Summer is in full session in the part of the world in which I live, the Texas Hill Country. Already, there have been days with high temperatures above 100ºF / 37ºC, whose lows were themselves quite high; already, the ground begins to crack from thirst, and some creeks are running dry that had flowed far more freely. Nor is this the worst of it; August has yet to arrive, and it is August that treats this part of the world as a blast furnace. Bodies exhaust themselves trying to shed heat into the heat, and, fatiguing, people feel their tempers fray faster than in fall or winter or spring. It is likely the case that the heat has killed some here already this year; it is a certainty that more will die from it than have, as any who have lived here and listened or looked will know and as any who do for any length of time will find.
Matters are somewhat improved. Photo by Dominika Roseclay on Pexels.com
It is a beautiful place, but it is not necessarily a kind one.
Even sitting comfortably where someone else has to pay the power bill to keep the air conditioning running, I find myself battered by the brightness outside, laboring under the feeling of heat that inescapably rises from seeing the rippling rising from the pavement, warping the images of the fading green leaves beyond. Something not water seems to coruscate upon the pale ribbons that tie our towns together, glitter bedecking the gift that is this part of the world, however hot it is and will be for the coming weeks.
Because, again, it is going to get worse before it gets better. And although I have lived through this swelling cycle many times, and although many have done so more times than I and with less support than I enjoy in my indolence and ease, there will be no few who suffer for nothing that they have done other than to be where they are, bitten badly by the dogs of these days.
I can only hope they’ve had their shots.
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Screaming into the open air until My throat is torn and still Screaming up the bloody hunks Hoping that having to stop and Scrape some part of me off of their faces will Make them pause long enough to look at The world they are helping make Tinted red by something not a sunset And stop in horror at how the hue Ruins all the views they had thought to have
Oh, no, there’s no metaphor here; why would you think so? Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com
They do not listen Of course And why should they when They bathe so gladly Drink so deeply Of the wine of which I am a fountain But one more small faucet pouring out upon them And stay drunk on the spirits they ingest ?
When the time comes that They must sober up And they see what covers them And the long line of those who Wounded Have yielded it Who will then have the axe in hand And swing it one more time?
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Following advice of a reward for information about Sedric and Alise from their families and an accompanying brief message to Detozi that notes questions of transmission integrity, “A Bingtown Trader” begins with Hest surveying Alise’s chambers in his home. He muses in annoyance on the chambers and their erstwhile occupant, and he fumes at the expense of having taken Alise as a wife and the pretense that his doing so enacts. The implications that Alise and Sedric have run off together, though Hest knows them to be false, rankle and affect his business dealings, annoying him yet further. His steps against his lover and his wife are rehearsed, and his reverie is interrupted by a visitor from Chalced.
Oh, right. This guy. Image for commentary, of course.
Hest seeks to rebuke the visitor and is assailed for his troubles, soon pressed hard for information he does not have about Sedric’s dealings with Chalcedean agents. He is also conscripted into Chalced’s mission to acquire dragon-parts for their ruler’s health, given grim reminders of the importance of that mission to deliver.
It would seem to have been a while since Hest last appeared “in the flesh” in the narrative, as such; he is referenced and recalled, but to have him present in the narrative present is not something that happens often. And that is likely for the best; he is, as has been remarked on more than one occasion by more than one character, an unpleasant person with few, if any, redeeming qualities. Admittedly, Hobb has dwelt on such characters more than once before; depictions of Will and Regal in the Farseer novels come to mind, as do depictions of Kyle Haven in the Liveship Traders novels. Still, that Hest has only this brief direct part in the narrative after so long outside it seems marked, suggesting to my mind that he is functioning as a place-holder and character-type rather than as an actual character. That is, Hest is not important to the narrative in himself so much as he is important to the narrative for his interactions with other characters.
The potential problem that arises with this is that characters who are treated in such ways tend towards enacting and reinforcing stereotypes. Used for their narrative functions rather than having their development presented and explored, such characters do not invite the level of craft and attention that more focal figures receive, and it becomes easy to present them via a kind of short-hand, evoking or outright presenting types likely to be taken in and understood by broader readerships–and, all too often, those types are unflattering representations of classes of people. That they are so easily accessible is the result of long years of infelicity and worse, problems likely to continue because they continue to be used with minimal critique in the media people take in.
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I had been hoping to hear Wilson, Ballard, and McGlown Harmonize over sweet horn-work But I am stuck with lesser writers than they had Who pen far poorer songs for singers who should Not so much as audition for the frogs’ parts Or the crows’
There can’t be any deeper meaning here, can there? Photo by Sami Aksu on Pexels.com
The latter Of course Got many auditions And are amply cast Richly costumed And if there are a few who play the ravens’ parts Thought and memory perching on the shoulders of the mighty Whispering what is needful to hear There are more who croak out corpse-breath with glee Before bending their beaks to feast again
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Last week It was clear that Notus Servant of Aeolus and son of Astraeus Stopped off for a bite to eat along the way
Oh, yes! One of many images of good eating from a Hill Country restaurant, used here for commentary
He had the migas plate I am sure Possibly the chilaquiles Definitely several cups of coffee Maybe another side of refrieds or Extra el charro Which he shared with us only later If in abundance
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After a seemingly clandestine message from Kim in Cassarick to Hest Finbok that affirms concerns raised earlier, “Kelsingra” begins with Alise stalking through the streets of the ruined city, mentally categorizing and interpreting what she sees in something like an exercise in amateur archaeology. The strange condition of the buildings and the occasional echoes earlier presentations of the city, and Alise muses on matters at some length as she surveys the site. With thoughts turning to possible futures, Alise confers with Leftrin, who notes the problems that face the expedition despite best efforts being made by all members of the party. Alise offers a solution to at least part of their problem, but Leftrin argues against it, citing the reasons it would not work and that they should not attempt it. Leftrin’s own proposal receives similar treatment from Alise in turn, and the two make to return to the Tarman together. They are interrupted in their progress by an encounter with an agitated Heeby and a stricken Rapskal, to whom they attend. Reviving him from strange visions, they proceed.
It returns! Once again, Frozen History by MeetV on DeviantArt, here, used for commentary.
Heeby bears Alise and Leftrin back to the Tarman in turn. Alise considers the experience as she is taken aloft. Leftrin watches anxiously as she goes, Rapskal offering some cold comfort as the two confer about Rapskal’s experience with the carved stones of the city. Leftrin presses Rapskal for details and receives cryptic answers about the purposes of the memories embedded in the stones. Given the responses, Leftrin opts to send Rapskal on ahead, awaiting a later turn to cross the river back to his ship and crew.
Before getting into discussion of the main chapter, I have to note once again my appreciation for the prefatory materials for each chapter–and their integration. I enjoy getting the sense that the narratives I take in take place in a world that exists outside the context of those narratives, and while this sometimes must mean that such indicators only tangentially affect the main narrative, it is also a pleasure to see them tie into themselves. It’s a bit of storytelling craft I like seeing at play.
As to the main chapter: I appreciate that Alise, even in the act of surveying what is present in Kelsingra, begins to move from simple recording into interpretation of data. It’s something of a popular misconception, I find, that the work of those who look to the past–be it in formal histories, in archaeology, or in older literatures–is a matter of rote memorization, a “these-are-the-facts-and-you-have-to-know-them” approach to the echoes of lives lived (sometimes not-so-) long ago. But it is not, or it is, at least, not only that. Yes, the available information has to be recorded, but the record has no meaning until it is acted upon; meaning and understanding are necessarily matters of interpretation. Indeed, even the selection of what merits inclusion in any kind of formal record is an interpretive act. (Consider: there is no way to take in and put down all of the possible data, so only what’s “important” gets noted. But how does a person know what’s “important” in a given context? By making an interpretation, hopefully based on an empathetic understanding deriving from intensive training and study, but always necessarily reflecting the inherent and ingrained biases present in the person making the record.) And, as Leftrin motions towards, the earlier interpretations will necessarily influence those that come later on–something with which my own trained field grapples, not always well.
Clearly, there is more work to do.
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Who finds that affliction must measure steps well Goes halting forward when called to proceed Sometimes wincing at the feeling of it
The touch of one well loved kneading Rump roasted in another oven long before Rewards with relief the one who relishes it Chastely but nearly enough to not
The one who seeks for wisdom Whose insight is surpassing That one will be able to say what it is
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Right at half a year ago, I wrote a bit about the darkest day of the year. Today is very much not that; it is, as might be expected, the opposite, being the brightest day of the year. With that different light, some of the things I note in the earlier piece might bear a bit of examination.
I noted then that the seasonal progression matters less here than in many places. It remains true as I write now, with the weather tending toward the hot and dry(ish; there’s often vexatious humidity in the morning, but less often rain, and less with each month until after August). The rich greens and grainy ambers that mark summer in no few places in the country do not feature here so much as in those places; the greens are fading to browns, and even the blue sky hazes over with the heat. The echo of Jack’s bullwhip is long faded away, and Aestas has taken up her dancing residence here again, Auxo attending and putting on her own show, Ainé and Theros kicking in the chorus as Damia beats out a rhythm that pounds behind the stretching foreheads drying out in the daytime and cooking to deeper browns under fading hat-brims.
The seasons are shallower here, I think, the troughs not so deep as, even if held higher than, in many places. I will do what I can amid such exaltation, sitting in the shade and what cool I can find, knowing I am no longer fit for doing otherwise if ever I was so. Or else I will lay in a fire outside and let it smolder while I sit and tend it and pretend I am some other thing than I am. After all, Robb Walsh has the right of it, and while some perversities are ascribed to me, that one on which he remarks will not be one of them.
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A message from Detozi to her new relation, Erek, commending him and advising him precedes “Pathways,” which begins with Thymara considering her upbringing in the Rain Wilds and the disjunction from it to her present circumstances near Kelsingra. Local geographical features, described, intrigue her. The difficulties imposed on her by inclement weather and degraded equipment are noted as she is joined by Tats. As they proceed together, the two talk about the likely permanence of their relocation, and Thymara finds herself assessing her long-time friend again. The gain and loss involved in the relocation receives attention, as well, and Thymara carefully considers the options available to her–including in terms of relationships, returning to the ideas of social sexual taboos that she had been raised to respect.
The conversation between Thymara and Tats is interrupted by her sighting game, which is described. Before the hunters can seize upon it, however, Heeby falls upon it, fouling Thymara’s shot and taking the meat. The hunters move on, getting distance from the feeding dragon and the smell of death that will drive other quarry away, and they talk about their relationships with their dragons–and hers with her family. They are interrupted again by the arrival of Rapskal, who apologizes for Heeby’s interference in their hunt before annoying Tats into stalking off. Rapskal asks Thymara to go to Kelsingra with him to show her something.
Thymara reflects on her one sojourn to the ruined city, which is described in some detail. The strange juxtaposition of desolation and preservation receives attention, and the sound of wolves drives most of the keepers away. Rapskal, however, carried by Heeby, visits frequently.
Rapskal reiterates his plea to Thymara, which she refuses, citing the need to feed Sintara. He grudgingly offers to help her hunt, and she similarly accepts his offer.
Elsewhere, Selden is rousted brusquely and in some confusion, roughly assessed by his enslaver and a potential buyer. Selden protests the treatment proposed of him, but the enslaver and the potential buyer reach an accord, and terrible proceedings begin.
The description of the game sighted by Thymara and taken by Heeby reads to me as nothing so much as a moose, which could “have slung a sleeping net between the branches of his two flat-pronged antlers….His shoulders were immense, and a large hummock of meaty flesh rode them” (49). While moose do occur in Eurasia, they are most commonly associated with the subarctic regions of North America, another suggestion that the Realm of the Elderlings is well read as borrowing more from the New World than the Old. (Someday, perhaps, I will return to the project in a more sustained way; I do not know if I have another chapter in me on the subject, but perhaps I do.)
Less fortunate a parallel is in the enslavement of Selden. The degradations and desecrations involved in slavery in the Realm of the Elderlings novels are attested early on and in detail, and matters have not improved. Indeed, Selden fares worse than his brother did, not indentured against debt but flatly treated as butcherable livestock despite the acknowledgement by his enslavers of his sentience and, indeed, humanity. I cannot help but perceive the echoes of the system of chattel slavery that marks the early history of the United States, the effects of which remain all too present in the lives of all too many. This is not to say that other times and places did not have their own barbarities; of course they did. But that others have done wrong does not excuse the wrongs one does; whataboutism is a distraction, and tu quoque is long identified as a fallacy for good reason.
As I consider the matter of parallels further, I find myself somewhat stymied. If it is the case, as I have argued, that the Realm of the Elderlings should be read as a fantastical gloss on the Americas (not so much as Gernia in the Soldier Son novels, as I have had recent cause to reflect upon, but still), then I have to wonder what Kelsingra ought to be heard as echoing. Should the ruined streets and broken towers be regarded as some refiguration of X̱á:ytem, perhaps, or Cahokia? Do the cyclopean remains of Chichen Itza offer an antecedent, or does Teotihuacan, or Copán, or Tenochtitlán? Or is this, instead, a case where the fantastic emerges from the mundane, the miraculous from the quotidian?
I confess to not being adequately informed about any of them to offer any kind of useful answer to such questions–only just barely enough to be able to ask them. But perhaps others, more knowledgeable, can offer those answers.
I shall read and learn eagerly from those who do.
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It has been eight years since the first post on this website, eight years I’ve been working on Elliott RWI. As I write this, another in a series of annual reports on the state of the site, I have published 1,370 posts to the blogroll (this will be post 1,371), and I have revised individual pages, collecting 101,081 views from 32,423 visitors as of this writing. In the last year, therefore, I have made 157 posts and collected 35,804 views from 9,748 visitors (based on “Reflective Comments about the Seventh Year”). Performance is up from last year–and, in all measures other than number of posts made, higher than in any previous year.
Of the three figures below, the first displays posts by year of blogging. The second shows views by year of blogging, and the third shows visitors by year of blogging.
I remain pleased to be able to continue doing this kind of work, and I look forward not only to another year of it, but many other years of it. I’ve enjoyed doing the writing I’ve done here, and I’m gratified to have learned that at least some of it appears to have been useful and/or enjoyable to others.
Elliott RWI 