, the Room of Books, where the Captain pores over the volumes he loves in the company of his eyeless servant Smear, and wonders what it would be like to add his own name to the illustrious register of dead authors. The closest he comes to doing so is by casually butchering his men, killing them off singly and in batches in the name of what he calls ‘art’. His brutality is unpleasant, but not especially disturbing, because it’s so obviously divorced from the world beyond the pages of Peake’s fiction. Smear’s eyelessness confirms his own and the captain’s determined self-segregation from the concerns and moral systems that govern other communities. As Peake puts it, ‘They formed their own Universe. Untouched by the workings of other minds, solely dependent upon themselves, they formed a cosmos of existence, a reality that moved and thought between the sea and the sky’. The marooning of the ship enables them to achieve their highest ambition: to be disconnected for ever from all inhabited countries, free to dedicate themselves to the workings of their own mental cosmos without reference to anybody else’s; and the Captain celebrates the moment with another bout of aesthetically-motivated slaughter. And this final orgy of killing again fails to disturb the reader because of the grotesqueness of the crew they slaughter, whose physical peculiarities mark them out as denizens of the Room of Books, like the Captain and Mr Smear.

‘Self Portrait’, from Peake’s Catalogue for an Exhibition of Works by the Artist Adolf Hitler (c. 1940)

But by the time he wrote The Rhyme of the Flying Bomb, it was not so easy for Peake to justify casual slaughter in his writings, and the notion of aesthetically-motivated murder had become deeply disturbing. This shift in perspective was given visual expression in a series of pictures he drew in 1940, as a means of advertizing his skills to the War Artists’ Advisory Committee. The series purports to be a portfolio of pictures by the artist Adolf Hitler, and has as its frontispiece Hitler’s self-portrait, staring in horror out of the page at what was presumably once a mirror – but is now the reader, who seems to have been made complicit with the dictator’s crimes by becoming the focus of his gaze. At the time Peake drew this series he had not yet seen the horrors of war at first hand, and had to rely on reports and his own imagination to flesh them out. But he wrote The Rhyme of the Flying Bomb after witnessing the aftermath of atrocities on French, German and British soil, and the relationship between his wild imaginings and the world they obliquely reflected had undergone a radical change. No longer motivated primarily by a yearning to be absorbed into the world of books, his habitual use of the fantastic possessed a new urgency that fills the later pages of his novel Titus Groan. The merman fragment offers an opportunity to consider the nature of that urgency.

Illustration for The Rhyme of the Flying Bomb (c. 1960)

Mr Slaughterboard’s ship and its occupants are things of fiction, which get transfixed in the course of a sea story that moves with seeming inevitability towards this goal. The story of the merman, by contrast, is dredged up from the sailor’s memory by what seems its polar opposite: the devastated London cityscape through which he wanders. The elements of fire and water have already become perversely fused for the sailor a few stanzas earlier, as the burning streets reassemble themselves into a bright pageant playing out his personal history: ‘And the ships of brick and the ships of stone / And the charcoal ships lurched by / While his footsteps clashed on the frozen waves / That shone to the scarlet sky.’ It is this pageant of fire and water, heat and cold that triggers his recollection of the merman incident, and he narrates it to the baby as a means of explaining the specific resonance that the London flames have struck in him, the particular ‘frozen waves’ he has in mind.

It’s clear enough why he sees these two traumatic moments of his life as related. The extremes of physical suffering produced by both environments – the Arctic seas and the wartime conflagration – are the same. In both cases, the miraculous emergence of a living person from a dead world is the same (the talking baby and the merman), suggesting against all likelihood that extremes of temperature may provide a congenial habitat for intelligent beings. And in both cases the being in question offers the sailor an uncanny escape route from what’s clearly an inescapable situation. In fact, both baby and merman can be read as the hallucinations of a dying mind, as it struggles to find an alternative to the intolerable inevitability of death. As the cold or heat becomes too intense to bear, the sailor discovers in each forbidding zone a native inhabitant, whose physical attributes – nakedness in the baby’s case, brilliant hues in the merman’s – proclaim their indifference to the flame or frost that is killing the sailor. This is a very different use of fantasy from Mr Slaughterboard’s exuberant self-indulgence; its escapism is a psychological necessity rather than a piece of adolescent whimsy, and the quest to find some sort of moral explanation, or even absolution, for the unjustified torment to which its protagonists are subjected, starkly contrasts with Mr Slaughterboard’s tormenting and slaughtering of his crew, which invites no moral justification at all.

‘Coming Up to Scratch’, from Figures of Speech (1954)

The merman story is sung in a church ‘To the tune of a bleeding hymn’; its impulse is religious, and marks religion in this context as a story that’s built from memory and fantasy, and from the desperation that fuses the two. The sailors in the narrative are frozen stiff until they are indistinguishable from the frozen vessel on which they’re stranded. There’s clearly no way out of their predicament except through death; and it’s in this extreme situation that a manifestation of the fantastic emerges godlike from the waves, adding the brilliance of oil colour – Peake’s painterly palette of greens, reds and yellows – to the whites, blacks and greys of the Arctic seascape. The merman also brings with him, godlike, both an accusation of guilt and a promise of forgiveness. Those who suffer invariably convince themselves that they deserve to suffer, so as to preserve some sense of the crude but safe moral coordinates with which they have been raised; and the merman brings a rationale for the sailors’ suffering in the form of a crime they have committed. The ship’s anchor has trapped his wife and children in their underwater cave, and the sailors will not be released from their torment until the anchor is raised again, the door of the cave opened and the family set free. Like Adam and Eve, or like conscripts accused of a crime against humanity, the sailors respond by transferring responsibility for their actions to a higher authority. It was the ship’s captain who ordered the anchor to be lowered, and the captain is now inaccessible, cut off from retribution, like most of his crew, by death. Like Adam and Eve and the rest of humanity, too, the sailors are incapable of atoning for their inadvertent crime under their own steam, as it were; they lack the strength to raise the anchor. Having confessed and sought to exonerate themselves, the men wait for divine judgement.

The merman’s judgement comes in the form of a solution to their impasse: they are to wed themselves to the elements that are killing them. First they must plunge into the inhospitable sea, then bind themselves by nuptial contract to an alien being: a ‘mermaid chill / With little white fins for hands’. Having performed this dual act of self-negation they will, he claims, gain the strength to raise the anchor, as if sexual and contractual union with a hostile environment has made everything within it easy for them. The merman anticipates their naturalization in the Arctic wastes in the fragment’s final stanza, where the once chilly mermaid is described as ‘sweet’, and her most alien feature – her tail – is measured against the familiar length of a sailor’s upper limb. In this way the fusion with ice and steel that was killing the sailors at the beginning of the extract is replaced by a marriage with cold black water and fishiness, that will inject them by some undisclosed means with the merman’s virile energy. Religion becomes the process of accepting – or rather of actively, passionately embracing – the causes of pain and destruction that you are too frail to fight. And it becomes, too, a fantasy, a dream born from desire, whose resistance to the remorselessness of wartime logic offers the only satisfactory solution to a problem insoluble by any other means.

Illustration to The Rhyme of the Flying Bomb (c. 1960)

But the merman isn’t necessary to The Rhyme of the Flying Bomb, as Peake recognized when he chose to stop writing about him. The sailor in wartime London has already found a god before he begins to tell this story – a miniature god which gently points out that it contains within itself all the sailor’s memories, desires and dreams – and this is the baby. While the sailor is gearing up to tell the merman story in the ruined church, the baby suddenly manifests its superhuman powers for the first time, responding to the sailor’s offer to narrate with a shrill cry of assent, then levitating in front of the pulpit, ‘Where it hovered with its hands clenched tight at its breast’ just next to an open Bible, like a latter-day version of Robert Southwell’s Burning Babe. The moment is a natural next stage in a process that began with the miracle of the baby’s discovery – when the sound of its heart in the midst of destruction astonished and awed the sailor. This miracle was reinforced by the sailor’s perception that the child is absurdly, insanely out of place (‘All bare and cold in that gutter of gold / You had no cause to be, / No more than it’s right for the likes of you / To be born in this century’); and led at last to his decision, after entering the church, to ‘worship’ the child for its ‘brand-new look’, its ‘fists like a brace of anemones’, and the miraculous ‘ticker’ it keeps in its fragile chest. The baby, then, provides an emblem of war’s absurdity, the incongruous juxtapositions it generates, and the fantasies that are the only apt response to these. And the comfort it dispenses is quite different from, and more imaginatively satisfying than, the strange sub-oceanic marriage offered by the sea-god as a solution to the sailor’s woes.

For one thing, the child refuses to adopt a position of judgement over the sailor – or of superiority to him – as the merman does. It refers to him as ‘sailor, saviour’, as if sharing its divinity with the dying man. Despite his scepticism, it extends to him the promise that he will share its ability to regenerate after death; and it gives him the benefit of its awareness that appalling events like the Blitz are nothing new, that they have precedents in history, and that therefore the sailor need not be erased from the earth with the disintegration of his body under the impact of the last flying bomb; after all, the baby is proof of this, with its new wrinkled arms and its astonishing memory for adventures, seascapes and people it has encountered in previous lives. Its only advantage over him, in fact, is that it remembers having ‘seen it all before’, and can therefore give him words of counsel as he drifts bleeding and blistered, with lacerated feet and unrecognizable face, towards his own particular death.

Illustration to The Rhyme of the Flying Bomb (c. 1960)

More importantly, perhaps (and this is a comfort Peake needed as much as his Stevensonian seafarer) it reassures him that his fantasies – the visions of miracles which Peake always associated with his heart – have as much validity as a response to the world, and above all to the World War, as any historical, philosophical or political narrative lodged in the archives at the British Library or the Imperial War Museum. ‘For, sailor,’ it says, ‘there’s nothing that is not true, / If it’s true to your heart and mine, / From a unicorn to a flying bomb, / From a wound to a glass of wine’. It’s the sailor’s imagination, after all, that first made the baby’s environment bearable for it, as he showed it ‘the coloured lights’ of the burning city, ‘And the golden shoals of the falling stones / And the scarlet of the streets’ – thus making loveliness out of horror. It’s the sailor’s imagination which permits him to conceive of a loving afterlife, and to believe in the love he has found in this one, despite the fact that ‘There is no proof’, rationally speaking, of either. And it’s his imagination that gives the sailor his final, joyful vision, which transmutes the urban devastation into a maritime adventure far more dazzling than the merman narrative:

‘The masts are bright with silver light,
The decks are black with grass
And the bay’s so smooth that I can see
The blood beneath the glass.

‘And here’s a child, and there’s a child
Running across the bay.
They laugh and shout, “Look out! look out!
We haven’t long to stay!”

‘And here’s a man who somersaults
Across the mid-mast air.
The long-shore flames leap out to sea
And drag him by the hair.

‘And the guns that shine with oil and wine
Are smothered in sea-flowers deep,
And in the throat of every gun
A mermaid lies asleep.

‘And the figurehead with mouth so red
Is drinking up the sea…
O little babe, why won’t you leap
Aboard, and sail with me?’

So the mer-people do find a place in The Rhyme of the Flying Bomb, after all, nestled in the mouths of cannons in an imaginary warship. And Peake’s wayward imagination, too, finds a role for itself with relation to the war. What may have made the War Artists’ Advisory Committee so reluctant to employ him was a perception that his work was better suited to conveying the unreal than recording ‘facts’.[13] The Rhyme of the Flying Bomb, including the unprinted fragment about the merman, demonstrates the vital relationship between the material conditions of war and the fantasies to which it gives rise. Peake’s fantasies are composed of searing frost and scorching fire, of metal, stone, coal, glass, and all the matter that makes up a bomb or the destruction it causes. And they are anchored, above all, in the body, in its bones and internal organs, its flesh, skin, limbs and bowels. His position as artist can be summarized in one more unpublished fragment from the early 50s:[14]

Neither a sage nor plowboy dumb, I stand
A marvel and a clod in either hand
And in my breast a vacillating heart

Without Peake’s solid clods and marvels, fused together by his vacillating heart, our picture of what it was like to live through the calamitous nineteen-forties would lack one vital and little-explored dimension. The fragments unearthed here, with the evidence they give of the extent to which even Peake’s most extravagant fantasies are bound up with war and its aftermath, suggest that further exploration of fantastic writing in wartime would be well worth undertaking – no matter how inhospitable the land- and seascapes into which that exploration might take us.[16]

Illustration to The Rhyme of the Flying Bomb (c. 1960)

NOTES

[1] Approximate dates for Peake’s poems are given in my edition of Peake’s Collected Poems, Fyfield Books (Manchester: Carcanet, 2008).

[2] Collected Poems, p. 165.

[3] See Peake, Titus Groan (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1968), pp. 281-85 (‘Knives in the Moon’).

[4] For‘The Touch o’ the Ash’ see Peake’s Progress, ed. Maeve Gilmore, corrected by G. Peter Winnington (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1981), pp. 45-61.

[5] See G. Peter Winnington, Vast Alchemies: The Life and Work of Mervyn Peake (London: Peter Owen, 2000), pp. 38-39, which gives an account of operations witnessed by Mervyn as a boy in China; also Malcolm Yorke, A Life of Mervyn Peake: My Eyes Mint Gold (London: John Murray, 2000), pp. 24-26.

[6] UCL MS Add. 234, Box 4 (iv), sig. 32r. At the time of writing the manuscript was on loan to the library of University College London; it now forms part of the Peake Archive in the British Library.

[7] ‘Heads Float About Me’ can be found in Collected Poems, pp. 214-5.

[8] For details of the 1946 notebook – now in the Peake Archive at the British Library – see Peake’s Collected Poems, Introduction. ‘I Was Not There’ occurs on p. 14 of Notebook 2 (as I call it in my notes), and is typed.

[9] The Belsen poem is ‘The Consumptive. Belsen 1945’, Collected Poems, pp. 133-4.

[10] The full text of The Rhyme of the Flying Bomb is given in Collected Poems, pp. 178-201. The manuscript from which I took the text of the merman fragment was at the time on loan to the Bodleian Library, Oxford (Bod. Dep. Peake 5, fol. 33v-34v); it’s now in the Peake Archive in the British Library. I have added some punctuation. The rest of The Rhyme of the Flying Bomb is quoted from Collected Poems.

[11] See ‘They Move with Me, My War-Ghosts’, published in Peake’s first poetry collection, Shapes and Sounds (1941); also in Collected Poems, pp. 93-94.

[12] Mr Slaughterboard can be found in Peake’s Progress, pp. 63-94.

[13] Twelve of the 25 pictures are reproduced in Mervyn Peake: The Man and His Art (London and Chester Springs: Peter Owen, 2006), compiled by Sebastian Peake and Alison Eldred, ed. G. Peter Winnington, pp. 66-69. An account of the series can be found on p. 65.

[14] Writing to Peake about his prospects of becoming a war artist, Sir Kenneth Clark observed that on the whole he seemed to be ‘much better away from facts’ (18th October 1940). Peake’s attempts to adapt his ‘non-factual’ artistic talents to the needs of the War Artists’ Committee – first by painting surreal representations of the Blitz, then by offering his services for the production of propaganda – can be traced through his (as yet unpublished) correspondence with Clark.

[15] The fragment was formerly held in UCLMS Add. 2.34, Box 4 (ii), fol. 30v, and is now in the Peake Archive. This contains an earlier draft of Titus Alone than the one in Box 4 (i), which gives as its earliest date December 1.

[16] Quite a bit has been written about fantasy in wartime since this was written; see for example Sara Wasson, Urban Gothic in the Second World War: Dark London (Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan, 2010).

James Treadwell, Anarchy (2013)

51dBbzOcTBL._SX324_BO1,204,203,200_In the first two novels of his Advent trilogy, James Treadwell engineers the transition from a world without magic to a world that’s full of it in rather different ways. His first novel, Advent (2012), unfolds in a corner of England that has remained untouched by new technologies. The old house at the centre of the narrative, Pendurra, maintains its connection with the past by spurning modern conveniences: it has no electricity, as if this were a condition imposed on the building’s inhabitants for their lifelong intimacy with more ancient sources of power. The nearby cottage where young Gavin finds himself after his journey to Cornwall has no phone. Instead, technological communications devices are replaced in the novel by other forms of communication: above all by various conversations at cross purposes, a brand of dialogue Treadwell handles with increasing wit and inventiveness as the book goes on. These exchanges slowly reveal to Gavin the fact that he shares what he thought of as his own peculiar, isolated weirdness with a whole hidden population of haunted people. Marina’s father, for instance, the Master of Pendurra: a seafarer whose absent-mindedness stems from his preoccupation with his long-lost mermaid. The self-appointed guardian of Pendurra, Caleb, who can sense each part of the house’s grounds as if it were an organ of his own body, and pays for his sensitivity to the land with his deeply rooted misanthropy. The local vicar who has lost his faith, but who keeps encountering impossible beings who are not his God. The ‘nutty professor’ who for some reason seems to know all about Gavin’s imaginary friend, Miss Grey. Even minor characters turn out to be as haunted as Gavin is, or more so. At one point the boy hitches a lift with a passing boatman, who turns out to have been searching for the old seafarer’s mermaid for years. The state of being strange is far more familiar – and far less comfortable – than conventional fantasies have allowed us to believe.

Both of the first two books, in fact, describe a steady trajectory from comfort to discomfort, from the familiar to the terrifying, only to discover that the terrifying is just on the other side of what we’ve always known, embedded in it, woven from the same materials. Pendurra may be a ‘typical’ setting for a fantasy, but we soon learn that it isn’t a charming, rambling edifice like T.H. White’s Malplaquet, or Lucy M. Boston’s Green Knowe, or the house of Professor Kirk in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.[i] It’s scarily labyrinthine, impossible to heat, and all too easily co-opted into serving as the headquarters of a megalomaniac magician from early modern Germany. Even before this co-option, Treadwell enjoys recording Gavin’s discomfort when he finds that the bathroom is as uncompromisingly old-fashioned as the rest of the building. Absence of technology is delightful to contemplate from the warmth of a centrally-heated house, but a little frightening in practice, especially when the outside temperature falls below freezing and the roads get cut off by a sudden fall of snow. And if discomfort is represented in the first book by sub-freezing temperatures, the second drops those temperatures to Arctic levels, even as the time of year moves forward from winter to spring.

In tracing the shift from the familiar to the strange, Anarchy (2013) takes the opposite tack to Advent. Far from being cut off from the authorities by an antiquated communications set-up, like Gavin and Marina in Cornwall, the central character of the second novel embodies authority, and shows a corresponding relish for keeping things in order. But she is also a secret anarchist, like the policemen in G. K. Chesterton’s The Man Who Was Thursday. Constable Marie-Archange Séverine Gaucelin-Maculloch, whose name identifies her as an awkward fusion of angelic superhero and rigid disciplinarian, of French Catholic faith and Scottish pragmatism, is not just a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police but a self-confessed techno-junky. She likes nothing better at the end of the day than to immerse herself in the internet, connecting with strangers, trawling through oceans of unmediated data in search of the unexpected, the desirable, the necessary. Her experience of the outbreak of magic in the modern world is largely mediated through machines: the voice of her girlfriend in Toronto impossibly coming through to her on the official police wavelength; the voices of the dead lamenting their own demise on a powerboat’s radio; cryptic messages flashing across her computer screen, telling her vous êtes ici as if to insist that, despite her isolation in a marginal island community, she remains an integral part of the web of seemingly disconnected events which are unfolding across the world as magic spreads. In Anarchy Treadwell shows himself an expert in the sheer spookiness of the new media, which are slowly but inexorably dismantling our social and mental structures by offering their users an anarchic plethora of sights and sounds, a multi-dimensional ocean teeming with unfamiliar forms of life that exist in the same ecosystem as ourselves, yet operate according to wholly different imperatives. Anarchy is where we already live, and our efforts to persuade ourselves we are somehow in control are as heroic as they are ridiculous.

Anarchy-Advent-Trilogy-James-TreadwellFor Treadwell, even old technology is spooky. Electricity and engines offer some of the strangest and scariest moments in the book, as when a young shaman switches off the lighthouses on the busiest stretch of the Canadian coast, or a god invites the girl Marina to contact the person she most wishes to speak to, living or dead, on a broken payphone, or a demon renders a boat’s engine inoperative without a word or a touch. Caught up in this global decommissioning of the objects she relies on, Marie-Archange Séverine embodies at once the helplessness, ignorance, resourcefulness and courage of the ordinary human being. Her nickname, Goose, is as telling as her Christian names and surname. It’s a handle that’s at once silly and haunting, conjuring up both mindless honking and the biennial miracle of long-haul migrations across uncharted wastelands. Goose, accordingly, has two sides to her personality: the lostness of the modern, transferred to a remote outpost where Skype is her only access to the family and lover she has left behind, unwilling to acknowledge the permanence of her migration by unpacking her things; and a passion for physical exercise, which drives her in her kayak towards the choppy waves beyond the bay, or propels her out of the door of her apartment on long, punishing runs. It’s her participation in both these worlds – the virtual and the corporeal – that makes her so attractively normal, in contrast to the alienated trilogy of youngsters in Advent. When she is unhappy she turns to her laptop, and loss of wifi access drives her to distraction. When things get out of hand she uses her strength rather than her intellect, ripping phone wires out of the wall, commandeering boats, barely restraining herself from punching a zombie. Her interaction with her colleague, the placid, hockey-addicted constable Jonas, is one of the novel’s chief pleasures, showcasing Treadwell’s easy control of different dialects, Séverine’s French Canadian clashing with Jonas’s First Nation idioms, as it does later with the British English of a corpse possessed, or the wonderfully unexpected Cornish dialect of a young castaway. These perfectly observed dialects in Anarchy bring home to us the strangeness of a world in which people can familiarize themselves with an unlimited range of linguistic varieties thanks to radio, satellites, movies, cable TV. Goose is a native of the global Babel, and her consequent deracination is one of the things that links her to her equally deracinated readers.

In the maelstrom caused by information overload, which transmutes itself as the book goes on into a maelstrom of information loss, physical exercise, for Goose, represents control; a control that has been denied her in other aspects of her life (her posting, for instance, to a small, indifferent community; her position as a woman in the testosterone-fuelled police force; her relationship with parents from irreconcilable cultures). Ironically, though, her unusual fitness and strength also represent her limitations. As things in the community around her spiral out of control she punishes her body more and more, discovering how much tougher and more enduring the Northern wilderness is than her efficiently muscled limbs. Treadwell’s charting of this process is meticulous: at each stage of the book he seems to invoke her encounter with the terrible alienness of the North with greater economy and precision, until her penultimate journey of the novel has her steering a boat through the night under the direction of a zombie, more intensely conscious of the sea and islands around her than she has ever been before because she is more totally at their mercy. At the same time, Treadwell traces her progress from an assumption of her own power and technical expertise (as an athlete, a cop, a techno-junky) to a reliance on intuition, the mysterious instinct for performing a certain action at a certain moment which most accurately embodies our quotidian relationship with the world. So many of our decisions are taken for no particular reason – or for reasons that seem sufficient at the time but have little to do with systematic logic – that to say that any person has an instinct for right action makes little sense. Definitions of rightness and wrongness depend on circumstances, on changing cultural values, which is why the supernatural creatures in Treadwell’s stories are so frightening, since their physical and emotional circumstances are so palpably different from ours. But the chief impression Goose exudes is that of integrity: a sense that she carries her values in her mind and body, held in a kind of wholeness that cannot be invaded by hostile outside forces. For all her confusion in the face of radical change, the reader knows that her mind and body will work to defend what she deems worth defending – the young, the vulnerable, the local community – even past the point of what is possible. And this is exactly what happens in Anarchy when Goose finally faces up to the irruption of magic into her world: she does the impossible, without drawing on special powers, without even using her expertise as a policewoman or an athlete. It’s an unexpected climax for a book that reads at times like a thriller, and all the more moving because of its unexpectedness.

16130506This notion that the impossible can be achieved by anyone is the magical thought that Treadwell’s second book leaves us with. Séverine is no hero, and she gets things wrong repeatedly, but she does the impossible anyway, and is therefore heroic, as ordinary people so often are. Further, her heroism goes unobserved, except in the end by her friend and colleague Jonas. No cameras film her bravest actions, because all cameras have ceased to function; no witnesses testify breathlessly to her courage, and their words are not recorded by reporters, since the newspapers and cable channels are defunct. She undergoes her climactic moment of suffering alone, as everyone does, without ever losing her commitment to the idea of community; and that’s something cameras, websites and newspapers can find it harder to convey than books.

Treadwell’s trilogy is, in fact, among other things a eulogy of reading. When Marina leaves her mansion for the first time she takes a book with her, as a guarantee that her journey will have a beginning, a middle and an end. The road she travels reminds her of a story: ‘It occurred to her,’ Treadwell tells us, ‘that it was actually quite like reading. When you opened a book, especially if you hadn’t read it before, you were somewhere else, somewhere you knew hardly anything about, wondering what would happen. Everything was strange and surprising’. For Marina, of course, it is stranger than for most of us since she knows so little; but the experience of reading the best fantasy is very much like hers, since the rules of it are at first unknown. At the same time, one unvarying rule is that books have endings, and that people do too. Séverine is no reader, but she becomes obsessed, as the novel unfolds, with the question of how stories and people end. Confronted by a demon, she asks it what became of a shipload of missing persons at an earlier stage of her narrative. ‘What happened on that ferry?’ she demands. ‘There were supposed to be eighty-plus people on that boat. Where did they go?’ ‘That would be more than eighty stories to tell,’ the demon answers, and goes on to remind her that ‘Everyone’s story ends in death’. But reading the end of a story does not kill the reader, and when Séverine’s moment of crisis comes she doesn’t believe she can die, telling herself endless fantastic tales about last-minute rescues and miraculous escapes, because she can’t quite divest herself of the conviction that she’s the witness of her own adventures rather than their protagonist, that she can close the book any time and turn her attention to something else. Fantasies are our salvation in the face of despair, and Treadwell insists on showing us exactly how they help and do not help both the naïve teenager and the self-reliant policewoman.

Treadwell’s fantasies, then, partly concern themselves with the boundaries between the fantastic and the real, and with demonstrating how fantastic fiction can make these boundaries as clear to its readers as any form of realism. This is because human beings are always fantasists, in part because of their reliance on promises and forecasts in the teeth of the evidence that the future may not bear any relationship to the remembered past, an assumption that comes under intolerable pressure in Treadwell’s narrative. One of the most ambitious of human promises concerns an afterlife, and it’s one particular version of the world on which this promise is predicated that gives rise to Treadwell’s wittiest allusion to postwar British fantasy. Roughly in the middle of Anarchy, a woman – Gavin’s stepmother – finds her way into a snow-filled valley that reminds her of Narnia. Entering it, she thinks, is ‘like walking into another world, folded secretly inside the real one, which had been ringed off from what used to be reality by the unnatural winter and the reports of monsters and marvels’. Appropriately, the valley is inhabited by a Christian missionary-cum-aid worker, who sees everything in terms of his faith, reading the extraordinary snowfall as a personal message to him from God, despite the random cruelty of its effects upon his neighbours. A latter-day C. S. Lewis, the man’s interpretation of the snow has evidently been placed there to mock the books that seek to bind fantasy to some systematic allegorical function, as Lewis tried to do in his Narnian chronicles (though the continuing power of those books derives, I suspect, from their refusal neatly to accommodate their intended function). By the end of this short episode the Christian has been exposed as the ultimate escapist, his ‘essential’ work for the people left stranded by the cataclysm nothing more than a means of blinding himself to the breakdown of his relationship with his family, who have sensibly fled the neighbourhood, leaving him to his pointless mission – pointless because the people he claims to be helping would have been better served by retreating to the camps set up by the government.

The woman who meets him continues on her way more or less untouched by the encounter. But not quite untouched; she has received essential sustenance and rest in his valley of illusions, and leaves it equipped with the supplies and information she needs to survive the next stage of her journey. Treadwell is not censorious about fantasists – after all, he is one of them – and there is generosity as well as cruelty in his treatment of this Lewis avatar. Rather, he is fascinated by the sheer variety of palpable fictions with which we protect ourselves, by the resilience of our conviction that they are not fictions, and by our ingenuity in replacing them with new imaginings when the vacuity of the old ones has been brutally exposed.

More surprisingly, perhaps, his trilogy is an intense evocation of the corporeal experience of inhabiting a particular time and place at a time of crisis. As such, it speaks to all of us, and deserves our attention.

[i] For Malplaquet see T. H. White, Mistress Masham’s Repose (1946); for Green Knowe, Lucy M. Boston, The Children of Green Knowe (1954) and its sequels.