Today’s post is another YouTube video, in which you will get to listen to my own reading of a piece of short fiction I wrote for the Mythgard Institute “Almost an Inkling” creative writing contest. The contest is still going on, but now that the current week’s voting is over, I was really enthusiastic to share this piece with the public.
The story is a brief historical fantasy that I originally conceived as a cross between Lord Dunsany’s wonder tales and T.E. Lawrence’s account of the Arab Revolt in Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Check it out.
Lately my blog posts have been slowing down because of the attention I’m giving to my research assistantship with Professor Robert Lecker at McGill University–we’re researching the history of literary agents and agencies in Canada. As such I have not had the occasion to post about my experience of MythCon 2015 as I did with MythCon 2014. The conference went well and perhaps in the coming months you will hear the whole story. Suffice it to say that my presentation on Charles de Lint’s multicultural utopia went smoothly and I even had a conversation with Brian Attebery about it.
Today, I’m going to be giving a brief sketch about an idea I might work on for another presentation adjacent to my main thesis. I may present the paper that this post might become, eventually, at the Northeast Modern Language Association conference (NeMLA), where a panel is being organized around the topic of war in science fiction and fantasy literature, especially as it pertains to utopian and dystopian fiction.
I was inspired to think up a topic for this panel because of a Mythopoeic Press publication, Baptism of Fire: The Birth of the Modern British Fantastic in World War I. In here is a treasure hoard of essays contextualizing and historicizing the work of the Inklings (including Tolkien, Lewis, and Barfield), along with G.K. Chesterton, Lord Dunsany, Sylvia Townsend Warner, E.R. Eddison, and T.H. White. These guys are fantasy’s T.S. Eliots, W.H. Audens, W.B. Yeatses, and Earnest Hemingways: authors who responded to the horror of World War that ushered in the age of modernity. However, Tolkien and crew approached literature in ways that were fundamentally different from their Modernist compatriots and–at times–associates: they were, generally speaking, more invested in preserving the heroic legacy of romance and adventure that fell out of favour in the literature after WWI. Plus they were less invested in realism, more invested in fantasy and mythopoeia.
I asked myself, in seeing the similarity between the essay collection’s theme and the topic up for discussion at NeMLA, how I might have contributed to Baptism of Fire, if I had been in a position to do so. It did not take me long to think of a topic.
The works of Kenneth Morris (1879-1937) have been neglected by critics for too long. Thankfully, Douglas A. Anderson has published a glorious volume of his collected short stories, republished for the first time in many, many years: a book called The Dragon Path. Part of the reason for this neglect stems from the fact Morris was for most of his life a Theosophist, publishing his poetry and short stories through Theosophical publications. In addition to this, his contemporaries thought his work too obscure to publish much of it in his own time–making him something of a fantasy writer hipster, writing parable-like works of historical fantasy way before Tolkien made the genre mainstream. He had a small but devoted audience.
His novel The Chalchiuhite Dragon: A Tale of Toltec Times went unpublished until long after his death, when Douglas A. Anderson sought to republish it in a new edition in the 1990s. I have already read and reviewed this novel here, but for those who want a recap, here’s the simple version of the plot:
The city of Huitznahuacan is a utopian enclave in the Mexican jungle during the pre-Colombian era. The residents participate in religious festivals and worship their gods as real, but they have never before heard of war as a practice among men. They believe that they alone are the only civilization on earth. But when the Toltecs arrive during a festival and encounter their culture, they appear as even stranger than the gods: the Huitznahuatecs are not alone! Soon, however, a religious hierarch of a foreign city, misled by anger and envy, plans to manipulate jungle savages to commit a series of murders that will deviously draw the peaceful civilization into armed conflict. The novel concludes with an anticipation of the arrival of Quetzalcoatl, the Prince of Peace, who gives the Toltecs a new law.
Given that Morris began writing his rather obscure third novel in the 1920s and finished writing it, at last, in 1935, it was written during a time Europe was recovering from the shock of World War I and the world was dealing with the Great Depression. Furthermore, the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939) and World War II (1939-1945) were just on the horizon. Had Morris been writing his novel through Britain’s negotiations with the Third Reich, it might have been possible to read a more or less direct correlation between Huitznahuacan’s failure of pacifism and the failure of Neville Chamberlain’s appeasement policy. In fact, Morris would die before the beginning of the Second World War.
Although my first thought about how to historicize The Chalchiuhite Dragon was shot by the simple fact of Morris’s death in 1937, it did not deter me from investigating deeper. On a second revision, it appeared to me that the novel was still very much about pacifism anyway. Especially when reading the significance of the utopian enclave in his novel, it occurred to me that Morris was writing, quite possibly, about Point Loma, itself a utopian enclave, and Theosophy in general. A resident of San Diego for a long part of his life, and born in Wales, Morris never served at the front–at least Douglas A. Anderson mentions no such engagement. Morris was too busy writing short stories and poetry for the Theosophists.
Here is where W. Michael Ashcraft’s book Dawn of the New Cycle: Point Loma Theosophists and American Culture comes into play. This study of the community to which Morris devoted his life–quite literally, since it was his busy lecture schedule that may have contributed to his declining health–describes Theosophical positions to war, pacifism, and patriotism. In a nutshell: the Theosophists of Point Loma were more actively pacifist than the German branches of their movement, while in the States they participated with “other Americans in condemning the war and called for peaceful solutions to international problems” (169). Being an international society with a vision for the common brotherhood of humanity, Theosophists served patriotically during WWI, but always under the reverence of a ‘higher patriotism’ towards humanity as a whole. Katherine Tingley, a leader of Point Loma who asked Morris to write a novel on a pre-Columbian subject, which lead to The Chalchiuhite Dragon, was active in organizing and sponsoring meetings that promoted pacifism. Given how Huitznahuacan resembles Point Loma in its devotion to peace and the sacred as well as its being closed off from the outside world, it is difficult not to see where Morris derived his inspiration for the novel.
The thesis that emerges from this evidence is that Morris was expressing a Point Loma style of pacifism in The Chalchiuhite Dragon, as way to respond to the desolation of World War I, which must have affected him in some way, even if he was far from the front lines in San Diego, and that he also did so as a response to the growing climate of unease leading up to World War II. Further evidence of Morris’s reaction to the First World War might be sought out in the short stories and poems he was writing between 1914 and 1918, including the years directly following the war.
Although this post only shows a sketch of my ideas, I think the idea is electrifying. I hope the post, at least, might bring more people to read Kenneth Morris, whose short works, like Guy Gavriel Kay’s novels, explore various historical civilizations that span diverse cultures, such as ancient China, India, medieval Spain, Scandinavia, and the worlds of Welsh myth. In fact, Anderson credits him with being the inventor of modern Welsh fantasy. His style is read-out-loudable and very musical–occasionally, literally inspired in their cadence and theme by composers like Beethoven. His works, which often thematize the universal spiritual brotherhood of mankind and the importance of knowledge through experience, are tales relevant to any era and particularly for today.
We re-imagine World War I, a century after its declaration in 1914, as a time of heroic sacrifice. It was also a time of foreboding, since it alluded to the mass causalities that would follow in the various wars of the Twentieth Century. Even the peace treaty itself would provide the pretense for a new, still more disastrous war in 1939. Brian Gottheil’s historical fantasy novel Gateways is just such a world, where a peace treaty to end a disastrous war might produce as many enemies as allies.
Caryn Hallom is First Minister of Deugan, the first woman to hold such an office in the democratic republic. She is responsible for the foreign policy of the Hallom Doctrine, which aims to reduce the threat of the Seffians, a group of religious fundamentalist terrorists, by bringing their land in the Fringes out from the New Empire’s control and into Deugan’s aegis. When Wassia closes the Amimi canal and Brealand responds to Deugan’s subsequent invasion of Wassia by declaring war, the continent falls into chaos. Though the world was told it would be over in a few span, it stretches on, a war on three fronts.
The Deugan President sends Caryn to the Gateway fort, on the frontier with Brealand, where the fate of the continent will be decided in blood, shells, and gas. Adding to the difficulty is that Caryn, thanks to Steffian propaganda, is widely thought to be a witch. She can indeed use magic–or as she calls it, energy–but only at terrible cost.
The energy is a mysterious, parasitic force of nature residing in certain Wells that are scattered throughout the continent. Energy cannot be manipulated, but it can be tamed. The energy has its own desires and appetites and the skill of the Secrets user is determined by how well one knows the energy. Most people cannot survive more than a day in a Well, and being in contact with the energy prematurely ages you. Caryn has already spent time in a Well, letting the energy seep into her body so she can learn to use its power. As a result, she has the body of a middle-aged woman but the mind and memories of a twenty-five-year-old.
Before the Well changed her forever, Caryn went by another name: Jayla. As Jayla, she fell in love with Brenner, the man with whom she spent months in the Well, their bodies slowly being destroyed as they learned how to manipulate the very energy that was killing them. Since Jayla escaped the Well, she and Brenner have not seen each other. But as fate would have it, the war will reunite the again–in the most unlikely manner.
Caryn will have to evade assassination plots, negotiate with the cool-headed and sardonic Brea ambassador Michael Ravencliffe, and survive bombardments and assaults within the maze of twisted passageways that form the Gateway. As the stakes rise, a new, highly destructive weapon made from the power of the Wells’ energy will confront the Deugan army–and in the middle of it, there will be Brenner, and all Caryn’s forgotten feelings for him.
Will Caryn survive? Will she be able to establish a peace? And even if she does, will it last? You will have to read Gatewaysto find out.
One of the strongest parts of this book, I think, is the cost associated with the magic system. The cost of magic should, as a rule in fantasy lit, be more interesting than the magic itself, and that is true in Gateways: it increases the sacrifice of war. Although the energy can create miracles, it can also destroy, and may even be fatal for the user.
It was good to see that no political side in the conflict is ever stigmatized as the “enemy.” The true enemy is the war itself. Although we may sympathize with the liberal-leaning Deugans, the history of which is reminiscent of the United States or perhaps France, we receive the Brea perspective through Ravencliffe, who, I think, is a noble character. We even receive two empathetic Steffian viewpoints.
It was clever worldbuilding to fog the correspondences between the countries of the continent and those in Europe. This eliminates the prejudice we might feel, for example, if Brealand was clearly described as an analogue for Russia or Germany. As Guy Gavriel Kay’s secondary “mirror” worlds are analogues for medieval Spain and T’ang-dynasty China, Gottheil’s continent is an analogue for Europe itself, during World War I. Gateways can therefore be interpreted as a reflection of how nations struggle towards conflict resolution throughout history.
A hundred years after the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, perhaps Gateways is just what readers need to renew their perspective on the Great War, and armed conflict in general.