The fortunate day has come again When many take thought for such luck as they have And worry more than most days at how much of it they lack
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow… Photo by Drew Rae on Pexels.com
What must it be like to have such luxury To be able to wonder only on certain days Whether fortune will find in favor And not to expect each day That the turning wheel will roll over Knowing that for it to move forward it must Throw some down Seeing that there is always a set that Sticks to the wheel-well Building up a curtain that will In time Make all advancement cease?
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Following a missive with a bitter complaint from Kim in Cassarick regarding investigations from the Keepers of the Birds, “Hunters and Prey” begins with Sintara exiting the river outside Kelsingra to find Mercor awaiting her. The two dragons converse briefly before interrupted by another dragon, Baliper, and Alise as she attends to him, though she is emphatically not his keeper. Sintara considers the effects proximity to humans has had upon her with some disgust, and upset breaks out among the dragons briefly. Mercor quells it and asserts that he will mate Sintara in time, and Sintara is affected by his advances, though she does not accede to them, but flies away.
Elsewhere, Tats calls on Thymara where she, Sylve, and Jerd lodge. The lodgings are described, as are the guests who have called on the young women, and more of Rapskal’s advances towards Thymara are noted. Tats and Thymara discuss hunting assignments that Carson has made, and they head out to hunt, other keepers’ duties and the difficulties of the same noted. They talk briefly of their dragons and the mechanics of the hunt, and, after a time, they talk about their friendship and its changes. The talk does not go well, but it is interrupted by game crashing through the trees, pursued by wolves. Tats moves to investigate, Thymara trailing, and they watch as the wolves make use of terrain to complete their kills. Sintara and Fente then descend upon the wolves themselves. In the wake of the carnage, though, Tats has a revelation of a way to help the dragons yet earthbound achieve flight, and they return.
Still further away, Selden is examined and found wanting, given his described status. His prospective seller continues to praise his dragon-like form, however, even as Selden speaks in his own defense and turns such power as he possesses on his prospective buyer, Chancellor Ellik, and he soon has a new enslaver.
The appearance of wolves in the area of Kelsingra is, to my eye, an obvious nod towards the Farseer and Tawny Man novels, in which one wolf, in particular, looms large, indeed. That the wolves make use of a break in an Elderling road, well, it reminded me powerfully of this, and I continue to appreciate the work done to keep things together as parts of a consistent whole.
As I reread the chapter, too, I once again find myself reading with affect and sympathizing with the difficulty in feeling and expressing the same on the parts of Thymara and Tats. Growing up where and when I did, and among whom I did, I did not experience the degree of repression Thymara attests; although I made an ass of myself on many occasions and to a substantial collective audience, I was largely welcome from birth, and the expectation that I would wed and have at least one child was simply part of things. (I am glad to have wedded and to have my daughter, very much so on both counts.) For Thymara, though, the expectation, as has been noted in the novels (such as here), was that she would die, and even did she not, she would not wed or bear children–and that any such children would, themselves, die, given the Rain Wilds’ effect on people. Even aside from what Thymara has witnessed and been told, she has had ample reason to avoid intimacy, and given the entanglements cropping up around her assignation with Rapskal under the mutual influence of Elderling magic, I can understand her reluctance to engage any further.
As far as Selden goes…slavery of any sort is a horror, and the kind of chattel slavery for which Chalced is known in the milieu is worse. The extension of it into which Selden is being increasingly drawn is worse yet, the formal irony clear from the name of his new enslaver. For Ellik has, of course, already fed some of Selden to the Duke…and I wonder, now, if there is not some parallel to Rawbread and the Forgings at work, though I know that will take other eyes than I currently have to seek out fully.
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I‘ve commented before on the events commemorated today and upon the problems attendant upon that commemoration. I do note hearing less about the matter this time around than previously, which I am not sure is a good thing–or even consistent with other issues. There are a lot of failures, setback, and evils that get repeated and propped up, and I am in favor of pointing out the problems in things. (Yes, I am great fun at parties; why do you ask?) At the same time, I am not in favor of praising those who are not praiseworthy, and I am not unmindful that the political circumstances that lead to certain acts of praise beginning are no longer in force. (Others very much are, to the collective detriment of the world and my small part of it.) So there is and remains some tension in my mind and thought, and I remain uncertain how to resolve it.
Honestly, it’s better than it might be. Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com
So much said, I recognize the position I occupy in that regard as one privileged. I am not burdened by the outcomes of the events in question, except that I choose to be; I could follow the example set by a great many, no few of which remain on live, and simply not give a damn about such things as the perniciously persistent inequities and erasures that are at work in the world. I could simply let things be, not digging deeper into “old shit” that “doesn’t matter,” even if it is the case that my tax dollars are paying for the maintenance of commemorations to what amounts to the beginnings of genocide. (Taking time off costs money, too, you know.) I could shut my eyes to the plight of others plain to see, seal my ears against the mourning plain to hear–and there are even justifications I might give for doing so. There are enough other problems in the world, after all, and I can actually do something about some of them, now and again; I would not be wrong to focus my attention on those problems and work to address them, rather than to give even so much attention as this to something that lies almost wholly outside my abilities.
But that “almost wholly” nags at me, one of many such things to do so.
I readily admit that there is not much I can do in this world. I am trained in the humanities in a world that does not value them and barely pretends to do so, and I labor to the extent that I am able (I am looking for work, by the way, but people have to be willing to hire for me to find it) under a load of debt that I took while believing–because I had been told as much, repeatedly across many years, by people I was supposed to be able to trust to know what they were about–that my doing so would lead to the kind of job that would allow me to repay that debt and the concomitant interest and to have a comfortable life in which I could understand myself to be doing some good for some people. Each inhibits what I can actually do. But if all I can do is to keep in mind the wrongs done in the world of which I am aware, then I am obliged to do it by my ethics and morals. (Yes, I do have them.) Thus something like this, in which I note what I see is and how I see it, though I do not know how I can make things better.
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I‘ve noted before that I’ve got a lot more time open to work on writing, and I’m pleased to note that there have been some who’ve taken advantage of that openness. For example, I recently carried out a commission for a seven-part poem to be used as lyrics for a forthcoming oratorio, and I have continued to write teaching guides for emerging best-sellers and classics-to-be.
So much said, I know there is more work to do. I know that people need to have things written, things like
Poetry, whether as pieces to present, the contents of greeting cards, song lyrics, expressions of love, or other things yet;
Study guides, helping students understand better the things they encounter;
Executive summaries, distilling texts down to their basic elements for faster, fuller understanding by busy people;
Ad copy, so that what needs selling gets sold;
Instruction sets, so that what needs doing gets done right; and
Other writing done to order.
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Go ahead I read you five-by-five What’s your twenty, good buddy? Roger that Heard there’s action down that way Some kind of ten-fifteen, the badges are saying See if you can steer clear Say again Say again Copy
Break, break, break They’re calling out the numbers, now Ten-ten Ten-thirty-two Ten-thirty-three Ten-thirty-four Come back Come back Come back Wilco Wilco Over and out
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Following the text of a public notice from the Bird Keepers’ Guild, “Flight” begins with Heeby and Sintara circling over Kelsingra and its surroundings, along with Fente, for whom Tats is keeper. Tats confers with the dragon, who departs, and he surveys the status of the other keepers and their dragons as the latter work to gain the skies. Mercor’s efforts in that line receive attention, and Tats finds himself responding to Alise’s questions, rehearsing the confrontation that had occurred between her and Rapskal over rights to Kelsingra. The two confer about how to address the dragons as they grow stronger and more capable, and they watch as one dragon, Ranculos, falls into the river and nearly drowns. Ranculos achieves Kelsingra, however, and discussion between Tats and Alise resumes, with her encouraging him to join his comrades.
This comes up again and again… Photo by Uriel Mont on Pexels.com
As Tats heads off, Alise considers herself and her situation as the only human among the keepers-becoming-Elderlings. Outcomes available to her are rehearsed, and she makes efforts to integrate into the society just outside Kelsingra.
The equanimity with which the dragons in the present chapter face the possible death of one of their own is of some interest. Hobb has been at pains at times to present the non-humanity of the dragons in ways that echo or highlight some observable human tendencies; Beloved in the Tawny Man novels remarks to the effect that the dragons hold up a collective mirror to humanity. Alise echoes some of that sentiment in the present chapter, pointing out to Tats that the work of the dragons through the Elderlings of old is “what humans have done for generations” and positing that “Maybe humans will lose some of their pettiness if they have dragons to contend with” (19). Admittedly, there is always peril in assigning to authors beliefs voiced by their characters; it is too much to assume, for instance, that a writer believes the same thing their villains do. That said, it is often the case that protagonists give voice to things their authors would see true in the world, and more than one of Hobb’s focal characters seems to share particular opinions regarding Homo sapien hubris. Whether the opinion can be ascribed to the author remains uncertain, but given that multiple characters voice it with whom readers are encouraged to sympathize, it seems clear the opinion is not one to which the author likely objects–at least at the time of composition.
Things do change across years, after all.
The present chapter is another short one, to be sure. I expect there will be more to say about others as the text continues. I look forward to finding some of it out.
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For those published and left unread For those revised and never published For those drafted unrevised For those not drafted, only thought For those but dreamed and never thought I mourn
Sure. Why not? Photo by Kindel Media on Pexels.com
The paeans hinted at but never sung The words spoken out aloud and unrecalled The lines jotted out on paper thrown away The letters sent and soon discarded The books gathering dust until they decay Sadnesses all
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After Reyall replies with reservation to Erek’s offer, “Ending a Life” opens with Alise waking in discomfort and surveying the total of her scholarship, “all in one stack.” She muses bitterly on her situation and the assertion by Rapskal that nothing of Elderling make ought to be in the hands of a non-Elderling, but soon rebukes herself for her angsty melancholy and is joined in that rebuke by the touch of Sintara’s mind on her own. Sintara signals some approval of Alise’s response, and Alise heads out to forage and survey her surroundings. While out, she encounters a big cat, which she frightens off. That done, she purposes to return to the keepers’ encampment with a warning about the predator, thinking she has earned a cup of tea as part of her own life.
Here, kitty, kitty, kitty… Image is Cburnett’s from the Wikimedia Commons, here, under a CC BY-SA 3.0 license, and is used for commentary with no assertion of endorsement
It is a brief chapter, the present one, and structurally simpler than many in the series, consisting of a single section focusing on a short time in one character’s life–a couple of hours, at most. In that length and simplicity, it serves to ease the reader into reading; even though the novel is but one in a series, and the last rather than the first, it is a new novel, thus a new reading experience, and so an easing-in rather than a dropping-in makes sense. (This is not to say that a novel ought not to start amid action and suddenly; many novels do so, and they do so well. But it is jarring to start such a novel, and jarring is not always the most desirable thing to do to a reader.)
The focus on Alise also calls attention to her ongoing character development. She has clearly had an existence of her own while the narrative has focused on other characters, rather than remaining a static figure against which the others can be measured. To my eye, it is another iteration of the kind of verisimilitude for which Hobb avowedly strives and which she in large measure delivers. (There are exceptions, of course, but, as the adage has it, “Even Homer nods.”) I have certainly had the experience in my life of not seeing someone for a time and being surprised at the ways in which they have changed; I do not think I am alone in it. Accordingly, it rings true for me that Alise has changed a bit since she last occupied Hobb’s pages, and I like even my fantasies to ring true.
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They say they dream of days to come with Skies clouded as if with ash Falling on the frozen dead and nearly so Splashed with the color of blood at odd intervals And smoothly glabrous pubescent branches Hoping to kiss under parasites hanging detumescent When their breaths will freeze
Looming larger every day… Photo by Ksenia Chernaya on Pexels.com
But who will not take up their pagan chants Borrowed in season from offerings made to The sickle-wielding one whose sickle found him They will be the ones called overly libidinous And they who do not rejoice at the forests growing Even now Earlier and earlier with each year Though they stand not in Dunsinane Hands stained with Duncan’s murder But wish for broader joys They will be the ones called hateful Though the voices saying such are strained Flowing through flushed faces and Out of tightened throats
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I don’t think I’ve made a secret of my nerdiness; it’s attested here and elsewhere, not least in casual conversations I’ve had with no few people. In some ways, I’ve had to be; there’s a certain amount of nerdiness obligatory in graduate study, particularly graduate study of “that old stuff” that I studied, and there’s more involved in continuing to work with that kind of material after completing degrees and mustering out of formal academia. (Note here, here, here, and here. Note, too, that such citations, even if not necessarily formal, are themselves badges of nerdiness.) And, in the absence of a number of other ways in which people in my part of the world tend to define themselves, nerdiness does offer me some anchor for who and what I am; labels are always problematic, but they do offer sometimes-useful starting points, even to those of us who really ought to be a bit past “starting” at this point.
“In a hole in the ground…” Text from The Hobbit; image from One Wiki to Rule Them All, here, used for commentary
It shouldn’t be a surprise, then, that I mark out strange little bits of nerdiness in my own life, often in terrible puns. Today is not dissimilar, though I’m neither eleventy-one nor thirty-three to make the kind of gross joke commemorated in one volume. No, today gets marked as Hobbit Day by many of my acquaintance and affiliation, the date in Tolkien’s Legendarium on which both Bilbo and Frodo Baggins are born. While I will not be doing much to celebrate it, having other tasks to which I must apply myself, I note its happening, and the note itself reaffirms, to me and to all who see it, that I am and remain a nerd. And since I no longer have to worry about schoolroom bullies giving me wedgies or waiting with sticks for me to ride my bike past the physical plant, there is some comfort in having a reconnection to what has long been part not only of my public persona but my private personality.
We all always perform, as scholars have noted, even if the audience is only ourselves.
Today, I have my little scene, and I’ve already recited my lines.
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Elliott RWI 