As it happens, I’ve been away from the day job this week, ownership having determined that, after a full season and the stresses of opening a new office, the company as a whole could use a break. Steeped as I am in the things that I am, I resisted the notion–and I was somewhat justified in it, in the event, with clients making appointments and sending worried emails more or less as soon as the decision to close was made. But since I need and appreciate my paycheck, and since there are other concerns involved, I posted a sign in my office door, and I’ve been away from the office. (I go back Monday; I’ll pick up then.)
In the event, things worked out well. My daughter is off from school this week, and her whirlwind summer tour of the Hill Country doesn’t start until next week. (It is a packed summer for her; she’s got a month of one theatre day-camp [plus dance and cheer instruction], two weeks of Girl Scout camp, two weeks of another theatre day-camp, and a week of a cheer day-camp before a few days off and the resumption of classes.) I’ve gotten to spend a fair bit of time with her, going to a local park and cooking out, or simply relaxing (in and around addressing regular medical appointments for her, because such things need doing, and school being out makes it easier to do them).
Thanks to no small amount of family support, I was also able to take her to the Witte Museum in San Antonio. (Full disclosure: the Witte does not sponsor or endorse me as of this writing, although I wouldn’t be sad to receive such from them.) It’s not the first time we’ve gone; we’ve toured the museum before, although it’s been a few years. It’s not the first time she’s gone; in addition to having gone with me before, my daughter’s visited with one day-camp group or another, and there might’ve been a school field trip to it. It’s far from the first time I’ve gone, either; in addition to having taken my daughter before, I did have one or two school field trips to it. But this trip was special, really. I don’t know if it’s an issue that she’s at just the right age, young enough to be enthusiastic about things and old enough to actually pay attention to and focus on what’s on display. I don’t know if it’s an issue that I’m at a good place for it, relaxed enough to not worry so much about things and to let her be while still engaged enough in things to be good company. Whatever the reason, though, she had a great time, and I had a good time; I feel like she got a lot out of the experience, and I was pleased to be there with her as she did.
Admittedly, it wasn’t the only good part of the day. But it was a good part, and I’m damned glad of it.
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After a missive concerning Lant, “A Childhood” opens with Fitz lamenting Bee. He notes the slow progress of Bee’s growth, Molly’s deepening fixation on her younger daughter, and his own unease and difficulties. Fitz and Molly confer about their daughter, and Fitz remains puzzled by Bee’s seeming lack of development despite a good appetite. He also remains vexed by her clear rejection of him, and he and Moly discuss what is to be done with Bee when they grow old.
I really do love Katrin Sapranova’s work, including this piece from her Tumblr, here, used for commentary.
Time passes, and Bee continues to grow as Molly and Fitz keep her to themselves. Hap visits at intervals, as his life as a minstrel permits, bringing gifts for his foster-sister, and Nettle calls in often, although she also despairs at her sister’s status. Molly takes Bee with her about her daily routines, however, and teaches her as she did her other children, and Bee begins to attempt speech.
More time passes, Bee growing, and Fitz’s and Molly’s lives centering more and more fully on her, although Fitz recognizes himself as being at some remove from his daughter. At length, Bee approaches Fitz while he works on a manuscript, and, through Molly, she asks for paper, pen, and ink. Provided them, she illustrates a lifelike bee and writes her name, to the surprise of both her parents. Fitz considers some of the implications thereof, and he Skills to Chade a request for more writing supplies.
The present chapter, brief though it is (some twelve pages in the edition of the text I’m reading), glosses several years, bringing Bee from swaddled infancy to the age of seven and the evidence of some agency. Among the events presented in the chapter, the visits from Hap are of particular interest to me. Since the introduction of Starling Birdsong in Assassin’s Quest, the Six Duchies novels have made note both of the itinerant lifestyle of the minstrels and of the relaxation of mores with regard to them. In effect, they have license to be different than the general populace; it follows, then, that they are more apt to be tolerant of and respectful of difference than are members of the general populace. That Hap would be one of Bee’s favorites early on, then, does not seem so strange a thing.
I am struck, too, by the invocation of Thick in the present chapter. Although the current text speaks of the character with some respect, it was not always the case, as noted here. The invocation comes in the context of Bee’s depiction in ways that read to my eye as glosses of descriptions of behaviors associated with the autism spectrum. (The phrasing is as it is in part because I am the wrong kind of doctor to offer any diagnoses–and even if I were the right kind, diagnosis from narration is chimerical at best.) And it joins discussion of the Rain Wilds Chronicles’ dragons, here, in suggesting the usefulness of a disability-studies reading of the Realm of the Elderlings corpus. I’ve noted before, of course, that my own expertise does not lend itself toward undertaking such a project, although I’d be thrilled to see how it might be or has been addressed.
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Once again, I find myself in mind of the day’s observance; I’ve tended to be so, as demonstrated here, here, here, and here. Once again, I’ve got a spin-off of a show years into syndication to air. Once again, I reflect upon the circumstances of the world in which I live and which gave rise to me. And once again, I question things, knowing that the world that is is not the world that ought to be and that we are not much if any closer to it than we have been even so recently as a year ago.
It’s a broad “we,” to be sure. I know that no few will seek to exempt themselves from it, claiming that the lives they live are exactly those that ought to be lived–and that, indeed, the lives of all who live are what they deserve. I know there are many who look about and see that things are good, or that they are at least moving in ways that tend toward the good. I know there are many who hope for more of the same, who think that what is being done should be done and in greater measure than has yet been done. They have their reasons, I am sure. They think them good, or good enough, I am equally sure.
I wish I could be so convinced about anything.
But I doubt. I question. I grapple with ideas, finding that they do not sit so well with me as they seem to for others (even as I acknowledge that I see my own struggles more than I see those of others, having no real way to hide them from myself, while others can hide theirs from others’ eyes). Each holiday, each observance, each commemoration finds me in such mind, wondering about the whys and wondering what it is in me that makes me wonder about such things, what lack in me makes for so uneasy a time of accepting what so many others seem to take without question or comment other than the rote repetitions the rites seem to require.
It is said that those who fell in uniformed service did so to secure the freedom I have to think upon such things and to voice those thoughts, and that I and everybody else ought to be grateful for the same. I am not arguing the point. I do question, however, if those who can no longer speak for themselves would be pleased to have their voices invoked, though I know I will not have an answer that I can, myself, report after its achievement.
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A few years back, I opined on graduation and related ceremonies in my part of the world. That time has come around again; in the town where I live, the one small high school is having its graduation tonight, with just shy of sixty young men and women sitting and listening to some local-esque luminary for entirely too long before listening to one of their own and crossing a stage, shaking hands, getting a piece of paper, and tossing eminently uncomfortable hats into the air. Many of them will go to some not-too-far-away school elsewhere. No few will be getting severe haircuts and weeks of being yelled at before some years of being shot at. Some will stay more or less where they are, doing what they have been doing but more of it. While most of those will probably be back in the area, a very few others will drift away and not be seen again hereabouts.
The mortarboard is a singularly annoying hat. Photo by Pavel Danilyuk on Pexels.com
I had thought that I would be among the last when I walked across a somewhat larger but more confined stage close to twenty-five years ago. (I still maintain I shouldn’t’ve done it. Lots of hassle and expense for no real gain and even less comfort.) I had thought that I would leave and not return, and I did leave instructions that I was not to be contacted; I was a bitter young man or older child, and, if I am being honest, I remain far more bitter than I probably ought to be. (There are others, certainly, who have more cause to be more bitter at this point in the year.)
Circumstances have not been such that I could achieve that youthful goal–or most of the goals I had at that point in my life, really. I returned to the Hill Country, not only for visits on college holidays or the occasional evacuation in advance of a hurricane coming in, not only for visits to families for celebrations and solemnizations, or to show grandparents the one of their grandchildren I helped to make, but to live. I don’t live in the town where I grew up, not at this point, but I’m not too far off from it, a drive of just over an hour (because I have to go through small towns to get there, and I know where the speed traps are set up), and if I’m not back there as often as some might prefer (although, if I’m still being honest, more often than some might like; I’ve been quite the asshole to more than a few people), I’m in plenty of contact.
I have to wonder how many of those walking their stages tonight or in the next few days, or who already did so (as is the case for another small town in the area of which I am aware; I expect it’s not alone), set out with similar hopes, that they will not be bound anymore by who they have been and had to be, and will find that those hopes do not come to pass, that they are, in fact, who they have been and that they have been where they seemingly ought to be. I have to wonder, too, how many of them will achieve what they dream to be true and will find that it does not fulfill them. But I think, perhaps I hope, that more of them will find what they want and find that they do, in fact, want it.
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He put something up on what was once called his wall What might have been a bulletin board in another time Or on another server servicing another program altogether Noting the love a novelist long gone would have had for An export from Lake Geneva And I commented in turn Wondering what works would have been Had that export not rolled out onto the grid Into the hearts and minds of many
One of the classics… Photo by Armando Are on Pexels.com
I stand by the comment Knowing the hours and days and weeks and months and years Spent poring over tome after tome after tome Sitting with pen or pencil in hand poised over the paper Sitting and staring at the screen my flicking fingers foist pixels onto Doing my part for the magic Mackay makes a scholarly project Crafting my own small part of a world that lives Nowhere but in memory Mine and others’ Instead of bound between covers on shelves and for sale But I am not sure I would be better for the exchange
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Following a rumination by Fitz upon the Fool, “The Spider’s Lair” begins with Fitz glossing the passage of time and Bee’s slow growth before moving to confront Chade about Lant. Fitz’s progress to Buckkeep is described, as is his passage into the castle itself, and he arrives in Chade’s rooms and what had been his laboratories unmarked. There he waits, first surprising Lant with his appearance, then Rosemary, who has succeeded Chade as the court’s assassin. Fitz recalls hisearlierexperienceswithher, and Chade emerges into the room.
It’s a way to spice up the narrative… Photo by Jessica Lewis ud83eudd8b thepaintedsquare on Pexels.com
Discussion of the attempted infiltration by Lant ensues, Chade attempting to set Fitz’s concerns aside and addressing some of his own about the potential Farseer heir that Bee is. Rosemary and Lant are dismissed, and discussion between Fitz and Chade continues. Chade asks Fitz to accept Lant into his household in time, knowing that he must either be placed or eliminated, given his training, and he urges Fitz to consider Bee’s possible futures. Gaps in Skill instruction are also treated in the discussion, and Chade attempts without success to prevail upon Fitz to rejoin life in Buckkeep. He seems to accept it at last, even as Fitz agrees to continue his scholarly work on Chade’s behalf.
The opening commentary, as often, attracts my attention. I am fortunate that my daughter, though born small, throve from her earliest days and thrives even now as I write this. She remains a marvel and a wonder to me, and if it is the case that I have had hopes for her that seem as if they will never come to be–I think many parents hope to see what they think the best of themselves reflected in their children, and my daughter is very much her own person–there are and have always been so many other excellences in her that I marvel daily that she is in my life. So I have not the concerns that Fitz voices for Bee. (I do know well that many parents do have such concerns or greatly similar, and I know that there are all too many parents who have and have had to have greater concerns yet; I do not wish to be taken as minimizing those experiences for lack of sharing them directly.) But that I do not have quite those same concerns does not mean I do not have concerns at all, and there are some that, like Fitz, I do not voice to others, knowing that my roles in life and the positions I must occupy to those others means I cannot let them hear such words from me. What that says about Fitz’s relationships or mine, I cannot well say, although I imagine the words would not themselves be kind, even if true. But, again, I read affectively and sentimentalize too much.
I note, too, the predilection for bastards in the Six Duchies to receive training as assassins. Chade is a bastard; Fitz is rather overtly so, and so is Lant. (Rosemary’s legitimacy does not come to mind as having been treated in the text, although that may be as much my oversight as anything else.) And on the topic of Lant: there’s more to be said about the character, and I’m certain I’ll treat some of it, but having an illegitimate child receiving training as an infiltrator named as, in effect, a lapse in vigilance is a bit on the nose even for a writer such as Hobb detailing a group such as the nobility of the Six Duchies that runs towards emblematic names. There’s humor to be found in it, certainly, but it’s a backhanded kind of humor–which is, admittedly, the kind of thing that tickles my fancy and attracts my attention.
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They pay us just peanuts and I am allergic Choking while they say I should be grateful and Point at those who choke from the sprays Foisted in their faces from behind masks When their own masks are made crimes Point at those who suffer no food allergies Who never suffer from them Or from bulimia, either Point at those who suffer maiming and loss and death While they sign the checks cashed in with that suffering Others reaping the rewards of their investments Red fruit left to rot in far-flung fields But, yeah, I ought to be grateful
Such wage. Much wow. Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
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The origins of this paper [1] lie alongside the origins of the Tales after Tolkien Society; its genesis was in response to Helen Young’s call for papers for the 2013 International Congress on Medieval Studies. That call for papers yielded two paper panels at the 2013 Congress, both of them scheduled for Sunday morning. [2] It made for an interesting time for those who had taken part in the Saturday night entertainments traditional to the Congress; it certainly did for me as I sat in the audience for the first of those panels and listened to Molly Brown, Shiloh R. Carroll, Rachael Mueller, and Helen Young give their papers, in no small part because from those papers, and from the discussion that followed, I realized that my own paper—“A Divergent Medievalism in Robin Hobb’s Tawny Man Trilogy”—was, in a word, wrong. There was not time to rewrite the paper to make it right, not with me realizing in an 8:30 session that the paper I was to present in a 10:00 session needed fixing, so I gave the paper anyway and remarked at its conclusion and during discussion that I had realized the error.
Part of the WMU campus, from the campus website and used for commentary
Helen Young was generous enough to let me correct the mistake when she assembled and edited the Society’s twin volumes, The Middle Ages in Popular Culture: Medievalism and Genre[3]and Fantasy and Science Fiction Medievalisms: From Isaac Asimov to A Game of Thrones [4]—volumes that garnered the her and the Society a spot on the finals list for the 2016 World Fantasy Awards. [5] My correction came in the form of a chapter in that second volume—“Moving Beyond Tolkien’s Medievalism: Robin Hobb’s Farseer and Tawny Man Trilogies.” In the chapter, I make the case that, while there is evidence to support a reading of Robin Hobb’s Realm of the Elderlings milieu as operating in the Tolkienian tradition of ambiguously mimicking medieval England and the lands with which it interacted, there is more and better evidence to support a reading of the milieu as an interpretation of the North American continent, more specifically the Pacific Northwest. Looking at the North American aspects of the milieu, not just the Eurocentric, offers a richer reading of Hobb’s texts, and Hobb’s texts, read thus, offer a richer basis for interpretation of the possibilities of fantasy literature—within the Tolkienian tradition [6] and without it.
The chapter, published in 2015, only treats the Farseer and Tawny Man trilogies, skipping over the Liveship Traders trilogy that came between them both in terms of time in milieu and of publication. Part of the reason it did so was that the Farseer and Tawny Man trilogies focus on many of the same characters and take place within much the same region in the broader world described by the novels as a corpus; the Liveship Traders novels take place in a different nation than the Farseer and Tawny Man series, and while there is some overlap of character, most of the major actors in the series are different. Too, the nation of the Liveship Traders is substantially different from those of the Farseer and Tawny Man novels; the technologies and social orientations are markedly distinct, and, frankly, I did not realize at the time how they fit in. Subsequent rereadings, as well as continued publications of novels in the Realm of the Elderlings milieu, suggest that they—as well as their sequels, the Rain Wild Chronicles—reinforce the North American-ness of the milieu, if perhaps moving away from the specific focus on the Pacific Northwest. This paper, then, seeks to address the earlier omission, looking at how the Liveship Traders and Rain Wild Chronicles novels reinforce the North American-ness of the Realm of the Elderlings milieu while still leaving it grounded enough in the prevailing Tolkienian tradition of fantasy literature to read well as part of it.
The Liveship Traders Novels
The Liveship Traders novels—Ship of Magic, Mad Ship, and Ship of Destiny—center on the fortunes of the Vestrit Trader family, which are bound up in the interactions between the colonial center of Jamaillia, its colonies of Bingtown and the Rain Wilds, the pirates that ply the waters between, and dragons. (It is a fantasy series, after all.) Those fortunes begin to assert the North American-ness of the milieu early on in the series; in the first novel, the chapter titled “A Change of Fortunes” presents depictions of conditions aboard slave-ships that echo or parallel those of the Middle Passage, [7] as well as speaking to the oft-noticed willingness of people in positions of some wealth to avoid engaging with the implications of how wealth is accumulated, even if they are not, themselves, directly participatory in the overt exploitation of human life and worth. That is, people now are reported to be willing to enjoy the benefits of exploitative practice even if they are not the ones directly enforcing unfair or unsafe working conditions (and it must be noted that the circumstances of this paper’s composition are themselves benefits of exploitative labor systems); many are more inclined to turn systems to their benefit than to undo those systems. The same is true for the pirate captain, Kennit, upon whom the chapter focuses, even if it is decidedly not the case for those among his crew who have seen and experienced systems of oppression.
You know what? Sure! Image from the publisher, here, and used for commentary
Later chapters in the novel continue to parallel tropes strongly associated with North America, both the United States and the other countries on the continent. For instance, a chapter titled “New Roles” follows one of the Vestrits—Althea—as she joins a seagoing butchery under an assumed name. [8] The conditions aboard the butcher-ship, as well as its depicted work in hunting and rendering down marine mammals, parallel the seal-hunting and whaling industries of the Atlantic coast of the 18th and 19th centuries—such as are depicted in Moby-Dick, for example. While it is the case that seal-hunting and whaling were not and are not restricted to the Americas, and it is the case that some of the bodies of literature from which fantasy literature borrows (at varying degrees of remove) do treat of such things, they are not typical features of fantasy literature in the Tolkienian tradition, while they are fairly standard parts of the histories and legends of North American nations and peoples. Their inclusion in the Liveship Traders novels, then, helps to mark that series as borrowing specifically from North America—which means their milieu does the same.
More parallels come out later in Althea’s work aboard the butcher-ship. As she and others of the crew enjoy a night in port, they are beset by crimpers—agents of other ships looking to forcibly conscript crews into service. [9] While some of that practice predates colonization of the Americas, to be sure, and there are instances of it in Tolkienian-tradition fantasy literature, it is a decided part of Anglophone North American history; it is noted as being among the grievances leading to the American Revolution and to the War of 1812, for example. Again, then, the inclusion of such things into the novel works to identify its milieu as borrowing from more than the sources of the usual Tolkienian tradition. Similarly, the appearance of cindin in the chapter echoes chewing tobacco or coca leaf—and while smoking tobacco is a noted part of Tolkien’s work, chewing it is not, and neither is coca. Nor yet does Tolkien’s work treat the negative effects of the material’s use. For Tolkien, it is a beneficial practice, while Hobb openly acknowledges that, despite some pleasant effects—cindin is a stimulant in the novels—it is both addictive and disfiguring, causing sores in the mouth when indulged in at length. In the depiction, Hobb presents another point that comes across as similar enough to Tolkien’s work to make clear that, as Hobb herself notes, [10] she writes from his literary tradition, but that she also expands upon it to employ North American—and more generally American—ideas and backgrounds.
Cindin is not the only intoxicant that links the Realm of the Elderlings milieu to North America more than only to the Eurocentric Tolkienian tradition. [11] Later in Ship of Magic, another major character, Brashen Trell, finds himself drinking with an old crew-mate—and the libation is specifically rum. [12] As I note in an earlier treatment of the chapter, “that liquor has origins in southern Asia—there are early attestations in India and Persia—it is indelibly associated with the Caribbean and with the Americas through the horrors of the slave trade (with which topic the present novel also grapples), as well as with the pirates that continue to feature in the text and which, themselves, are a traditionally New World phenomenon.” [13] Or the way they are presented in the text is generally of the New World, anyway, with ships in styles and with descriptions taken from Hobb’s observations of her husband and the maritime communities of which they have been part. [14]
The next novel in the series begins to move to what I think are stronger North Americanisms, continuing many of the same features but adding to them political structures and instabilities that diverge significantly from the model laid out in the Middle-earth corpus and echoed by so many other fantasy writers. Late in Mad Ship, a legate from the colonial center of Jamaillia heads toward Bingtown and the Rain Wilds, overtly recognizing them as being colonies long exploited and concomitantly ripe for changes in their structures of governance and relationship to the imperialistic core. [15] In effect, Bingtown and the Rain Wilds are identified in the book as “colonies long exploited for economic gain that begin to chafe under the changing terms of remote rule, both with troubled settlement and immigration histories, both based on genocide of which a great many people remain ignorant.” [16] And that is not so much the case with the Euro-mimetic nations in Tolkien and many of his successors as it is for the countries of North America (and, to be fair, elsewhere). The in-milieu “historical” circumstances and the outright recognition of them come off as a particularly strong motion beyond Tolkien’s medievalism.
That motion is carried yet further in the third novel of the trilogy, if with what seems a narrower focus on parallels to the United States. In Ship of Destiny, Bingtown does a fair impression of the Revolutionary War and the lead-up to it, at least in the compressed forms that it is often taught in schools and which gets referenced and presented in film and on television (which form is that most commonly understood in the United States, with problems for it not unlike those Sturtevant identifies as attendant on the medieval, generally [17]). In the chapter “Traders and Traitors,” for example, following the outbreak of violence at a major sociopolitical event and ensuing social unrest, the legate from Jamaillia finds herself confronted by evidence of motions against the dominance of the colonial core. [18] While this comes as something of a surprise to the legate, she does work to exploit divisions among the Bingtowners to maintain Jamaillian control—and to keep herself in a position of authority there.
More of the parallel to the (idealized) revolutionary United States emerges later in the novel. In the chapter “Surviving,” the continued progress of violence against Bingtown by Jamaillia prompts formal disaffiliation from the colonial center by the erstwhile colony and the formal establishment of government that explicitly takes in formerly disadvantaged populations. While some earlier comments about the chapter explicitly note the corrective to history being presented, [19] the history being corrected is that of the nascent United States rather than that of a more “normal” fantasy antecedent. So much is reinforced by the chapter “Bingtown Negotiations,” which reads as much as a recapitulation and refiguring of the Continental Congresses [20] and the Constitutional Convention [21] as it does anything else. (Indeed, something like the Intolerable Acts seems to be at work in Bingtown in the broader context of the novel.) The overt fractiousness and exigencies demanding compromise echo the tensions taught as being present among the delegates to the Congresses and the Convention as the United States separated from the United Kingdom, and while the explicit equalization of populations does differ from the historical circumstance Hobb mimics, that they are explicitly treated is itself no less strong a parallel than the organizational structure depicted as being in place. [22] And that there is such reliance on and reinforcement of that parallel, so much done to make Bingtown’s independence mimetic of that of the United States and other former colonies, especially after no small effort is made to present so much of the physicality surrounding it mimetic of the New World, marks the series as moving beyond Tolkien’s medievalism, decisively and emphatically.
The Rain Wilds Chronicles Novels
The sequel series to the Liveship Traders, the Rain Wilds Chronicles, is a tetralogy consisting of Dragon Keeper, Dragon Haven, City of Dragons, and Blood of Dragons. It also does more to cement the North American-ness of the milieu than the trilogy it succeeds. A large part of this is because less is made of colonial and imperialist dynamics in the later series than in the earlier. A larger part is that significant portions of the series are taken up with an exploratory venture that calls to mind both Marquette & Joliet and Lewis & Clark; “pioneering” and “exploration” are deeply embedded in the cultural mythoi of the United States—and they are not exactly foreign to the histories of that country, Mexico, or Canada, either. Indeed, there is something not unlike the Spanish colonial search for El Dorado in the efforts by the young dragons and their keepers—on which efforts the Rain Wilds novels largely center—seeking out a city full of ancient treasure: Kelsingra. (There are key differences, of course; Kelsingra is real within the milieu, as El Dorado was not in the readers’ world, and the dragons are returning to an ancestral homeland rather than coming in to dispossess and despoil an existing people of their own.) There are parallels to be found, of course, in such things as the Arthurian Grail Quest or searches for Atlantis or the Land of Cokaygne, but there is an awful lot of “search for a lost city” in the myths and legends of North America.
Behold its glory once more! Yet again, Frozen History by MeetV on DeviantArt, here, used for commentary.
More concretely, the Rain Wilds novels more or less open with reference to the United States-ness of the later Liveship Traders; the front matter recapitulates the arrangements for the independence of Bingtown and the Rain Wilds from Jamaillia, for example, [23] something echoed at the beginning of the first chapter of Dragon Keeper—with the addition of a new dating system, [24] one explicitly citing the emergence of a new polity. The parallel between “Year the 7th of the Reign of the Most Noble and Magnificent Satrap Cosgo / Year the 1st of the Independent Alliance of Traders” [25] and “in the year of our Lord two thousand twenty-four, and of the Independence of the United States of America the two hundred and forty-eighth” [26]—for but one easy example—seems clear.
Similarly evident is the situation in the first chapter of Dragon Keeper between one of the major characters of the series—Leftrin, captain of the Tarman—as a character type notable less in mainstream Tolkienian tradition fantasy literature than in such works as A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. [27] The less-reputable Traders in the Liveship Traders novels are still largely rule-abiding, generally careful to remain within bounds of law and custom, even if they approach perilously close to those bounds and find rebuke for doing so (Davad Restart in the earlier novels comes to mind as an example, [28] as does Caern [29]). Leftrin flatly contravenes convention and law, and he does so knowingly—but in the interest of further profits. There is, in the literature of the United States no less than in its prevailing cultural currents, a valorization of “entrepreneurs” who are willing to set aside “restrictive” regulations in the interest of their own enrichment; there are strong strains of “I know better than the bureaucrats” and “You can’t tell me what to do” at work in the US zeitgeist (even if, as not seldom, the wide-ranging “entrepreneur” ends up softening that stance, often due to romantic interests). They are less pronounced in Tolkienian-tradition fantasy literature, and they are less lauded where they appear; Hobb’s use of the trope is yet another way she moves beyond Tolkien’s medievalism.
Too, and again, there is a strong sense of exploration at work in the Rain Wilds novels, with much of the second of them, Dragon Haven, occupied by slow progress up the Rain Wild River to the ancient city of Kelsingra. I’ve written about the location previously, [30] and it is one to which the characters in Hobb’s Realm of the Elderlings frequently repair across series. For the dragons in the series, it is a dimly remembered ancestral domain, a place where their ancestors (whose memories they share; it’s complicated) were venerated, praised, and attended to; it is a decidedly desirable place for them to be, all the more so when contrasted with the squalor in which they emerged into the world [31] and in which they persisted for years. [32] As the dragons, their keepers, and the Tarman proceed up the Rain Wild River, Leftrin charts the waters and makes note of the surrounding lands, [33] keeping a detailed log of how to get to the location against the need to do so again, musing that the information will be of value to the Traders—again, something reminiscent of the Marquette & Joliet and Lewis & Clark expeditions, as well as those of de Soto and de León. Too, as the group’s progress continues, with increasing attention to the dwindling supplies carried from the “settled” Trader lands and the growing need to forage and hunt for unfamiliar food speaks to the kinds of things treated not only in formal “pioneer” narratives, but even pop culture staples such as Oregon Trail. [34] It speaks to the kinds of stories on which schoolchildren in the United States are trained, the kinds of stories the United States likes to tell about itself—stories that lie outside the common reference base for works in the Tolkienian fantasy tradition.
Even amid all this, I do note some frustration of the parallels to the Americas in Hobb’s reference base. If it is the case that Bingtown and the Rain Wilds are stand-ins or analogues of the United States, [35] then Jamaillia becomes something like (later) Hanoverian England, but the other major power in the region—Chalced—is a less clear refiguration. [36] Admittedly, it is not the case that every culture in a work of fantasy have a real-world parallel; by its very nature, fantasy gets to move away from the constraints of the real world. Admittedly, too, Hobb moves away from real-world cultures in other aspects of her writing, doing so in ways that make sense, given the particular magics at work in the Realm of the Elderlings corpus; the dragons themselves are perhaps the major example, but they are certainly not the only one. It may be that Chalced can be read as a decidedly backhanded figuration of the worst of Spanish colonial practice (here including the Reconquista on the Iberian Peninsula); it may instead be that Hobb is falling victim to the kind of Orientalist thought Said describes or is engaging in the kind of pop-culture association of Mesoamerican peoples with various savageries. None of the readings are particularly comfortable, to be sure, but the difficulty the interpretations introduce to understanding Hobb’s Realm of the Elderlings as an invocation of the Americas in fantasy literature do have to be acknowledged.
Despite so much, however, there is quite a bit in the Rain Wilds novels that furthers reading the Realm of the Elderlings as drawing largely from the Americas. The fauna described offer additional examples. In Dragon Haven, the dragons, their keepers, and the Tarman make note of creatures they call “gallators,” creatures living in an environment familiar from descriptions of the Florida Everglades or the swamps and bayous of southern Louisiana; they are clearly supposed to be alligators—distinctly tied to the Americas—or something so much like them as to make no difference. [37] In City of Dragons, as the group approaches Kelsingra, they spot game described in terms that echo nothing so much as moose—and while there are moose in Eurasia, they are far more prevalent in descriptions of North America than in the Old World [38]—or in refigurations of the Old World.
With the Rain Wilds novels, as with the Liveship Traders, there is more socio-politically than geographically to support the notion that Hobb draws largely from the Americas in undergirding her narrative milieu. Given that the people of the Rain Wilds are themselves akin to the Bingtowners—they acknowledge each other as such, their original colonial arrangements with Jamaillia hold them in common with one another, and their secession from Jamaillian rule brings them into union as a single nation—much or all of what holds true for Bingtown also holds true for the Rain Wilds, if with necessary modifications for their respective situations. Hobb does not leave so much tacit, however.
For one, her work makes much of the tensions arising from concerns of “when my people came to this part of the world,” notably regarding the formerly-enslaved Tattooed. While it is the case that, legally, the Tattooed are accorded equal status in the nation arising from the secession from Jamaillia, [39] it is also the case that law and practice differ in that regard, and concerns about the putative purity of bloodlines remains a concern. [40] Those concerns follow even the dragon keepers as they begin to restore Kelsingra to a livable community, with those aligning most closely to the way things had been done effectively espousing segregation for no better reason that that it had been how things were done before. [41] Jim Crow would seek to fly among the dragons.
For another, the work expresses concern for the way in which the artifacts of Kelsingra will be treated by those who follow after the initial group of dragons, their keepers, and the crew of the Tarman. In City of Dragons, Alise Kincarron, herself a student of history and legend, walks among the ruins of Kelsingra, considering how best to catalog and describe what lies in the city—and fretting about how what she sees there will be despoiled by rapacious Traders who will certainly follow and auction off pieces of (pre)history as curiosities. [42] Her worry is not without justification. The wealth of the Rain Wilds had arisen from their exploration and exploitation of the ruins of abandoned outlying Elderling cities; Kelsingra, as a core city, has more and neater stuff. Too, her husband follows after her not out of love for her, but out of desire to appropriate what he thinks would be her share of the spoils of Kelsingra. [43] And several of the members of the party that had set out for Kelsingra initially did so with the explicit intention of slaughtering the dragons—thinking, communicating beings—and selling their parts. [44] The novels do deplore such rapacious attitudes; those who hold them either change those attitudes or die ignominiously—but they are still presented as norms, the defiance of which marks out the more “heroic” characters. In such things, the wealth-at-any-cost ethos that pops up, the sheer financial greed, seems to echo the hyper-capitalist orientation for which the United States is known in much cultural product; it is one more way in which Hobb’s fantasy moves beyond Tolkien’s medievalism.
A final point to consider: one of the major components of the mythology of the United States, one of the things that is among the best of its ideals, is that the country is a place where people can escape from the constraints of their old lives and make new ones for themselves—with hard work across many years, perhaps, but still a thing that can be done. It is the case that the country falls far short of the ideal; too many find themselves turned away who seek the espoused freedom in hope and willingness, and many are bound as they are born, with structures conspiring to continuously create an underclass that can be exploited in part to enable the exploitation of others yet. But the idea persists that the New World, that the US, can serve as a beacon of hope to others—the proverbial “city on a hill.” In the novels, Kelsingra does offer that opportunity, if with possible caveats; more people are more free to pursue themselves and their desires in it than in the places whence they come, and there is more acceptance of difference there than in many other places. [45] While it must be acknowledged that Hobb moves beyond Tolkien in showing the underbellies of sources other than the generic Eurocentric medieval, it must also be acknowledged that she brings in the brighter ideals of those same sources. And there is some value to such a thing.
Conclusion
There is still more work to do, of course, to bear out how Hobb’s Realm of the Elderlings milieu works with and extends beyond the generic Eurocentric medievalist tropes at play in the broader Tolkienian fantasy tradition. For one, a conference paper can only take in so much at a time. Additional details from the novels could be incorporated and explicated, and much more in the way of documentary research could be carried out to identify the parallels, both in historical circumstances and geographical realities. For another, there are other works in the Realm of the Elderlings milieu than even the four series noted already; in addition to the Fitz and the Fool novels, there are novellas and short stories set in the Six Duchies and Rain Wilds, and there is some suggestion of more novels to come. [46] Whether any of the other materials will do as much to present the idea of a North American-centered fantasy milieu as the texts already reviewed is unclear, I couldn’t at this point say, but I think they will do at least some work that way, and it will be a pleasure to find out.
[1] I am not worrying much about formal citation for this paper. The only publication it will see is online; informal citation should be enough for most or all of it.
[10] Okay, a formal citation: Robin Hobb, “A Bar and a Quest,” in Meditations on Middle-earth, ed. Karen Harber (New York: St. Martin’s P, 2001), 85-100.
Read the previous entry in the serieshere. Read the next entry in the serieshere.
An “old Buckkeep tale” about pecksie-born children precedes “The Presentation,” which opens with Fitz fretting about how he will confess his actions to Molly. He takes measures to do so, and he is rightly rebuked for having dissembled. The parents discuss their child and her differences, and Fitz begins to make known the fact of his second daughter’s birth, enduring Nettle’s rebuke through the Skill as well. Molly also broaches the topic of Kettricken with Fitz, and after some more talk, Molly passes their child to Fitz and steps out. He attempts to connect with the child in her absence, testing names for her, and finding her strangely reluctant. As he continues to attempt the connection, Fitz finds his daughter open to him, and she wails at the magical contact, which sound prompts Molly’s swift return. She soothes their child, and the pair name her Bee, though Fitz hesitates to seal the name to her.
Later, Nettle arrives at her parents’ home from Buckkeep, rushing to her mother’s side and taking Bee in her arms with some surprise. Nettle notes that Kettricken follows not far behind her. The purpose of Kettricken’s visit is discussed, and Fitz muses on the tensions between Molly and Kettricken. Molly upbraids him for not having reported his prior knowledge of Kettricken’s imminent arrival to her, and matters are arranged to receive Kettricken. Nettle regards her sister with concern in advance of the arrival, and Bee cries again when Nettle makes to hold her. Molly intuits that the magics she and Fitz wield occasion upset from the child, and both Nettle and Fitz make some essay to test the idea. Molly lays Bee down, and the three adults proceed to receive Kettricken.
Fitz notes the precautions Revel has taken against Kettricken’s arrival, approving of them as he sees them, and he takes a moment to step clandestinely aside to return to the nursery where Bee is. There, he finds an uninvited visitor looking in on Bee, and he takes him, searching and interrogating him. Fitz satisfies himself that the visitor, whose name he learns is FitzVigilant (“Lant”), is reasonably benign, sent by Chade as a test for one of them, and sends him off under threat. He then inspects his daughter, at which task Molly finds him, and they return to the reception–carrying Bee with them. Fitz, in his guise of Tom Badgerlock, makes easy conversation with his guests.
After a meal, Fitz, Molly, Nettle, Kettricken, and a select few others retire to consider Bee. The youngest of them is shown and inspected, and Kettricken finds herself taken aback at the child and her appearance. Molly maneuvers herself and Bee away from public attention, leaving Nettle to address social ramifications and Fitz to handle the political fallout that will come. Kettricken soon takes her leave, followed by all save Nettle, who remains with her parents and sister for a few days. And Fitz considers how he will address matters with Chade and others.
The opening folk-tale about pecksies brings to mind another of Hobb’s works, Words like Coins. I’ve treated the novella before (here), and I expect that I will (eventually) get to it in this rereading series. In the wake of a recent discussion (and a good one, about which I’ll be posting more in coming days), I have to wonder about their presence and existence within the Six Duchies; they read to my eye as variations on the Fair Folk amply attested in European folklore (and employed in no few other fantasy novels, as well; Kerr’s Deverry novels come to mind). But then, I have asserted that the Realm of the Elderlings does have enough in it to mark it as part of the Tolkienian tradition, even as it moves beyond the “normal” boundaries for it; the pecksies are, to my mind, one of the tradition-fixing features of the milieu.
I note, too, that the present chapter is another of the longer chapters among the novels thus far. Like “Arrival,” “The Presentation” comes in at close to forty pages (159-98). There is not as much explication of milieu and updates going on in the present chapter as in the previous over-length one, although there is some discussion of the dynastic politics at work in the Six Duchies and surrounding nations. (That there is some lie given to the “happily ever after” seemingly in the offering for Dutiful and Elliania is a lovely bit of authenticity for the work; that there is tension surrounding Dutiful’s Chuyrda heritage in the present chapter is another.) Nor is it the case that the passage of years is glossed in the chapter, as is the case for earlier chapters. Clearly, then, there must be some other function at work in the chapter, although what the function is is not immediately clear to me at this point in my rereading. (Admittedly, as I have noted, it’s been a while since I reread the work.)
One thing that I might have liked to have seen in the chapter, and I did not as I reread or as I reviewed to be able to do this little bit of writing, is the forewarning that sent Fitz skulking to Bee’s room. Admittedly, it is good that he did so; as the father of a daughter who was, herself, quite small, I find nothing but sympathy for him in his concern for her, however affective such a reading might be. Too, I find nothing but sympathy for his treatment of Lant when the latter intrudes, uninvited and unannounced, into the child’s room; I don’t think I’d much cotton to someone treating my daughter in such a way, either. But I’m not seeing anything that occasions the specific iteration of concern, no premonition through either of the magics Fitz wields or even some overheard or scarce-noticed comment about someone being absent who should be present. I guess I’m saying that I would have liked to have seen a bit more overt foreshadowing of the intrusion, especially since Fitz’s–I hesitate to write “paranoia,” both because diagnosing a character is a chimera and because there have been people out to get Fitz on more than one occasion in his life–wariness has been…inconsistent in the novel so far. As I think I’ve noted before, so much is understandable, given the circumstances. But with it being so, it would have been nice to see something a bit more direct to prompt the (admittedly useful) behavior.
So much doesn’t mean I’m not enjoying rereading, of course. The work I’ve done with Hobb’s texts over the years should show that enjoyment. But enjoying something doesn’t mean ignoring its problems.
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