The Girl in the Road

The Girl in the Road by Monica Byrne feels singular. What stands out is the bold, female, first person voice of Meena. (Mariama’s voice is not quite as vivid, though Byrne ably balances the child’s sometimes skewed perspective.) Some time 20 to 50 years in the future, two individuals embark on perilous journeys – young Mariama, born into slavery and separated from her mother, across the width of Africa in a truck caravan – and Meena, a college dropout from IIT-Bombay whose parents were murdered in Ethiopia and who sets out to cross (illegally) the Trans-Arabian Linear Generator, an energy-producing pontoon bridge that stretches from Mumbai to Djibouti. Both have been propelled on their journey by snake attacks that may not be all they seem; their back stories are filled in as the novel and their travels progress, and we learn more about how their stories might relate to one another.

         There are intriguing sci fi concepts here – it’s a world affected by climate change where today’s “developing world” is the center of global investment. Addis Ababa is the happening city of modern Africa. (One of the central conflicts of the book is the treatment of Ethiopian workers and the colonial-capitalist exploitation of Ethiopian resources by Indian businesses. I don’t know whether there is actually a history of migration between those two countries from which this future is extrapolated, but I can think of plenty contemporary parallels, for example, the treatment of Indian guest workers in the Middle East.) Alternative energy is crucial, from the solar Sun Traps of Sudan to, centrally, the TALG or Trail, with its pioneering wave energy and its controversial use of metallic hydrogen (a valuable but potentially unstable superconductor). Then there are the casual extrapolations of near-future tech, like “mitters” for wireless transfer of funds (far more common than cash) and the “glotti” translator.

         The novel describes a classic man vs. nature conflict – if we take man to mean woman and accept a future in which nature, even the deepest sea, is inherently compromised by the man-made. The TALG or Trail is an inhospitable as environments come, the path one of lunging peaks and troughs, intermittently submerging itself to allow the passage of ships. Food and potable water must be extracted from the surrounding sea or obtained through encounters with dangerous strangers; the sun and the solitude are brutal. Importantly, beyond the survival story itself, The Girl in the Road also asks what it means to be “a survivor.”

         But I’d say this is a book about sex. (I have a kneejerk tendency to lament: why does a book with an interesting, fresh female protagonist have to be about sex and relationships? But isn’t my assumption that a plot based in science is superior to one saturated in sex, with its suggestion that action-adventure is more worthwhile than romance, problematic in itself? Then, too, as I write, I think maybe I should reconsider my categorization: as central as human sexuality is to this novel, to the characters and themes, perhaps at its heart it’s a book about love.) It’s not clear whether Meena is bipolar or just impulsive, but her inner monologue thrusts the reader into her physicality as much or more than her strategizing, and her relationship with the hijra Mohini becomes just as compelling as the mysteries of who killed her parents and how Mariama’s African journey connects to her water-walk. While I’m not sure whether of the book’s elements are intriguing comments on the theme or problematic plot shortcuts (some of the hallucinations, for instance) The Girl in the Road is a fascinating pageturner that rips through the boundaries of more than one or two genres in its global travels.

Astride the Gun Zam-Zammah

I don’t know what I expected of Rudyard Kipling’s Kim. A militaristic novel that enthusiastically endorsed the British Raj. A nineteenth century tome (Kim was actually published in 1901) portraying Indians in a manner politically incorrect at best and with deeply offensive potential for a 21st century readership; a set-piece of orientalism. A Kipling novel, so one with lively action, vivid depictions, and memorable (male) characters. I didn’t expect a spy novel. I didn’t expect the “Great Game” among British, Russian, and other colonial powers with non-Western peoples and their lands as the tokens to be treated so openly. I didn’t expect a book that takes seriously Buddhist ideals that devalue the material world. (I didn’t expect the poetry – verse lead-ins to every chapter – although I should have.) I didn’t expect a portrait of India that aims to paint in the finests of shades, delineating different castes, countries of origins, and most especially religion, attempting nuances that it seemed to me are just beginning to be in English by the nonfiction of the past few decades (mostly written contextualize, warn of, or understand global conflict).

         So Kim is the spy story I didn’t expect, beginning when Kim’s picaresque adventures lead to him stumbling upon a message of urgent military import. One of the critics quoted in my editions annotated bibliography writes insightfully that the “India of Kim … is like a vast and well-equipped nursery full of benevolent mothers and fathers, who are all regarded as belonging to the gang.” Kim’s is a coming-of-age story that involves learning from many mentors, but mostly it’s of choosing between two – Col. Creighton and the opportunity to be a valuable but hidden cog in British espionage machine, or Teshoo Lama whose way offers few comforts but is devoted to gaining spiritual merit. Kim is described as very much of the world, and I never doubted that he would choose the life of a spy for the English – and yet, of the two paths, it’s not clear that the novel holds the spy’s to be superior. I’d argue that the lama (perhaps unintentionally) is portrayed as the better (more morally upright) man, and whenever the lama’s advice comes into conflict with, it usually the lama whose wisdom is proved.

         While Kim certainly endorses British colonial rule and practically redefines “loyalty” as “loyalty to the British empire,” being part of the patriotic effort is not the unambiguously cheerful adventure one might expect from Kim’s early chapters. Spoiler: Although one can expect that when an aged holy man enters a book in its first pages, his demise is likely to follow at some point, leaving his protegé with responsibilities and lessons learned, Kim complicates the narrative by making the lama’s death a direct result of Kim’s covert mission. The lama’s death can be seen as an eulogoy for native cultures lost or corrupted by colonial rule, but it can also be seen as the sacrifice of ideals on the altar of realpolitik. Kim’s breakdown/illness at the novel’s end is chalked up to exhaustion from tending to the weakened lama and the burden of holding significant intelligence with no clear means to pass it on, but its timing suggests it’s a guilty conscience that provokes his collapse. (The technique by which this collapse is introduced – with the initial focus on the return journey and the state of the lama’s health while the seriousness of Kim’s exhaustion only becomes fully clear from the reactions to his recovery – is interesting, and after reading the biographical notes, it’s hard not to see parallels to Kipling’s own nervous breakdowns.) Kim’s decisions and those of other characters have real stakes, and while specific to Raj setting, they also have wider implications – who is worth emulating, and how does one choose between competing loyalties? how does one reconcile religion with pleasure or with individual goals? is there a value to diplomacy even if one holds the upper hand?

         There are certainly problematic aspects to Kipling’s potrayals of native Indians (and Afghanis and Tibetans). The lama may be venerated by the text as well as by his title, but I can’t believe a white character would have been written as gullible-bordering-on-idiotic, most particularly in the final discovery of the River. (While the Protestant and Catholic army chaplains have their humorous flaws, they are not presented as fools, not even holy fools.) The most offensive charicature is Hurree Badu (whose desire to become a Fellow of the Royal Society, although ostensibly genially accepted in the book by Col. Creighton, is most often depicted as an attempt to literally ape his betters – are we meant to believe that this is the best Kim could have aspired to, despite his education, if he had actually been a Hindu orphan instead of Kimball O’Hara?). Muslim Mahbub Ali comes off as a more respectable figure. Much of the narrative serves to underscore how important both the contributions of native Indians and an understanding of native cultures, yet Kipling provides a protagonist with conveniently white shoulders as the symbol of cultural sensitivity.

         The female characters (few and far between in a book that highlights male bonds) deserve a word. At first, I thought Kipling would stick to true “The Vampire” form, seasoning in an occasional whore or nag for local flavor. But while not quite real people, Kipling does give his female characters their own histories and motivations but these are chosen from a narrow range of stereotypical options (a loquacious grandmother who nurtures with her cooking, a woman seduced and abandoned by an English soldier who neverthless provides lavish aid to Kim out of romantic sentimentalism). The Woman of Shamlegh was intriguing (is there a symbolism to her appearance at the end of the tale? was it only because she happed to be available, recycled from an earlier short story? does the fact that she lives in an area where polyandry is indeed practiced make the emphasis on her two husbands and sexual desires more or less palatable?). Despite the female characters’ limitations, it’s clear that Kipling means the reader to ultimately value their contributions to the novel and on Kim’s behalf.

         What do I take away from Kim? It is in many ways a relic of a historical worldview with continued global implications. It utilizes all the elements of a story and is able to weave in consideration of politics and religion, too. In its dense descriptions, its affectionate wealth of detail, its panorama of places and personalities, it’s a book that places understanding of others high amongst the values (not all so noble) that it champions.

Fortunes Wagered

A Small Fortune by Rosie Dastgir earns the “Austen-esque” description its sepia teacup cover seems to court, delivering a rare example of well-done third person omniscient POV. Harris, a Pakistani who’s spent more than half of his life in England, receives the title sum as a divorce settlement from his wealthy English wife and must decide where to bestow it – on his daughter Alia (who has dropped out of med school without telling him), the cousins he left behind in his impoverished home village, his alternately caretaking and scheming cousins in Northern England, or perhaps an investment in one of his friend Omar’s international business deals. Aside from a few moments in the storyline centered around Rashid (the Pakistani cousins’ eldest son, whose English education Harris has supported), A Small Fortune avoids melodrama, painting the flaws and foibles alongside the enthusiams and kindnesses of the entire cast, from Alia’s English boyfriend to Dr. Farrah, a widowed literature professor and potential romantic interest for Harris. In a comedy of manners it can sometime be easy to forget how deeply our manners reflect our values; with stakes both large and small, the dry but affectionate and totally believable A Small Fortune remembers.

***

In another novel that concerns itself with both money and national identity, English school Headmaster Percival Chen of Saigon (born Chen Pie Sou in Shantou province, China) clings to the belief that, with the proper bribes, his business can prosper under any political system – be it colonial French, colonial American, or even Vietnamese. Though his more politically savvy lieutenant and his Vietnam-born son challenge this belief, Chen stubbornly holds faith, blinding himself to the changes taking place around him while enjoying all the restaurants, clubs, gambling parlors, and high class escort services Saigon (and Cholon, its neighboring Chinatown) can offer. History will not, however, leave the headmaster untoched, and tensions build – and then break and splatter and settle a bit and rise almost reluctantly again – as we journey with him from 1966 to 1975. Though the novel includes some elements that would suit a Bond or Tarantino film (kidnapping! hookers! brutal imperialists! secret police! casinos! communists!), the close focus on Percival’s daily life (noodle dishes! loan payments! mah jong! bribe packets!) makes this a subtler, psychological story. In other hands (or with a truly omniscient POV instead of a distant but perceptive limited third), Percival might have emerged as the most unlikeable of protagonists, but Vincent Lam’s storytelling leads you (or, at least, me) to truly care for this often frustrating character. Ultimately, The Headmaster’s Wager is a tale of fathers and sons and what’s important in life – from the distant ancestor who found good luck and greener passages on Gold Mountain, to the father who left young Chen Pie Sou behind in order to establish himself in Vietnam’s rice trade, to the legacy Chen hopes to leave his sons as it becomes ever more uncertain where their futures will take them.

War and Theatre in Kabul

A Fort of Nine Towers: An Afghan Family Story by Qais Akbar Omar and Shakespeare in Kabul by Stephen Landrigan and Qais Akbar Omar are part memoir, part history. (Helpful hint: the author bio states that “Qais” is pronounced “Kice.”) In A Fort of Nine Towers, Omar tells the story of the years from the Russians departure and subsequent factional fighting through the rise and fall of the Taliban. Some of the strongest depictions are of life before the Soviets left; while Qais was only seven at the time, he vividly describes his grandfather’s house with its orchards, servants, warehouses filled with carpets, daily outdoor banquets as regular meals for an extended family of more than fifty, and ramparts suitable for kite-flying competitions. Equally memorable are some harrowing encountering during the early years of factional fighting; with the family scattered (eventually retreating to a wealthy friend’s property, Qala-e-Noborja, the titular fort), young Qais and his father must brave the city streets, encountering brutal soldiers who style themselves as mujahideen while they torture, dismember, rape, and wage a mercenary war for neighborhood turf.

        While the later stages of the family’s journey have fewer thrills and seem less likely to be representative of typical Afghani experience (even typical wealthy Pashtun experience), Omar’s story remains absorbing. Travelling now with just his parents, sisters, and infant brother, mostly in the sometimes unreliable family car, Qais’ adventures include raiding pomegranates from a walled garden at night, camping in the caves behind the historic Bamayan Buddhas, learning carpetmaking from an alluring deafmute, and traveling with a Kuchi nomad camel caravan.

        Throughout, Qais presents himself as clever but deep, resourceful, hard working, and (with undoubted truth) quick with languages. Qais paints himself as more in tune than his peers with the Afghan verse and traditions, but still surrounded by Afghan youth and adults who take their codes of honor, their poetry, and (perhaps more problematically) their religion seriously. He walks the line of presenting Afghan culture and history as appealingly exotic and as a serious, meaningful part of daily life. There’s a dash of hyperbole, an exuberant optimism through which sometimes shows profoundly observed darkness that reminds me of Twain. The story is more than a picaresque; Qais and family encounter real danger and tragedy. By the time the family finds itself back in Kabul (the book includes helpful maps of Kabul, Afghanistan, and its neighbors), Qais is college-aged and positioned to take on an adult’s decision-making burden. The book’s final section ranges from a Taliban prison to an entrepeneurial backroom carpet factory to streets full of joyful dancing as the Taliban is ousted and music once more allowed. In A Fort with Nine Towers, Qais Akbar Omar tells an important and compelling story with a poet’s power and sensitivity.

       

Shakespeare in Kabul is less personal; co-written by Qais Akbar Omar and English playwright Stephen Landrigan, it takes place during in 2005 and 2006, as the U.S./coalition forces are preparing to withdraw from Kabul but still investing heavily in. (Qais is too politic to spend much time covering this period in A Fort with Nine Towers; he expresses cautious optimism, briefly profiles the national characteristics of various foreigners, and relates a telling story of an Englishman who rents property in Kabul and promptly cuts down the trees Qais “had kept … alive during the worst years of drought by carrying water twice every day in buckets strappped to my bicycle from … a pump more than a mile away”.) After meeting French actress Corinne Jaber at a cultural festival in Afghanistan, Landrigan and Jaber hatch a plan to put on a Shakespeare play in Kabul. They will translate one of the plays into an Afghan (Dari, as it ultimately transpires) and recruit and train Afghani actors (including women, revolutionary in a country with no history of co-ed performances). The first section of the book, “Exposition,” written by Stephen Landrigan, describes Corinne’s first encounters with Afghan actors, who are enthusiastic but unevenly trained, as she is invited to give drama workshops. It covers the choice of a play (Love’s Labour’s Lost), the complicated process of script development and translation, and the search for funding.

        The most interesting section of the book is the middle, “Climax,” written by Qais, who served as translator and assistant director for the production. It describes the auditions, the histories and personalities of the actors, the conflicts between actors and between some actors and Corinne, the search for costumes and props, the challenges of balancing day jobs in a rebuilding city with demanding evening rehearsals, and the struggles to understand not just the archaisms of language but Shakespeare’s concept of inspirational romantic love. Qais has a gift for conveying the various players’ perspectives (including Corinne’s, though she is perhaps portrayed a little harshly despite a cumulatively positive depiction). Highlights include the casts’ teatime discussions and their reaction to the scene where the play’s .

        The third and final section, “Resolution,” is co-written by Landrigan and Omar and describes the performances, including in the Queen’s Palace of Kabul’s Bagh-e-Babur and later on-the-road performances in northern Afghan cities. It describes audience reactions and chronicles the logistics and cast changes necessitated by the later performances. There are ominous hints in the beginning of the book that the project may not have turned out as planned but, though less well received than in the capital, Love’s Labour’s Lost incites no riots in Mazar-e-Sharif or Herat. I won’t give too much away about audience reactions, though I will note the sometimes melancholy tone that seems due to a 2012 Afghanistan not living up to 2005 hopes (civic and political as much or more than cultural). Shakespeare in Kabul brushes on history, but is truly notable for how it engages deeply with the idea of theatre, a cultural conversation between east and west, and the details of how and whether a specific Shakespeare comedy remains relevant to a specific modern nation in conflict.

Fantasies of Tokyo and New Orleans

It seemed only fair to include Japanese manga in my science fiction and fantasy graphic novel challenge, so I bought a two-volume omnibus of Ranma ½, a series several of my undergrad friends had enjoyed. Dojo master Tendo has three daughters but no son, so he and his friend Saotome agreed that Saotome’s son Ranma will marry one of the Tendo girls and inherit the dojo. Ranma’s had lots of martial arts training, most recently, in China, where he fell into a cursed spring and is now doomed to turn into a girl whenever struck by cold water (hot water turns him back). Perhaps less fortunately, his father fell into the Spring of Drowned Panda. No one in the younger generation is thrilled about the prospects of arranged marriage, particularly Akane, a skilled martial artist herself.

It was a bit of an adjustment reading left to right (and, at times, telling the three daughters and she-Ranma apart), but it didn’t take long before I was speeeding through the pages. It’s fun and silly, and I can see how it might be fun to be part of its fanbase – like being welcomed into the characters’ family, always affectionately teasing. The stark authority the two patriarch have over their offspring is undercut by the elder Saotome’s frequent transformations into a (large and nonverbal) panda. Ranma ½ seemed to have more in common with the old spirit of a comic strip (though it takes at least a few pages to play off a joke) than the other graphic novels I’ve read. There’s definitely an evolving story, but it was already seeming to repeat itself (with just slightly different fights and opponents) in the seventeen installments I read. There are a lot of boobs-are-funny jokes and the story’s tendency to make the highest stakes conflicts those between he-Ranma and his male antagonists (although the later chapters introduced a female villain and possibly a more Akane-centered storyline) make me feel the books are a little less progressive than some female fans might want to think. There are many volumes of Ranma ½, but Ranma and Akane seem so clearly destined for each in a Beatrice-and-Benedict way that I’m almost surprised author Rumiko Takahashi is able to stretch out what seems to be an inevitable pairing. I’d put my money on a happy ending, but I don’t think I’m going to read the full series to find out.

***

Six pistols with occult powers, when brought together, will end the world – and remake it with guidance from whoever holds The Sixth Gun. Drake Sinclair seems to be on a simple treasure hunt when he shows up at the Montclair ranch, but soon pistol-toting strangers are attacking the ranch, Pa’s dead, and Becky Montclair wields the mystical Sixth Gun. Did I mention the guns can change hands only with their owner’s death?

Gunfighter with a shady past, orphaned girl forced to leave home, Civil War veterans, evil Conferate generals, mysterious religious orders, supernatural weapons, four deadly horsemen: while it all comes together in its own particular way, none of the elements are really anything that hasn’t been seen before on TV, in movies, or in books (whether Westerns or other genres). What really stands out is the impressive artwork, detailed and vividly colorful, from a spooky early image of a Gallows Tree to the impressive arrival of a thunderbird. Illustrator Brian Hurtt excels at crowded action scenes, like the fight in a theatre/saloon that ends Chapter 2 and the closing’s extended Battle at the Maw.  

Book 1: Cold Dead Fingers tells a full story that comes to a strong ending (that nevertheless makes it clear further adventures are on their way). As Becky travels with Drake and must decide whether to trust him, she evolves from engenue to adventurer. We get a little bit of Drake’s past. Becky, Drake, and jovial sidekick Billijohn O’Henry start out fleeing the forces of undead General Hume (led by his wife Missy and four evil gunmen), but eventually decide they must take the offensive. When they discover Hume’s hidden fort, built over a sinister seal in the earth, they find allies in Hume’s former prisoners, led by freedman Gord Cantrell – but they are quickly beseiged by Hume’s soldiers, living and dead.

Although I felt the characters were more types than individuals, the great art and fast-moving action made me curious enough to buy Book 2. (Slippery slope; I ended up with all six volumes that have been released so far.) Book 2: Crossroads, set in New Orleans, was a particularly strong installment. Becky, Drake, and Gord come to the Crescent City to recuperate from the battle and plan. Becky is wooed by an Owen-Wilson-lookalike cowboy. Gord researchs dark manuscripts to find a way to destroy the guns, while Drake takes a more active approach, venturing into the swamps to find occultist Henri Fournier. The drawings of the swamps, infested by alligators and loa, are intense, as are later battle scenes (including an attack by owls).

Book 3: Bound starts with a dramatic fight on a train speeding west that ends with Becky and Drake being separated. The volume then stagnates a bit as the members of the secret society Sword of Abraham try to keep Becky under their wing. We learn probably a little more than we need to about Mystery Mummy Asher Cobb, as well as the more cogent backstory of Gord Cantrell, who travels South and confronts his past in an effort to find more information about the guns.

Happily, the action picks back up again in Book 4: A Town Called Penance. A stranger rides into town – and it’s Becky, dressed in pants, a brown jacket, denim shirt, Drake’s bowler hat and packing heat. While I initially thought Becky was bit too damselly, she does begin to develop, especially in Books 4-6. Here, she’s looking for Drake, who’s being held by the Knights of Solomon, yet another of those pesky clandestine organizations. (Drake’s knife and gun wounds from the train battle are miraculously healed, but we do get to enjoy him being tortured for a chapter or so.) It’s not clear how the inhabitants of Penance are connected to the Knights, but the townspeople are clearly not normal and they’re warring among themselves. Eventually, Becky finds her way into the Knights’ Goonies-like stronghold, and she blasts her way in to rescue Drake. I’m not sure whether I think it’s cool that the chapter dealing with the rescue is dialogue-free (Becky’s hearing has been damaged by an explosion), relying on action and the character’s physicalities or a little bit of a gyp that Becky’s been literally silence, unable to exchange repartee with any of her opponents or verbally gloat. Drake gets some of his own back by beating up Jessup, a Knight of Solomon with whom he seems to share some history. At the end of the book, we see Jessup being rescued by lizard-men and catch up with cowboy Owen Kirby Hale, who’s back on the trail of the guns.

Book 5: Winter Wolves seems to take us further west than we’ve yet been. Drake and Becky seek supplies and allies at Fort Treadwell, but accidentally cross over into a spirit world of deepest winter, where the fort is abandoned and a powerful, hungry spirit in wolf form stalks outside. We learn a bit about Drake’s past, namely that he at one time worked with a blond woman, possibly the sister Jessup believe Drake killed. Meanwhile in the physical reality, Gord, mummified Asher Cobb, and Kirby Hale meet up and decide to team together, at least for the moment, though all ultimately have different goals for the guns. Just when it seems Drake, Becky, or both must die to end the unnatural winter, their erstwhile companions are effect a bargain to free them – but not before, in a precursor of things to come, Drake has sustained a more permanent injury.

With Drake ill from his adventures in Book 5 and Becky unconscious after trying to take control of the Sixth Gun’s power, the band of misfits encounters a band of Native Americans in Book 6: Ghost Dance. Initially threatening, they soon prove to be allies of a sort, insisting that Becky undertake a vision quest along the Winding Path in order to recover. This Ghost Dance (which I’m pretty sure is a historically and culturally inaccurate use of the term) will show her many possible realities that guns could create – or perhaps have already created. It’s a bit annoying to get two spirit world storyline back to back, but in addition to drawing out the storyline, it gives another opportunity for Becky to lead while exploring an idea Drake had expressed that perhaps he’s already used the Sixth Gun to remake the world. Also, of course, for the writer and artist to have fun – giving us a primitive world with a Conan-like Drake and a medieval one with a castle besieged by dragons, where Drake is a black knight and Becky wields a sword. For more psychological conflicts, Becky dines with General Hume in a world reshaped to his pleasure and encounters a reality where she shacked up with cowboy Kirby Hale and started a family. On the physical plane, Missy Hume has recruited a band of natives (shapeshifters) to disrupt Becky’s journey. Gord, Kirby, Asher, and new allies Nahuel and Nidawi break the shapeshifters’ focus and bring the battle back to earth. While the victory over the shapeshifters combined with Becky’s seemingly successful Ghost Dance, it’s a little disappointing when Missy is ultimately killed by her mother-in-law Griselda. The final chapter ends with a sinister hint that Becky and Drake may be more changed by the guns they bear than they’ve yet come to suspect. The epilogue implies that the next book may find Drake, Becky, and company besiege Hume’s home, opposed by Griselda and her new champion Jessup.

And will I be planning to read the next volume? Yep, I gotta say I’m looking forward to it.

Alex Bledsoe and the Tufa of Tennessee

Because of library availability, I read The Hum and the Shiver some months before its sequel, Wisp of a Thing. They’re unusual without being idiosyncratic, flirt hard with a number of stereotypes, and I liked them both, possibly more than I should.

The Tufa live in Cloud County, nestled in rural East Tennessee’s Smoky Mountains. Though they’ve dark hair and eyes and dusky complexions and have been living there, it’s asserted over and over that they’re not Native American. Which means, of course, that they must be fairies. Even when I initially thought they might be Native American fairies, I had the Tufa pegged as supernatural. I recognized the resemblance between “Tufa” and “Tuatha” (the Tuatha de Danaan or Children of Dana appear in the oldest Irish mythological cycles). But even for a reader unfamiliar with the Irish, it’s clear from very early in both novels that magic is to be taken seriously. For one, too many characters do for them to all be unreliable narrators, but there are also clear demonstrations: in just the first pages of The Hum and the Shiver, the locals magically turn away a hord of paparazzi. The odd thing is that, despite this, the novels are in many ways structured like mysteries, with an outsider trying to figure out the real heritage of the Tufa. In The Hum and the Shiver, it’s preacher Craig Chess, who takes an interest in the protagonist, and part-Tufa newspaperman Don Swayback. In Wisp of a Thing, it’s protagonist Rob Quillen. 

So, as a reader, there’s this build-up of characters trying to find out information you already know, and even if there are a few details you’re not clued in yet, they’re really not so significant that they really matter enough to make you turn pages. There are some smaller character moments – decisions, attitudes – but really, a lot of the appeal of the books comes down to atmosphere. And that’s not unproblematic, either. Bledsoe lovingly describes Needsville, TN, and its surroundings, trying not to idealize. Sure, there are plenty of solid, salt-of-the-earth folks. And there are bullies and drinkers and violent cops; farmers, motel owner, gas station attendants, mechanics, EMTs, and folks who seem to mostly just hang around. At times, it seems Bledsoe has found the sweet spot of humanizing without changing often-stereotyped figures. At other times, he seems to venture perilously close to James Dickey territory (several of his narrators even make Deliverance jokes). At first, I’m refreshed that’s he’s drawn women who actually have a sex drive; then I start wondering, wait a minute, am I really supposed to believe these women spend this much time worrying about men? The Gwinn family as described in Wisp of a Thing are grotesques – mean, skinny young men and fat, fist-fighting women. And later in that book, there’s a scene where the bad, bat-winged fairies (who, except for an evil Lothario, are ugly, unwashed litterers) gather at their homebase, drinking, rutting in public, making dischordant music, distilling moonshine, and cooking up meth.

What saves the novels, and really provides their hearts, in the authentic care and affection Bledsoe shows for the area, for the people described, for small-town life without the rose-colored glasses, and especially for the music. Haven’t mentioned the music yet? A deep love of and interest in bluegrass/country/folk music is tied up in these novels and the magic of the Tufa. And I just may need to check out Kate Campbell.

The stories themselves: The Hum and the Shiver follows Private Bronwyn Hyatt, returning home from Iraq a wounded hero. They tell her she killed numerous enemy combatants before she was injured, but she doesn’t remember, and she’s afraid she’s lost her ability to play music. There’s a haint who seems to have followed her home, and ominous death omens targeting the Hyatt family suggest Bronwyn’s mother may soon die, leaving Bronwyn with mystical responsibilities in the Tufa community that she’s resisted her whole life. Meanwhile there’s the troublemaker boyfriend she had hoped to get away from, his little brother who’s giving her mandolin lessons, and the handsome new preacher. It all builds up to a series of conflicts that includes an unexpected stabbing at a local bar. Bronwyn’s very enjoyable as a main character, though I sometimes questioned the storyline; while Bronwyn comes to a decision of sorts at the novel’s end, in some ways other characters drive more of the action, and some heavily-hinted-at conclusions seemed to me to require a little more build-up and interaction to be truly believable.

I don’t know whether’s it’s just that it’s the more recent read, but I think I actually preferred Wisp of a Thing. I was surprised to get a new protagonist, because I thought for sure The Hum and the Shiver was setting up for more tales told from Bronwyn’s point of view. (In some ways, however, ; slightly-less-than-satisfactory because the author is being subtle endings being preferable to slightly-unsatisfactory because the author is bogarting the good stuff for the sequel ones.) As Wisp opens, however, we meet Rob Quillen, singer/songwriter/guitarist who recently appeared on American Idol, I mean “So You Think You Can Dance?”, but left when his girlfriend died in a plane crash en route to visit him at the set of the show. He’s come to Needsville because a mysterious stranger told him he’d find a song that could cure heartbreak, but so far he’s come across only strange superstitions and a feral girl who may be under a curse. Rob’s story may be somewhat more satisfactory because as an outsider, he can break the Tufa rules and do all the things I kept waiting for characters to do in the earlier volume: take cell phone photos when something strange appears,;call the police, or at least question why no one else is calling them, when a local threatens him with a baseball bat or leads a tourist into the woods; and take on malevolent old man Rockhouse Hicks.

***

While I’m posting about fiction that treads the borderlands of fantasy/literary fiction/modern fairy tale/magic realism, I should mention Some Kind of Fairy Tale by Graham Joyce. A woman shows up on a couple’s doorstep on Christmas Day, claiming to be their daughter who disappeared twenty years ago; the only explanation she can give is that she’d been taking from the woods by the fairies but only stayed with them for six months. I’d not have picked this one up based on the premise; I figured the whole book, and nothing much of note would happen but it would draw the question out to the ending until giving some kind of answer, but probably not (leaving it up to the reader in much, much-hated Henry James style). But, the book was recommended, and although my expectations were pretty accurate, I enjoyed it.

I think the reason is that the men Tina Martin left behind her, brother Peter and ex-boyfriend Richie, are such likable characters it was just pleasant spending time with them. (Some Kind of Fairy Tale is English without having an attitude about it. There are some great descriptions of bluebells in May.) Peter and Richie were best friends in high school, playing together in a band, but haven’t talked to each other since Tina disappeared and some fingers pointed to Richie. Peter’s now a family man who couldn’t find a job with his Master of Social Work and so became a farrier, while Richie remains a musician who never made it big; in some ways, the heart of the story is how they reconnect. Of course, we also get the details of Tina’s Otherworld story and the analysis of it, borrowing on Freud and Jung, by local psychiatrist Vivian Underwood. There’s a welcome bit of a twist to the psychiatrist’s storyline, but the with the author having given, I believe, pretty clear evidence in favor of one explanation (in fact, though I really hate to fault a writer for being unambigous, the last few chapters may even give more information than we really need), he ultimately leaves the reader to give her own explanation for Tina’s disappearance. Chapter epigraphs on the historical court case of an Englishman who killed his wife, believing her to be a fairy, and by many, mostly familiar (Campbell, Bettelheim, Chaucer, Shakespeare) but some not (John Clute, Marina Warner) authors on nature of fairy tales may not be essential to the story but add a bit of resonance. I generally like my fantasy with more over fantasy, but I may have to read more by G. Joyce.