Kitsune-Tsuki – Laura Baugh

I won this novella through LibraryThing’s Member Giveaways, and since I had just read Yamada Monogatari it seemed like a natural next read.

In keeping with my confusion over what “Monogatari” meant, I expected “Tsuki” to mean “story” or something along those lines. But it doesn’t. It’s not a literary term at all, at least according to my limited search: it means “punch” or “thrust”. Perhaps it refers to the twist in the tale, which ought to come as a shock equivalent to a kendo attack. Because there certainly was a twist. Of sorts.

ETA: My mistake; my reading for content is sometimes lacking, and I apparently missed it, but the author assures me it’s explained. Apologies!

As the synopsis says, Tsurugu no Kiyomori is a sort of magic-using private eye, hired to protect a warlord’s new bride from a kitsune (often malicious fox spirit) they believe is near, and threatening. Kitsune can and often do take human shape in order to work mischief (and worse), and it could be anyone – or no one. And – again, as the synopsis says – a PI in ancient Japan doesn’t have the leeway a classic American gumshoe would, since a mistaken accusation against, say, the bride herself could end in very ugly, very painful, possibly very fatal results.

Tsurugu is partnered – against his will – with a warrior named Shishio Hitoshi, who makes up in grit and determination what he lacks in magic. They become a good team, until they aren’t any longer, and that’s the problem I had with this story. I’ll come back to that. It was well done, with several factors that made it both a very good and a very bad followup to Yamada Monogatari – there were surprising similarities (which is why it was both good and bad). I’m not in any way suggesting anything hinky about either book – just surprise at a superficial resemblance. This is a quick tale (wouldn’t it be fun to write stories about kitsune in sets of three? Three tales? Geddit??) which encompasses a pair of mysterious twins, a dog hunt (which was, I felt, an unnecessarily ugly scene, but at least it was not graphic or detailed), and a beautiful bride who may not be what she is supposed to be.

The twist in the tail tale was very much a surprise, and so was effective in that way – but it was so very close tothe end of the novella that I think I was still thinking “What … just happened here?” when I hit the last sentence. With the fast pace of the story, it felt like flying along on a bobsled, hitting a wall, and continuing to fly along without the benefit of the sled for a while until I came to a spinning stop several yards away. (This would be one of those rare times I wish I knew where to find a gif that would illustrate that better.) Once I stopped blinking in surprise, I think I was just unhappy about the whole thing. It was clever – I just didn’t like it.

But, to end this at least on a positive note, I do love kitsune. I love that the fox-as-trickster trope is as strong in Japan as it is in Native American lore. I love that the creatures can be malice personified or merely mischievous, can fall in love with human and be willing to kill anyone else. They’re a fascinating class of being, and it’s fun to see them as much as I have lately. And they have three tails – how cool is that?

Related articles

• Contextual References – Kitsune (youseitales.wordpress.com)

 

Street Magic – Caitlin Kittredge

I should have been looking for a Comfort Read for last Christmas. But this past Christmas bore no resemblance whatsoever to any other Christmas in living memory (in a word, it sucked), so I drifted with my whim and landed almost randomly on this book on the Kindle. I figured I’d start it and see how it went.

How it went was almost in one sitting. I was hooked quickly and dragged along for the ride. And it was quite a ride.

Taken separately, the component parts of this book aren’t promising. The main characters are a tough-as-nails-here-I’ll-prove-it 28-year-old female London copper, Pete Connelly (if I told you what Pete is short for she’d kill me) and Jack Winter, former punk rock singer, current junkie, and all-around (*pause to review possible epithets for one clean enough for a review*) Grade-A jerk. The story is different from other urban fantasies I’ve read, though there are elements that ring all kinds of Dresden-esque and Peter-Grant-esque bells (like the ability of the heroes to withstand a horrific amount of physical pan and abuse and come out of it making smart-ass remarks). One thing this book (this series, I’m finding) has that the others don’t is language. By which I do not mean skilful use of adjective or metaphor or turn of phrase; all three series do have that to one degree or another. No, what Street Magic has that the others don’t, quite, is sheer unadulterated potty mouth. I’m not unduly sensitive to filthy language – heaven knows my mouth in these past few months especially, as the universe has consistently showed me its heel, has been worthy of an Orbit gum commercial. But even at my worst I don’t think I’ve used the f-bomb quite as often and as creatively as it is used by the characters here. And I definitely haven’t used the (not to be coy, but I don’t choose to ever use the word) “c-word” … and if I did it wouldn’t be in every other sentence, and probably not referring to male characters…. I still find that odd. And there’s plenty more besides … It’s a little like sandpaper on the eyeballs.

Still. Despite all of this, I found myself completely involved. I like Pete. I even like Jack – and I feel for him, and want him to be ok. More, I want to know how it is that he reappears in Pete’s life after twelve years. I wanted to know how it was going to come back to, literally, haunt her.

It all begins with a missing child. Kidnapped children are rarely going to return home the same as they used to be, but this situation is something else again. Much as Pete wants to deny it, there is more than just a human psycho involved in this – there’s a supernatural agency at work, and that is going to take even more explaining away than her confidential informant is.

And that there is one of the problems with the book. When the sh – er, when everything hits the fan, it demands Pete’s time, at the expense of her official duties. Her partner has to do some heavy-duty covering up for her, and for the most part without knowing what he’s covering up, and it’s all handled a bit more casually than it ought to be – by Pete, by her partner, and by her superiors. Or maybe not, considering the second book.

Still, the setting was great; the Big Bad is both very big and very bad, with a few elements that were thoroughly chilling. And while I admit I have a soft spot for the classic Knight in Shining Armor hero, reading about protagonists as thoroughly messed up as these two are is a gritty dose of realism, and – since I can close the book and not worry about the pain or odors et cetera – a strangely refreshing change of pace. Not for everyday, this – more like the grungy, tattered outfit you dig out of your closet when you’re headed to a punk rock concert.

Not that I’ve ever been to a punk rock concert.

Or ever will.

But now I know what one is like.

 

 

Sorcery & Cecelia, or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot – Patricia C. Wrede & Caroline Stevermer

I can’t remember when I first heard of this book; it may have been simply through being a fan of both Wrede and Stevermer. I wanted it. A lot. But it was out of print. (*cue tragic music*) I turned to eBay, and as I recall I paid over $25 for my paperback copy. I was dismayed by the price – and dismayed when its condition was such that the seller should have been heartily ashamed of him/herself. But regardless of what it looked like, it was mine and I got to read it and I had a wonderful time. It was worth it.

And then, not too long after, it was reissued in paperback and available for about a third of what I paid. (*cue “sad trombone” sound effect*)

C’est la guerre.

I read it only that one time, but it’s always been on the radar for a reread, so when I saw it offered by Open Road on Netgalley I pounced. I have become rather fond of Open Road – almost every book I have had from there has been (or might become) an old favorite being given the respect and digital exposure it deserves – and my fondness for the company grew a little more as I settled in to once more enjoy The Enchanted Chocolate Pot.

The short version: What fun. What tremendous fun.

My copy’s cover

The longer version (c’mon, this is me, I don’t do short except in height):
S&C is an epistolary novel written as a game, as a series of letters between Patricia C. Wrede (in the character of Cecilia) and Caroline Stevermer (writing as Kate). They were real letters, sent through the actual post office, with the story revealing itself as they went along, and if anyone out there ever wants to try this I’m in. When they realized that the Letter Game had turned into something that could be a book, they went through it to edit and tighten and clarify it, and the rest is history. Nothing was planned; each response had to deal with what came before it with whatever surprises had been sprung, and move the story forward. The spontaneity shows – it’s unpredictable and fresh and fun (I might have mentioned that), and if there are rough patches due to the manner in which it was written it rolls along so merrily and quickly and enjoyably that they barely register.

Kate, in London with her beautiful sister Georgianna for their first Season, stumbles into a garden which should not be where it is and is offered a cup of chocolate by a grey-haired lady holding a striking blue chocolate pot. Kate refuses – wisely, considering the hole a stray drop of the beverage eats in her dress – and writes the whole episode to her cousin Cecy wondering whyever this woman would think she was actually someone named Thomas in disguise! The strange lady is after this Thomas’s magic, which involves that chocolate pot intimately, and it soon becomes clear that the lady is not alone. And soon, thanks to Cecy and Kate, neither is Thomas – whether he wants them or not, they become his allies along with his friend James, newly acquainted with Cecilia. And so it begins, an adventure which unfolds in the correspondence between these two clever, affectionate cousins.

The ladies have said that when they put all the letters together they needed very little editing to make it all flow as a story (just the occasional back-fill of details that were invented on the spot at later dates). I believe it; these two are natural storytellers. They handle Regency language deftly, and riff off the familiar to create their own magic-infused version of the period.

And come on – any book that embraces hot chocolate as its central focus has to be wonderful. Still five stars, I’m happy to say.

Related articles

• Author Spotlight: Patricia C. Wrede (siripaulson.wordpress.com)

 

 

Nick the Lolt – Anthony M. Briggs, Jr.

I received this book from LibraryThing’s Member Giveaways in exchange for an honest review. And I am going to be honest.

There’s something not bad buried deep in this mess. However, the mess includes wildly eccentric similes, amazingly awkward sentences, a great many words that – with a nod to Inigo Montoya – don’t quite mean what the author thinks they mean, distractingly odd colloquialisms, dismayingly haphazard worldbuilding, irritatingly erratic punctuation … I normally would have made an unladylike sound of disgust and DNF’d this pretty quickly. But I was curious.

The storytelling is a muddle: it’s supposed to be a history sent by someone named Iggy to an unknown patron; she is sending the story in pieces (packets) because she must be on the move for some reason known to the two of them but not the reader. She mentions that she has narrowed down her subjects to five historical figures whose stories she will tell, therefore indicating a series of five books, I assume. The first is Nick, a sixteen-year-old art prodigy who will become “the Marsh King”, a figure of terror.

Okay, now, the art. My first impulse is to mutter mutinously: the folk in this book esteem art highly (that can’t be bad, right?) and hold competitions. But … the first competition described is a speed-painting relay race. I don’t even know what to think about that. Speed is one of the most highly praised abilities in an artist in this story – if you can’t knock off a still life in a couple of minutes, you’re nothing. I was trained by a man who painted trompe l’oiels into which he put a bare minimum of eighty hours, and he taught a class which spent a full semester on one painting. Speed-painting relay races hurt my brain.

Nick is estranged from his parents, famous artists themselves; if this rift is explained at all, I missed it. He’s in great need of psychological help – or help of some kind, at least, because he’s constantly talking to himself, or to voices no one else can hear, and he’s constantly being bullied and beaten up by other kids. (And in the book they’re never “other boys” or anything like that: they’re “kids”. There’s one of the intrusive colloquialisms I mentioned, others being “Awesome!” and the constant exclamations “Woa” [sic] and “Ya” [also, sic]. A man is never a man, but a “guy”; “could have” and “would have” and “might have”are often “could’ve” and “would’ve” and …you get it. I’m not talking about dialogue – this is the narrator’s voice.) The reason no one – kid or adult – likes him is that he apparently brings bad luck wherever he goes. Sometimes. Maybe. Is it his fault, really? If so, why? He gets the blame for broken brushes and accidents and attacks of nerves that happen in his vicinity, at least, although from his point of view there is no mention of trying to do any such thing, or even being aware of it.

And, see, there’s one of my problems with this thing. The story is being told, we are informed right off the bat, by Iggy. Yet within each packet – constituting what seems to be a random chunk of story (the chunks are not distinct sections of the story in any other way, just in the fact that they are divided by interruptions from Iggy) – there are moments from the characters’ points of view which would have to be pure conjecture, pure fiction, on Iggy’s part. The reader “hears” Nick’s thoughts – and his friends’, at times, and his enemies’, and random bystanders’. In other words, this is a fantasy novel which seems to have been written in the form of a omniscient-narrator historical novel presented as history … I think.

Despite all of this, I kept going. Skimming, for the most part, but going. The revelation of the setting did not improve – if anything, as more stray details were piled on, it became worse and worse, more and more muddy. I wanted to reach the end because this … kid (*twitch*) is supposed to become something terrible, and there are a few “had he but known” foreshadowing moments which indicate calamity to those around him. I have to give this tale this much: it’s a unique story. But it’s such a mish-mash of everyday YA bits (being bullied, and liking a girl, and thinking parents are disappointed, and having annoying younger siblings) and not-everyday but still mundane bits (painting contests, and a village in the middle of a forest/jungle, and exotic plants and animals like coconuts and marmosets and such, and a people who know what horses and soldiers are but have never seen any), along with a hefty dose of completely invented bits (plants that grow from their seeds in hours or minutes, and newly invented animals (what’s a badillo when it’s at home? I don’t know, but they talk about them a lot), and paintbrushes that change their shape on command, and so on)… It might make sense, after a huge amount of work was put into making it do so. As it stands, the mish-mash is just a mesh. Mess.

Again, there’s something there, like one of those strange seeds the main character keeps planting to grow strange plants (at lightning speed). It needs a disinterested party to sit down and dissect it and stitch it back together again, with all the plot and setting holes mended and the style and grammar errors and eccentricities tamed. This is one of the great shames of self-publishing: however much confidence he has in his own work, a writer is always going to be too close to it to be able to tell whether what he wants to say is what he’s actually saying. Or to see typos or other errors that spellcheck isn’t going to catch (“wooden statute” instead of “wooden statue”).
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …
I wrote most of the above as I was skimming along from about the 40% mark; I couldn’t make myself read it with any depth, but I was still willing to work through the whole thing and see what happened with the story. But then I hit about 66%, and this sentence:

“…his eyes narrowed and a small wave of veins sprouted through his muscles.”

And I raised the white flag. I just couldn’t continue after that. Up to that point I was giving a lot of benefits of a lot of doubts: most of the mistakes I was coming across were of the sort that are usually defended with “You know what I meant!” But this …? I have no idea. It’s incomprehensible – and kind of gross. And to be perfectly honest now I’m a little angry. I’m writing a book (who isn’t?). I would be beyond ashamed of myself if I allowed my manuscript out of my hands in even remotely the condition this one is in.

I would be ashamed to let a text message go out if it looked like most of this writing.

How dare anyone wanting to call themselves an author wrap up their brainchild with a title and a cover painting (which is not bad at all, sadly) and release it out into the world without troubling to have it read through by someone capable of an intelligent, unbiased opinion. I’m deeply irritated that I was guilted – that I let myself be guilted – into spending as much time on this thing as I have. I’m annoyed that this thing is yet another example of Why To Avoid Self-Published Authors – that’s not fair, because I know from some of my friends on Goodreads that there is some wonderful stuff being self-published. But (to wax Scarlett) as God is my witness, this has the general look of a last nail in a coffin. I am going to be so unbelievably careful about the self-published novels I let myself get sucked into from now on. I have literally thousands of books which have undergone editing and proofreading which I could be reading instead.

I read or skimmed to 60%, so I feel fully justified in both rating and reviewing this book. I was foreseeing a two star rating, the second one being a nod to the fact that the idea is unique and might have amounted to something. I can’t do it. I want back the time I spent trying to read it.

 

LotR Reread – Chapter 2: The Shadow of the Past

This is going slowly mainly because it’s taking forever to shape my notes into anything remotely resembling coherence, and I don’t want to get too far ahead in listening to the book.

That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

Book I: Chap. 2 – The Shadow of the Past

Orcs were multiplying again in the mountains. Trolls were abroad, no longer dull-witted, but cunning and armed with dreadful weapons. And there were murmured hints of creatures more terrible than all these, but they had no name.

Worse things than orcs and trolls? What in Middle-earth could they be? The balrog? Wasn’t it/he confined to Moria? Is this the Nazgûl? But Gandalf didn’t seem to know they were out and about yet – he expresses a hope that they might not stir. The Uruk hai haven’t been unveiled yet … So … what’s worse than orcs and trolls?

We see in this chapter that Sam frequents a different watering hole from his father: the Gaffer drank and held forth at the Ivy Bush, and Sam chooses the Green Dragon. There also drinks Ted Sandyman, who does not make a good first impression, and this bad introduction will be paid off a long ways down the road. Sam, however, wins my heart right off the bat.

‘And I’ve heard tell that Elves are moving west. They do say they are going to the harbours, out away beyond the White Towers.’ Sam waved his arm vaguely: neither he nor any of them knew how far it was to the Sea, past the old towers beyond the western borders of the Shire. …‘They are sailing, sailing, sailing over the Sea, they are going into the West and leaving us,’ said Sam, half chanting the words, shaking his head sadly and solemnly.

One bit which is a wonderful promising red herring that leads to a dead end (to mix more metaphors) is Sam’s talk about his Cousin Hal, who saw what looked like an elm tree walking “up away beyond the North Moors not long back”. It’s a little gift Tolkien gives to re-readers, something which a first time reader might not make note of, but which might make someone coming back to the story with the tales of the Ent-wives at the back of her mind sit up and take notice. I love it – and I think I even love that this never does get a pay off. It’s left a mystery. If only Sam had met up with Treebeard, or Merry or Pippin had been in the Green Dragon that night – but no. I wonder if he planned anything with it and never got around to it, or if it’s just what I said: a little gift, an “easter egg”.

Gandalf’s adjectives for hobbits in this chapter: charming, absurd, helpless; kind, jolly, stupid …

And I’m a little surprised. Gandalf should know better. Helpless? Perhaps; they certainly look helpless, living in a bucolic idyll, firmly ethnocentric, xenophobic, almost fiercely unfierce, almost aggressively unarmed. But just look at how five not-quite-random hobbits acquitted themselves on unexpected adventures. As a people they have fought in the past – I forget which King they sent troops out to support, and there were the wargs that came one terrible winter – and by the end of the book it’s clear that they can indeed take steps to protect themselves.

And “kind”? Really? That isn’t my impression, based on the snippets and snatches of hobbitness the Professor gives. Those show a bunch of snarky gossipy folk who are quick to condemn anything different or “uppity” in their fellows, and who take advantage of any opportunity of food or drink or free money – take advantage to the fullest, and beyond. I don’t know. I don’t like the hobbits very much in this read-through, my boys excepted. They do not take well to surprises – especially surprises which put them out even a little – and they do not take well to anything out of the ordinary: the Bagginses are “cracked”, and the Tooks and Brandybucks no better really, and as for anyone from outside Hobbiton, far less the Shire – well, I ask you.

I think our Gandalf was romanticizing a bit.

I love Frodo’s take on his home later in the chapter:

“I should like to save the Shire, if I could—though there have been times when I thought the inhabitants too stupid and dull for words, and have felt that an earthquake or an invasion of dragons might be good for them. But I don’t feel like that now. I feel that as long as the Shire lies behind, safe and comfortable, I shall find wandering more bearable: I shall know that somewhere there is a firm foothold, even if my feet cannot stand there again.”

It’s not easy being an odd duck in a small pond, to mix my metaphors. I’ve thought of that paragraph over the past few years, because it’s seemed like there has been an invasion of dragons, or two, in our world. The second part of it, the wish for a safe and firm foothold, is only that, really. Things have changed so much – and not for the better; the shake-up didn’t have the salutary effect Frodo hoped for. In some ways it feels like someone didn’t get the Ring to Mount Doom in time.

I probably said – and intended – that I wouldn’t do much comparing between the book and the movie. I lied.

Here is where it becomes very clear that Elijah Wood – while mostly surprisingly good in the role – was much too young to play Frodo. He’s fifty at the start of the adventure – which is not a human fifty, quite, but it’s also not a human twenty (which EW was in 2001). Coming-of-age is at 33 among hobbits, so that may, maybe, equated to 18 or 21. So 50 would be very late 20′s, ish.

I love that the story is picked up in media res. So you were telling me something last night, but the story became too dark to be told in darkness… Beautiful.

I love the subtlety with which Sam is brought into these events. “‘How terrifying!’ said Frodo. There was another long silence. The sound of Sam Gamgee cutting the lawn came in from the garden.” …”No apparent change came over the ring. After a while Gandalf got up, closed the shutters outside the window, and drew the curtains. The room became dark and silent, though the clack of Sam’s shears, now nearer to the windows, could still be heard faintly from the garden.” Gandalf leads up to revealing that Gollum had made his way to Mordor: “No sound of Sam’s shears could now be heard.”

His fascination for the old-timey tales has already been established, so it’s inevitable that when he draws near the window in the course of his duties and hears snatches of conversation about things of power and history he would pause. He wouldn’t be able to help himself. He’s a joy in this scene, because while he’s heard some of what’s in the wind he hasn’t grasped the half of it. His fondness for Frodo comes through:

‘So you heard that Mr. Frodo is going away?’
‘I did, sir. And that’s why I choked: which you heard seemingly. I tried not to, sir, but it burst out of me: I was so upset.’

And he’s just happy: happy that Gandalf isn’t going to change him into anything unnatural, and overjoyed that his dearest wish is going to come true. He’s going to get to go see elves. I can sympathize.

‘Elves, sir! I would dearly love to see them. Couldn’t you take me to see Elves, sir, when you go?’

I do love Sam. Yes, there was all sorts of stuff in what Gandalf said about fire and doom and evil and all, but – elves! I have to say, I feel the same way.

This chapter is all about the ring. I never noticed before (I should just start using an acronym: INNB) that in the middle of the chapter, after Gandalf has made the revelation about the history, is when the thing goes from “ring” to “Ring” – it becomes an entity rather than just an object.

It’s interesting – and INNB – that when Gandalf wants to test the Ring he is unafraid of handling it. Sixteen years before, the response to Bilbo was ‘No, don’t give the ring to me’. I believe Peter Jackson played this up – the reaction being don’t give it to me, I don’t dare touch it, and this is capped later by “Don’t tempt me, Frodo!”when the latter tries to unload the hot potato. This is followed by, in both movie and book, an expansion on what would happen if the thing fell into hands that already wielded power. In Chapter One, Bilbo goes to put the envelope containing his will and other papers – and the Ring – on the mantelpiece, and it apparently gives one last yank at his will and his hand twitches, and the envelope falls to the floor. “Before he could pick it up, the wizard stooped and seized it and set it in its place. A spasm of anger passed swiftly over the hobbit’s face again. Suddenly it gave way to a look of relief and a laugh.” That’s fascinating. Gandalf took the chance and picked it up – had time to prepare, maybe? Or it’s safer without direct contact or sight? – and was able to set it right down; Bilbo experiences a last “spasm of anger” at someone else handling the Precious – and then, just like that, all at once, it’s gone. It releases its hold on him. Whether it’s simply the fact that he was no longer in possession of it in any manner, or because it “realized” that it would get no further with him, he is very abruptly free.

So now, years later, Gandalf knows what it is, or all but. And rather than “Don’t give the ring to me” he says ‘Give me the ring for a moment’ – and Frodo very much doesn’t want to. It never, ever occurred to me, book or movie, that this was a hazardous moment. This could have been the beginning of the end for the wizard – but my imagining is that he prepared, and steeled himself, and made himself able to touch it for just a moment or two – and not just touch it, but throw it into the fire. Frodo could never have done that, fearing harm to it, but perhaps because he knew there was no danger to it the wizard was able.

According to Gandalf’s tale, Sméagol succumbed immediately to the mere sight of the Ring sitting on his friend’s palm, and succumbed hard; he went from calling Déagol “my love” in such a way that D didn’t think it exceptional, being the best of friends – to wrapping his hand around D’s throat and squeezing. I can’t help but wonder how the whole tale would have gone had Déagol found It when he was alone.

I love this, though: Sméagol always had an investigative nature, apparently wanting to know why and wherefrom. And so it’s natural that when he discovered that no one could see him when he had the Ring on his reaction was to do what a great many teenaged boys would do, only moreso: he began to spy on those around him. It’s the ultimate blackmail tool, the Ring; you can be anywhere, see anything, and as long as you keep quiet no one will ever know – until you (appropriately enough) put the squeeze on them. I wonder how he proceeded? “I saw fill-in-the-blank – give me X and I won’t say anything”? Or just a general announcement to all and sundry “So-and-so did this!” just to enjoy the damage done? Did he spy on the girls’ showers, so to speak? And isn’t it remarkable that the only thing we really know both Bilbo and Frodo used the Ring for in their turn was to avoid people they didn’t want to see (*koffSackville-Bagginseskoff*)? Was there ever a moral dilemma, especially for Bilbo, who didn’t have Gandalf’s early-and-often warnings not to use it?

No wonder there’s so much fan-fiction out there. It’s hard to resist exploring some of these little avenues. Imagine how the tales of the Nine Kings might have played out (assuming their rings conferred invisibility too; did they?)…

Gandalf: ‘Behind that there was something else at work, beyond any design of the Ring-maker. I can put it no plainer than by saying that Bilbo was meant to find the Ring, and not by its maker. In which case you also were meant to have it. And that maybe an encouraging thought.’

I don’t know. I think I’m with Frodo: “No, it’s not”. I’m not so sure about the design being someone’s other than Sauron’s. The Ring had gone as far as it could with Gollum; he was never going to leave those tunnels without a literal fire being lit under him, and if he didn’t go neither would the Ring. So Bilbo came along – a traveler, and conceivably the only one who might show up there for a very long time, if ever – and it put itself under his hand, literally. I don’t find it hard to think of it as Sauron’s influence skewing fate and chance. Maybe the “something else” comes in with the fact that it was Bilbo and not any of the dwarves; good-hearted as most of them in that company seemed to be, still, dwarves look at things differently, and I don’t think everything would have ended up as happily if one of them had put his hand down and come up with the Ring. (Ooh, more alternate-universe fan-fiction for the writing!)

Speaking of dwarves and rings, there’s a burning (heh) question left there: of the rings in the ring-verse, ‘Seven the Dwarf-kings possessed, but three he has recovered, and the others the dragons have consumed.’ Okay. But what did the Dwarves (and for heaven’s sake, is that supposed to be capitalized or not?) do with the Seven when they had them? We hear about all the others, the Nine and the Three, but not these, not ever, AFAIK. And what became of the three that Sauron recovered? They never come into play. You’d think they would be weapons to be used in the War. INNB.

I love that dragon-fire is equated with the fiercest and hottest volcanic fires. The only Tolkien dragon we get to meet is Smaug, who’s fearsome enough for one hobbit to take on; how terrifying his ancestors must have been! Ancalagon the Black … what a wonderful name.

“I put the fear of fire on him, and wrung the true story out of him…”

Whoa. If you had asked me, I would have vehemently rejected any idea that Gandalf could or ever would use torture – but there it is. He threatened Gollum with fire, if not worse. And here’s the whole “greater good” question, and the linked idea of ends justifying means. And this is someone who pities Gollum. Imagine if he hadn’t…

Ah yes. That “pity for Gollum”. It’s a wonderful passage:

‘What a pity that Bilbo did not stab that vile creature, when he had a chance!’
‘Pity? It was Pity that stayed his hand. Pity, and Mercy: not to strike without need. And he has been well rewarded, Frodo. Be sure that he took so little hurt from the evil, and escaped in the end, because he began his ownership of the Ring so. With Pity.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Frodo. ‘But I am frightened; and I do not feel any pity for Gollum.’
‘You have not seen him,’ Gandalf broke in.
‘No, and I don’t want to,’ said Frodo. ‘I can’t understand you. Do you mean to say that you, and the Elves, have let him live on after all those horrible deeds? Now at any rate he is as bad as an Orc, and just an enemy. He deserves death.’
‘Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends. I have not much hope that Gollum can be cured before he dies, but there is a chance of it. And he is bound up with the fate of the Ring. My heart tells me that he has some part to play yet, for good or ill, before the end; and when that comes, the pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many—yours not least. In any case we did not kill him: he is very old and very wretched. The Wood-elves have him in prison, but they treat him with such kindness as they can find in their wise hearts.’

And Gandalf is of course correct, in the abstract and indeed in the specific: Gollum very much has a part to play in all of this. If nothing else, as of this page of the book he has provided Gandalf with valuable information. He’s also provided valuable information to the Dark Lord, however. Fan-fiction idea #65: remove Gollum from the book. What if Bilbo really did stab him? (Someone on TBWSRN* had a footer reading “The pity of Bilbo may *&#! up the fate of many” or something like that, twisting Gandalf’s line “the pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many”. They weren’t wrong, really.) How would the journey play out without him to guide Frodo and Sam through the Dead Marshes, and so on? Not to mention his final contribution. Never mind that, what if killing him really did have the effect Gandalf is thinking it would: would it have precluded his ability to give it up? What if now, some eighty years later, Frodo was the sorrowing master of Bag End because Bilbo began acting very, very oddly and one day vanished into the bowels of the hole, or into another sunless hole somewhere? Or perhaps was drawn southward by the call to the Ring. Or was killed by someone in his turn. Where might the Ring have ended up?

(I should make a list of the fan-fic plotbunnies. They’re free for adoption – if anyone writes anything based on any of them, please let me know!)

See, now, right up through this scene I can be wholeheartedly sympathetic. I can pity Gollum with the best of ‘em. I can shake my head in sad contemplation of what the Ring did to him. Right up until Gandalf says this:

‘The Woodmen said that there was some new terror abroad, a ghost that drank blood. It climbed trees to find nests; it crept into holes to find the young; it slipped through windows to find cradles.’

Pardon? Cradles??

And that would be where all pity and sympathy dies with a faint squeak.

‘The Shire—he may be seeking for it now, if he has not already found out where it lies. Indeed, Frodo, I fear that he may even think that the long-unnoticed name of Baggins has become important.’

Now, put yourself in Frodo’s shoes. (Heh – I originally wrote that without the slightest bit of irony.) Here you are, a young-ish member of a peaceful, retiring folk who have nothing to do with, want nothing to with other folks’ trouble and strife. You’ve actually met people of other races, unlike most of your folk – but you’ve never strayed past your own borders. And now, suddenly, you find that not only your people and your land but your own family has come to the attention of the biggest, baddest evil your world possesses. Oh. My.

‘… Even when I was far away there has never been a day when the Shire has not been guarded by watchful eyes. As long as you never used it, I did not think that the Ring would have any lasting effect on you, not for evil, not at any rate for a very long time. And you must remember that nine years ago, when I last saw you, I still knew little for certain.’

There’s a lot here. The Shire has been guarded – I don’t know whether it’s stated later (we’ll find out) or whether I’m bringing in extraneous stuff from the movies, but I’m pretty sure the guarding has been done by Aragorn and his Rangers. (Fan-fiction idea #81 – the Rangers On Watch. Why do I get the feeling I’m going to start drabbling again at any moment?)

And “as long as you never used it”… has Frodo never used it? He’s in his fiftieth year, and showing signs of the same “preservation” as Bilbo, who used the Ring regularly, did. And he carries it with him at all times, gangsta-style, on a chain attached to his belt. And he becomes very anxious when Gandalf wants to hold it – much less when it goes into the fire. Never used it? I do wonder. Somehow, knowing the end of it all as I do, I don’t really think Frodo’s that strong.

How are all the Rings connected, anyway? I can’t help but think that today this would be explored in loving and excruciating detail – the precise mechanics of how the Rings were made and what they do and how they intersect would be delved into point by point. Tolkien? “They’re magic rings.” Done. Beautiful. Take a lesson, authors of today.

I wonder if everyone calls the Ring “my precious” because that’s how Sauron thinks of it?

And here’s a good place for a little rant.

From the film

Okay, the One Ring is beautiful. (Apropos of nothing, Lucifer is supposed to be beautiful, too.) It is a pure circle of gold, and shines seductively. It is attractive. (So are poison dart frogs.) But I will never, ever, ever understand the fan of LotR who goes out and buys a replica, or gives one to someone they love. I just don’t get it. Of all the reading I’ve done in my life, I believe the most insidiously evil Thing I’ve ever come across is this Ring. There is nothing else to it: it is evil. It is dangerous. It can be used for creation – but anything made through it is corrupt and will decay and fall to ruin, or twist and become malevolent. It can take a good man and rot him from the inside. Bilbo was good-hearted, and strong, but even so the scene in which Gandalf encourages him to give It up is ugly and scary: he nearly pulls his sword on his best friend, who hasn’t even physically tried to take the thing away from him. There has been an ocean of blood associated with this Ring, and untold pain. Look what it did to Gollum. Look what it started to do to Frodo – did do, in the end. And Boromir, who wanted nothing more than to save his people. Look what lesser Rings did to the nine kings who wore them. How, how could anyone ever think “why, I think I’ll get a facsimile of this incredibly loathsome thing and wear it on a chain!” Or, worse, use it as (*shudder*) a wedding ring.

I know, I know – what’s out there is simply merchandising, there is no magic, the things put out by Museum Replicas or the Noble Collection or whoever are just golden(ish) rings with engraving on them. But, see, that’s where I have the problem. If they just produced golden rings on chains and sold them, then fine. It’s a gold ring. But go back to what Gandalf said:

‘The letters are Elvish, of an ancient mode, but the language is that of Mordor, which I will not utter here. But this in the Common Tongue is what is said, close enough:
One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.’

The language of Mordor – which Gandalf is unwilling to even let pass his lips to sully the daylight of the Shire. How many more ways can I say “evil”? And what is said in that language is bad enough in English: it will find you, and bring you to Mordor – possibly the last place in all the fictional or real universe I’d ever want to go – and bind you in darkness.

All right, said the merchandise manufacturers. That’s a little icky. We can fix that. And they took their replicas and did this on some: “One ring to show our love, One ring to bind us One ring to seal our love and forever to entwine us”.

Oh my God. I think that’s actually worse than having the One Ring with red-painted elvish letters spelling out the Ring verse.

The Noble Collection
One Ring

Look, if that’s your cup of tea, more power to you. But everything about the phenomenon gives me the cold grues. It’s a little like wearing a swastika about. Yes, the swastika was, prior to the Third Reich, actually a symbol of good luck – but since the 40′s it has indelibly meant something very different from what it stood for in the centuries prior. I don’t think there are many non-skinheads who would argue the evil there, and I don’t think there are many non-skinheads who would wear one. The Ring is – being fictional, after all – not remotely on the same level of evil, except in its own setting – in that fictional setting it is, if anything, more evil, being not just a symbol but an active artifact of malice and corruption. There is evil done in its name, as with the swastika – but it also works evil of its own.

I could never do it. And anyone who ever thought to give me one would be someone whose judgment I would forever after question. (And anyone who ever thought to give me one for a wedding ring would soon find himself single again.)

Right. Anyway.
‘Me, sir!’ cried Sam, springing up like a dog invited for a walk. ‘Me go and see Elves and all! Hooray!’ he shouted, and then burst into tears.

Our Sam bursts into tears pretty frequently, as I remember. I’ll have to keep a count. I do wonder – with undertones of relief – why Peter Jackson didn’t settle for making Sam the comic relief of the trilogy. Ah, but I suppose he needed Gimli for the long stretch after the Fellowship is broken. Asked and answered.

And on to Chapter Three. Soon!

* – TBWSRN: The (Tolkien Message) Board Which Shall Remain Nameless, you may recall

My Lord of the Rings re-read, introduction

My Lord of the Rings re-read, Chapter One: A Long-Expected Party

 

Bomber’s Moon – Alex Beecroft

When it’s so common to find a great many books which are rather less than was expected, it’s wonderful to run into something that is so very much more than was expected or even hoped for. I trolled the Samhain Publishing site a while back, and short-listed this book, and eventually bought it, and then promptly forgot everything about it. Every time I scrolled past it on the Kindle or saw the cover (I cordially dislike the cover), I thought “m/m romance – not in the mood” and kept going with a faint feeling of embarrassment for having bought it. There are times when I wish I could go back and apologize to my past self for doubting her judgment – because, boy, did I. This was fantastic.

I mean not just enthusiastically but literally – this wasn’t simply a contemporary romance sort of thing. In fact, romance was only a very small part of the book, in the conventional sense. By which mean if you’re seeking out gay romance novels for the sex scenes, keep seeking; apart from one scene it was a book about two people feeling each other out, not up. In the more traditional sense, the old-fashioned sense of romance in terms of (oh, this is good, Wikipedia): “love emphasizing emotion over libido” – yes. Quite. Also, the older-still meaning of romance applies very nicely to this book: “A long fictitious tale of heroes and extraordinary or mysterious events, usually set in a distant time or place”. Yes. Quite.

The synopsis is a little hard to swallow. Bear with me. It’s worth it.

The Goodreads description begins: “The faeries at the bottom of the garden are coming back—with an army.” Which is brilliant, by the way. And not untrue. Ben Chaudhry, a young Londoner of Indian extraction, has a close encounter of the fey kind, he has no idea what to do. Tinkerbell has nothing to do with these fairies; these are old-fashioned tall-and-beautiful-and-deadly fey, and they scare the hell out of him. As they should. He’s fairly sure he’s losing his mind, but a giant just shook his house like a rattle – he has to do something. So he – reluctantly – turns to the local equivalent of the Ghostbusters, a local branch of UFO/ghost/what-have-you-got hunters led by an (extremely attractive, of course) older (by which I mean my age) man named Chris Gatrell, ex-RAF.

What Ben doesn’t know is just how ex-RAF he is.

Chris, you see, was a hotshot bomber pilot in the early days of WWII. (No, I’m not that old. Neither is he. Sort of.) He and his team went on a mission; something terrible happened, of which he was the only survivor. In the late 80′s. He was discharged for mental health reasons, as a not-quite-satisfactory cover, and sent off on his own devices. It’s been a rough couple of decades. Not only does he have that stain on his record, but he has the evergreen memories of his comrades, left barely recognizable as human, one of whom was – secretly, of course – his lover.

Meanwhile, those fairies that Ben Chaudhry encountered? They have a human hostage, Geoff, who gives every appearance of being one foretold to either be the key to the success of the fae queen’s plans, or to the failure thereof.

One aspect I loved about this book was that although the main characters are gay men, not everyone in the book is either gay or a man. It seems like, in my limited experience, so many of the books I’ve read that feature gay characters seem to reflect some idea that all the people in the general vicinity of the story must be gay. Here, there was a very diverse set of characters surrounding the heroes – and it was great. There were women, and everything!

Lovely writing, a convoluted and unique and thoroughly enjoyable plot – I love a pleasant surprise.

 

Devil’s Bargain – Rachel Caine

And how disappointed was I when I discovered that, although I received this book from Netgalley, it is not the beginning of a new series but in fact the first of only two books written in this world, and the second book was published over six years ago? I was a bit crushed, is how disappointed.

Out of the blue one afternoon, Jazz Callender is handed a red envelope by a handsome man (in a ridiculous outfit, but I’ll let that be a surprise). She’s not in the mood for a Valentine from a stranger, and it’s the wrong time of year, so it takes some convincing on the stranger’s part to get her to open it – and even more convincing to make her take what’s inside seriously. The stranger is James Borden, a lawyer with the firm of Gabriel, Pike, and Laskins, and what’s in the envelope is an offer from said firm: they propose that she take the check for one hundred thousand dollars enclosed and use it to open up a private investigation agency. Two conditions come with the check: cases from their firm would take priority over any others, and she must go into this project with a partner she’s never met, one Lucia Garza. It could be a golden opportunity – or it could be an elaborate trap of some kind. Or something else entirely. There’s only one way to find out.

The worldbuilding in this book was terrific. The details are doled out carefully, and naturally – Rachel Caine knows what she’s doing. She knows how to set the hook, and get a reader on the line, and reel her slowly in … She knows there’s no need to dump all the facts on her in Chapter One, or even Two or Three or Ten. Once the reader’s caught, she’s going to be there, dying to know why Jazz isn’t a cop anymore, and why her partner is in jail, and what happened to make Manny the way he is … It’s a level of confidence in the patience and intelligence of the reader that isn’t seen very often. It drove me crazy – I wanted the answers – but at the same time I was favorably impressed by the buildup. And there was certainly plenty to keep me occupied while I waited – this was an action-packed book. Well done.

The people who inhabit that built world were also terrific. Jazz isn’t cuddly, by any means, but she’s interesting, and she’s sympathetic without asking for anyone’s sympathy. She does not trust or take to Lucia at once; their interactions are note-perfect, completely believable. As are those between Jazz and Borden. And did I mention I loved Manny? The second-tier characters could each of them carry a book, easily. They’re all competent without being superheroes (except for Manny, and he’s admittedly a freak), fallible and vulnerable and coming to the page each with his own fully realized past and present, and future as well. They’re not a cookie-cutter Scooby Gang, this lot.

The plot never really lets up. Caine moves it along masterfully at professional-driver-on-closed-road speeds until it executes a three-hundred-sixty-degree spin and stops on a dime, rocking gently. I’ve meditated before on when and whether to give out five-star ratings, and the philosophy I’ve developed about it is that if a book fulfills its promise, does everything it’s supposed to do as an exemplar of its genre, shows off its writer’s abilities nicely, and makes me happy to read it, then it doesn’t have to be Tolkien or Austen or Kay: it has earned five stars.

I am very put out with Netgalley for reeling me in with this book as if it were the beautiful beginning of a gorgeous new series rather than the eight-year-old first of two books. Teases.

Great quote: P 30 – Having a family doesn’t mean you have a life. Only relatives.

Related articles

• Review: Devil’s Due (Red Letter Days #2) – Rachel Caine (unconventionalbookviews.com)
• Review: Devil’s Bargain (Red Letter Days #1) – Rachel Caine (unconventionalbookviews.com)
• NetGalley: Free Advance Copies (randomlibrarianblog.wordpress.com)

 

 

The Chocolatier’s Wife – Cindy Lynn Speer

I received this book through LibraryThing’s Early Reviewer program, so huge thanks to LT and the author.

In the world where The Chocolatier’s Wife is set, marriage is not left up to chance: every newborn is brought to a Wise Woman, who casts a spell to find out who that child’s destined spouse is to be. This doesn’t guarantee Twoo Wuv; it also doesn’t guarantee happiness. In fact, I think I need to go back and read that bit again to see if it guarantees anything. Regardless, it’s considered binding; it just isn’t done to marry someone other than the person who shows up when that spell is cast.

When small William of Almsley is brought for the spell … nothing happens. Not to worry, his mother is told; his wife-to-be hasn’t been born yet. It’s when this sequence is repeated year after year that everyone does begin to worry… And when I settled in happily, pretty sure I was going to enjoy this book: “This did not mean, as years passed, that the boy was special. It meant that he would be impossible to live with.” Heh.

William’s not impossible, though; stubborn, yes, and not Speshul, but not impossible. He’s rather sweet, as is revealed through his reaction to the eventual discovery that his intended is from – *gasp* – the barbaric North. Everyone knows how wild and bizarre those people are – they use magic, and probably eat their dead, and oh dear, couldn’t you try the spell again?

Meanwhile, a good ways North in Tarnia, the parents of a baby girl named Tasmin are having much the same reaction as the same spell is cast for their daughter: Not – *gasp* – the barbaric South! Why, everyone knows how uncivilized and bizarre those people are – they have hardly any magic at all, and they probably eat their dead, and … oh dear.

William, however, is sanguine about the whole thing, and starts off by writing to his wife-to-be right away (even though she won’t be able to read it for a while). And this begins a correspondence (one-sided until Tasmin is able to respond) that lasts some twenty-four years as William grows into his place as the eldest son of a well-to-merchant, eventually captaining a ship of his own through pirate-filled waters, and then – to the bafflement and indignation of his family, gives over his place in his father’s company to his younger brother Andrew in order to open a shop selling chocolates (“I’ve never liked anything half so well as I like chocolate.” – See? He’s not impossible! He’s wonderful). Meanwhile, in the North, Tasmin grows into her abilities as an Herb Mistress – and waits for William to send for her.

Which he doesn’t. Years pass after she comes of age, and their letters continue back and forth, often accompanying gifts both large and small, but he doesn’t call for her to come and marry. And then suddenly gossip reaches her family that – lucky girl! You’re off the hook! Your barbarian intended is sure to be hanged for murder, so – such good fortune! – now you never have to go into the wilds and marry one of them!

Far from the relief of her parents, Tasmin’s reaction is to pack a couple of bags and enlist the aid of the tribe of air sprites who have adopted her to whisk her southward. The William she has come to know from his letters can’t be a murderer – and she plans on proving it.

Russell Stovers (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There were some minor typos (I remember “gigging” instead of “giggling” (which I kind of liked), and a minor amount of punctuation abuse), but all in all far better than most Kindle books I seem to be reading lately. The writing is just this side of lyrical, with a sense of humor underlying it that reminded me – yes, it did: it reminded me of Robin McKinley. If you take a look at the ratings I’ve given Ms. McKinley’s books, you’ll see that this is high praise indeed.

Cindy Lynn Speer was able to make characters unpleasant and unlikable without turning them into cardboard cutouts or one-note things constructed of a few ugly tics and nasty characteristics strung together. William’s mother, for example, is thoroughly un-live-with-able, but there’s something behind it, a love for her family and reasons for her crankiness (“still, that don’t make it right”) which rounds out her character and gives her weight and depth in the narrative. The Bad Guy of the story could easily have been two-dimensional, but is neatly saved by clever writing. On the flip side, Tasmin isn’t perfect, and nor is William, and the doubts and pettinesses and impatient moments and so on make them more three-dimensional as well, and I was very fond of both of them.

Ms. Speer is also very good at keeping things from her readers. It’s a skill, that, or an art; it takes a fine touch to reveal a little bit of something, pique a reader’s interest, and then evade the topic for a while without ticking the reader off – and then do it again a couple more times before paying off the built-up suspense. That happens here: there’s a reason William gave up the sea besides a deep and abiding love for chocolate, and it’s not told until William is good and ready to explain it to Tasmin.

And that takes a little while, because (skip this part if you want to remain utterly spoiler-free, because this might impact your enjoyment of their relationship, and I don’t want to do that >>>) …

… these two don’t succumb to Insta-Love. I love the way their relationship is handled. They have been writing back and forth for years now, and may – may, mind you – have fallen in love through the correspondence. If so, neither is about to admit it, being as nobody’s ever confessed to loving the other, and so neither is really sure how the other feels. Also, Tasmin is at least a little injured by the fact that it’s taken so many years for William to send for her, and while she admits even to herself that she was happy at home doing good work that she loved, still: he could have sent for her when she turned eighteen, and that was a while ago, and it went unacknowledged. And that he made a major life decision without telling her first. He is a little uncertain about how she feels about leaving that good work that she loved – does she really want to give it up to come live an unmagical (or at least less magical) life with him? And then of course the whole circumstance of their finally meeting face to face – through the bars of a jail cell – are … awkward. He says he didn’t do it. She says she believes him (and that’s why she’s there). Does she? He says she can consider herself released from their contracted betrothal, and go home and fulfill her potential free of the shame of being attached to an accused murderer… She says she’ll do no such thing. But why? I was so happy with the landmine these two had to negotiate before they came anywhere near a happily-ever-at-all.

And here’s something I haven’t said much lately: I like the cover very much.

Related articles

• The Chocolatier’s Wife by Cindy Lynn Speer (bubblebathbooks.net)
• Do Women Love Chocolate More Than Men? (proflowers.com)

 

LotR Reread – A Long-Expected Party

Book I: Chap. 1 – A Long Expected Party

I’ve always bridled about LotR being considered a children’s book (even The Hobbit was not written specifically for children, iirc) (* See Here*)– but there is a light tone to this which makes it more understandable. The jollity of the party, with the young folk dancing the springle-ring and all (I wrote a parody for that – see the bottom of the post), just has the feel of Good Classic British Children’s Fare. Even the fact of Bilbo turning eleventy-one – that’s not a very grown-up thing to call it (well, it didn’t used to be).

And yet some of the humor is sly and surely over a child’s head: “I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve”. (I just got lazy and looked up the wording of that quote, and saw a query on one of those Q&A websites asking what it meant. “I don’t get it”. *sigh* But see? Not something many children or the childish would “get”.) And “Night slowly passed. The sun rose. The hobbits rose rather later. … Gardeners came by arrangement, and removed in wheel-barrows those that had inadvertently remained behind.” A child isn’t going to interpret that nearly the same way a grownup does.

And, for certain, the tone quickly sobers up.

The lack of respect the other hobbits have for the Bagginses is kind of remarkable; it surprised me in a way it never did before, for some reason. Mockery of the family runs through the conversation in the Ivy Bush as Ham Gamgee holds forth. The folk from all of Hobbiton are dying to go to the Party because they know there will be fantastic food and drink and mathoms, not to celebrate the Birthday. They know their feast will probably be paid for by being forced to listen to a boring old speech by Bilbo, and maybe even *shudder* poetry. They heckle him as he speaks. Then after Bilbo goes off the giving away of the mathoms to family and friends devolves into a free-for-all, with not only folk becoming grabby over the gifts but younger hobbits actually beginning excavations. I don’t think I ever thought anything of that before, but good grief. Property damage. Delinquentism. How … human.

Hamfast Gamgee does think highly of Bilbo and Frodo, and defends them, but even he is well aware of their oddities and doesn’t altogether understand them himself. There are two reasons I find the rudeness extraordinary … One, the first one that percolated upward, is that the Bagginses are the gentry hereabouts. Or at least so I’ve always thought. But they aren’t, really, are they? Bilbo’s rich, all right, but that’s due to his adventures; he was well off before, and certainly didn’t have to go to work every day, but actual wealth came only with the dragon. The Shirefolk are willing to believe almost anything about where he got his money (and jools) and how much he has. Drogo is referred to as being a respectable hobbit, but no more; them Brandybucks are queer folk, and that is that. The hobbits hanging out at the Ivy Bush make terrible jokes about Drogo’s death – drownded! He ate a big dinner and sank the boat with his weight (making fun of which, coming from hobbits, is pretty ironic), or his wife pushed him in. They’re also powerful suspicious of those “queer” Brandybucks. It’s funny – this is actually tipping over my perspective on the place. The Brandybucks and Tooks are sort of the local equivalent of hereditary nobles, but there are no titles other than that held by the actual leader (the mayor?). There *is* a class structure – Bilbo was always a gentleman hobbit, meaning he didn’t have to work, while the Sandymans are millers and the Gamgees are gardeners and so on. But no one sees the leisure class as inherently “better” than the working class, I don’t think; the former hold no power over the latter.

I mean, Sam and the Gaffer work for the Bagginses, and Sam calls Frodo “master” and “Mr. Frodo” and shows him some deference – but the relationship between those two has always been something that has been discussed. They’re boss-employee, but more: master-servant something in the manner of Upstairs, Downstairs, valet and his lordship. One comparison I see a lot and have probably made myself is to Lord Peter Wimsey and Bunter, but that is actually a rather more formal association. Usually.

Well, I’ve made that clear as mud. I’ll have to see if I can untangle it more as I go on.

(Also: anyone who tries to bring up any OTHER sort of relationship between Frodo and Sam – or Merry and Pippin, or Aragorn and Legolas, or any other “ship” in the book – will be ritually cursed. This is a LotR-slash-free zone.)

The main difference between our two Bagginses and everyone else in the Shire seems to be that their tastes and outlook have been altered by Bilbo’s adventure; some latent tendency toward poetry, which in ordinary circumstances would have probably festered and gone largely dormant, has been awakened in them both, and they have a Tookish/Brandybuckish curiosity that is unusual. I wish we’d gotten to spend more time in Buckland, gotten to know more of the Brandybucks. They sound like fun. I’ll continue the sort of wistfulness about fan-fic I started in the first post – I would love to see some well-written fic about Frodo’s childhood at Brandy Hall.

The other reason the near-absolute lack of respect for them Bagginses surprises me this go-round is that you just don’t see that very often in fiction. In my experience – especially of recently-written books – the main characters are rarely mocked. In far too many Mary-Sue-ish cases the main characters are adored by all. I think the attitudes in LotR are in part down to the fact that the hobbits are a joky sort of culture; they seem to go for the laugh in almost everything, and not much is funnier than pulling down those who have more than you. But – well, take Frodo. He’s intelligent, sensitive, curious, a wee bit finer than most hobbits. Does this gain him respect from the rest? Absolutely not. Intelligence is a bit suspect; hobbits don’t go in much for sensitivity; curiosity is definitely weird. He’s a cardinal among sparrows. Not that it bothers Frodo, or Bilbo before him.

Bits of this chapter are one reason that my answer, when the question “where in Middle-earth would you live?” is asked, is not “the Shire”. (For the record, I want Rivendell. With all my heart.) Hobbits aren’t altogether nice folk. That is, I’m sure they’re lovely friends and kind neighbors and generous and all that sort of thing, and I’m sure Hobbiton is a lovely community, and Buckland sounds fascinating, but the gossiping and mockery and excessive sorts of mischief here and in the next chapter just show them to be like the worst small English village imaginable. Oh, and the Sackville-Bagginses.

I need to find a map of the Shire (wonder if Daniel Reeve did one?) (He did, but it’s zoomed out too far). Correction: I need to find a map of Bag End and its surrounds – I’m curious about where Bagshot Row (where Sam and his father live at #3) is in relation to Bag End. (Oh, of course: The Encyclopedia of Arda has one.)

Very few of the main characters show up yet in Chapter One – Frodo barely gets a look-in for most of the chapter, till after Bilbo leaves. Sam is the first of the other Companions to be mentioned, but Merry is the first to have a line of dialogue.

There is, however, much of Gandalf, and it struck me that his role as wizard is well set up here in the very beginning: he has his entrance, and on the very next page, “the old man was Gandalf the Wizard”. Nowadays it’s easy enough to read a book, see “wizard”, and think “Right. Long beard, pointy hat, robes.” But before Gandalf became an archetype, I wonder how his character was perceived; which is the chicken and which the egg, I wonder, and which came first? Here, at least, it’s the physical description; he is an old man before he is a Wizard (capital W). An old man was driving it all alone. He wore a tall pointed blue hat, a long grey cloak, and a silver scarf. He had a long white beard and bushy eyebrows that stuck out beyond the brim of his hat.

Because the book and the setting are so ingrained with me, I never before realized how clever this introduction was. The reader is shown how the hobbits in general see him – an interfering old busybody, who happens to do a nice line in fireworks. I think it’s interesting that – despite the fact that very few Big Folk come into the Shire – Gandalf is never referred to or separated out as such. I’ll have to keep an eye out for that. But while the Shire folk are happy enough with him when he’s just entertaining at Bilbo’s party, they are none too fond of him when Bilbo vanishes, and he gets the blame for Frodo’s changing personality as well. The Tolkien wizard is subtle and quick to anger (though that quote isn’t for a while yet): apart from the burst of light accompanying Bilbo’s vanishment, there isn’t much along the lines of flash-and-bang wizardry, no wand-waving or spell chanting or transfigurations (just the threat of the latter, next chapter). There’s part of the subtle; the quick to anger bit is self-explanatory. So there’s very little of what is seen as stereotypically magical about him; he has the appearance (though he might be the originator of that cliché in modern eyes). He has a staff, I believe – no, wait; it’s not mentioned until the second half of the book. He makes fireworks, and they are magical as it turns out, but that feels like something minor, something lesser: magic used specifically for entertainment alone. His role as Wizard is very much underplayed for quite some time; he’s more an old man is very good at research (if not exactly speedy).

Where did Gandalf stay when he was in the Shire? At one point he does say in conversation with Frodo, “I am going to bed”, so that sounds like he’s kipping at Bag End; the hole must have some high ceilings. But then after the labeled gifts are distributed and the S-B’s finally go away Gandalf comes knocking at the door… but maybe he was just out and about, maybe exploring the garden, staying out of the way while the Shire folk were mobbing Bag End. I wouldn’t think he would stay at the Prancing Pony – it’s a bit of a distance.

How sad, and a little ironic, that Gandalf is the hobbits’ biggest fan; he’s probably the only non-hobbit in Middle-earth who’s interested in them – and the majority of the folk of the Shire think he’s a dangerous meddling busybody, if not a kidnapper – if not a murderer. It could be a sort of unconscious reaction to his anthropological study of them: he’s always been about, and always poking his nose in where no other Big Folk were interested – why is he so blasted interested, anyhow? It’s suspicious, that’s what.

I find that I have become rather unpopular. They say I am a nuisance and a disturber of the peace. Some people are actually accusing me of spiriting Bilbo away, or worse. If you want to know, there is supposed to be a plot between you and me to get hold of his wealth.’

And Frodo is tarred with the same brush! Wow – these folk are not trusting.

There are a few anachronisms in the book, especially, I think, this early part; one big one that’s ubiquitous in relation to Samwise is taters. What’s taters, precious? Po-tay-toes, which weren’t introduced into England until I believe the 16th century. Though the topography is completely different from the known world as it is, the prologue indicates that this Middle-earth is what Earth used to be – ours is that same world after the Elves have left, the hobbits have learned how to completely conceal themselves, the dwarves have presumably gone underground (is that what happened to them?), and Men … in Men, the blood of Númenor is thinned past detection short of intense DNA analysis. So, if this were being completely accurate, no potatoes.

Also, no trains (“The dragon passed like an express train”). Or, though I hate to say it, tobacco.

Happily, Tolkien wasn’t interested in full and complete accuracy in all things. Gandalf wouldn’t be Gandalf without wondrous smoke rings. This was a mythology that was being built.

The Party was on a Thursday. People are going to wonder why I’m giggling like an idiot every time September 22 falls on a Thursday.

Merry and Pippin suspect Frodo is doing as Bilbo used, wandering to see the Elves – is he? He is known to them, certainly, in a few chapters, but he does not seem to have a deep familiarity with them and their ways. (He never has much interaction with Legolas, if I recall correctly; pity.) Sam – the desirer of elves, preferring elves and dragons to cabbages and poratoes (I did a parody based on that too) – has some poignant lines here:

‘They are sailing, sailing, sailing over the Sea, they are going into the West and leaving us,’ said Sam, half chanting the words, shaking his head sadly and solemnly. But Ted laughed.

(Ted Sandyman stinks.) The line in the film – “I don’t know why, but it makes me sad” – was a bit of a brick-to-the-head expression of the melancholy of the passing of an Age, the end of something wonderful. “Crazy about stories of the old days he is…” All Sam ever wanted was to see the wonder before it disappeared; I love Tolkien for letting him.

It will, I imagine, become very clear that, for me, Samwise Gamgee is the absolute hero of the book. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this is something that resulted in some fierce (and rather ugly) arguments on The Board Which Shall Remain Nameless, as I – and a couple of others – refused to let Sam’s contributions to the quest go unremarked, and others took the field for whichever other they believed in most. I’ll come to that “controversy” when its time comes, and suffice to say that my adoration for Sam starts right here at the beginning: he’s a young hobbit (fifteen years younger than Frodo, so not much past his coming of age when they set off – and, by the way, born in the same year as Faramir), eager to expand his horizons, staunchly loyal, and ready to stand up for his friends – and yet slow to take offense.

I’m not sure if it’s stated outright in LotR why the Elves are beginning to filter out of Middle-earth. And why are so many Dwarves traveling? To where?

A few lines I pulled out of the book, and my reactions:

Regarding Bilbo’s agelessness: ‘It will have to be paid for,’ they said. ‘It isn’t natural, and trouble will come of it!’ Yes, it will – but not by Bilbo.

The Sackville-Bagginses won’t never see the inside of Bag End now, or it is to be hoped not. *flinch*

Hobbits give presents to other people on their own birthdays.
Hobbits: Original masters of the re-gift. This was the source of one of the nice things about The Nameless Board: on our birthdays and board anniversaries many of us got very creative. It’s where most of my parodies come from, along with a cartload of drabbles. (For the record, I know such things as I once wrote are elsewhere called “filks”, but we called them parodies, and that’s what they are. And a drabble is, I believe universally, a miniscule short story of 100 words, no more and no less. They’re hard for me; I bet you can tell that.) I look back on the time I spent on TBWSRN, and I’m amazed at the sheer volume of stuff I put out. It was, when it was fun, a very great deal of fun. And when it was bad it was horrid.

From a locked drawer, smelling of moth-balls, he took out an old cloak and hood. They had been locked up as if they were very precious, but they were so patched and weatherstained that their original colour could hardly be guessed: it might have been dark green.
Can I just say that this brought a pang? Because PJ, in his *koff* infinite wisdom, has apparently dispensed with the dwarves’ hoods in The Hobbit. I think it’s a crime. I mean, if nothing else, from what I understand there are tons of people, especially newbies, who are befuddled by the plethora of dwarves – having them color-coded might have helped.

‘I might find somewhere where I can finish my book.’
Amen. I tend to mutter that to myself, or the movie version. I haven’t done it yet.

Gandalf laughed. ‘I hope he will. But nobody will read the book, however it ends.’
Ouch.

Some very broad hints are planted here about the Ring – which is still merely “the ring” here. Gandalf is clearly made uneasy by Bilbo’s reactions, and Bilbo experiences a strange relief when he is separated from it. And some of what Bilbo says about it is very worrying. If someone’s read The Hobbit, Bilbo using the adjective “precious” might ring a bell. If it doesn’t at this point, it will; if nothing else, the drastic Jekyll-and-Hyde change to Bilbo’s personality is chilling.

‘Take care! I don’t care. Don’t you worry about me! I am as happy now as I have ever been, and that is saying a great deal. But the time has come. I am being swept off my feet at last,’ he added, and then in a low voice, as if to himself, he sang softly in the dark:
The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

I’m pleased to say that I can still recite that from memory. This was one of the things that made me very happy about the first film: Gandalf is singing this as he enters the Shire. I have a very great deal to say about the second and third movies, and not much is positive. But the first one … “I don’t know why – it makes me sad.” It could have been magnificent.

The hobbits were terribly afraid Bilbo was going to inflict poetry on them; mine’s not poetry, and hopefully it won’t bring the same groans as his long-windednesses did. Mine are more easily skipped over, at least. Here’s my “Springle Ring”.

Springle-Ring
based on “Jingle Bells”

The Party Tree is lit
The wine is mighty strong
Bilbo’s giving us a speech
Let’s hope it’s not too long!
You know how he can get:
He’s liable to recite
Or spin a story of his past -
Let’s hope he won’t tonight!

O! Springle-ring, Springle-ring,
Springle-ring with me!
Bilbo’s paused amidst applause
So let’s assume we’re free
To
Springle-ring, Springle-ring,
- Springle-ring with me!
A cracker band! With bells in hand
We’ll dance a round or three.

The fireworks were grand
We’ve not had such in years
That dragon took my breath
But there was no time for tears
For supper then began
And the food it never failed
(I’ll ask Rosie for a dance -
No, I’ll just have another ale)

‘Eleventy-one years
Is far too short a time…’
If he ruins this night,
That would be a crime!
‘As well as you deserve’
Now, I wonder what that means
To one hundred forty-four of us
All gathered in this tent

Brandybucks and Tooks
Burrowses and Chubbs
Boffins and Bolgers
Goodbodies and Grubbs
Brockhouses and Proudfoots
And don’t forget Frodo
The Sackville-Bagginses as well – ?
Now where did Bilbo go??

O! Springle-ring, Springle-ring,
Springle-ring with me!
Bilbo’s paused amidst applause
So let’s assume we’re free
To
Springle-ring, Springle-ring,
- Springle-ring with me!
A cracker band! With bells in hand
We’ll dance a round or three.

Related articles

• “I don’t remember that…?” (Part II) (booksnobbery.wordpress.com)
• The Naming of Hobbits (oup.com)

 

Blood Bound – Patricia Briggs

It’s sometimes hard to remember that Mercy’s friend Stefan – the t-shirt wearing Scooby Doo fan – is a vampire, and vampires are inherently evil; he’s such a nice guy. So when he asks a favor, Mercy is willing, even though it means being a witness as he confronts another vampire who is in the territory without having asked permission. What neither of them knows before approaching the stranger, though, is that this isn’t just a vampire: it’s a demon-ridden vampire. This a Bad, Bad Thing.

What ensues is one of the more difficult scenes to read in my experience. Granted, I don’t seek out the difficult – but this was rough. This was the sort of thing that made me give up the Patricia Cornwell novels. The fact that it’s set in the first person, and that person is someone I’ve come to care about, makes it so much harder. (Not as hard as … other things will be, but hard.)

So begins a rather darker book than the first in the series, in which Mercy is called on to help locate and rid the world of this demon-ridden vampire. She learns a lot in the course of this mission: about vampires, and Stefan in particular, and about her men Simon and Adam – and about herself and her own strengths. And by the end of it she’s ready to do what must be done, even if it puts her in acute danger.

I’ll say this: Patricia Briggs is not afraid to put her characters through the wringer. The fact that she is able to do this and bring them – and the reader – out the other side with all the scars to show for it, affected but resilient, and instead of driving characters apart from each other and readers away from the characters … She’s good, is Patricia Briggs. For me this isn’t reading with the possibility of bailing on the series when the going gets too tough. For me this is visiting old friends – and sticking with those friends through their travails, as one should with friends, and being glad for and with them when it’s all over. This isn’t the best in the series – but since it’s one of my favorite series, that still puts it miles above most of the rest.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In other news, this is apparently the fifth anniversary of this blog. 454 posts, 22 pages, 685 comments; not stellar, I guess, but it’s mine. Happy anniversary to me!

Related articles

• A Refreshing Series of Urban Fantasy (hitchhikingmuse.wordpress.com)