Musings of a Fantasy Nerd

As an aspiring writer and avid reader of fantasy, there is perhaps nothing more two-faced than a sense of place. That's a phrase you hear a lot -- sense of place -- and yet the more I say it, the more I think about it, the less it makes any sense at all. (In case this wasn't obvious, this post is a little more philosophical than my usual fare, so bear with me) I'd argue that, in fact, what makes somewhere stick, really get its literary claws into you, is not at all what you'd expect. It isn't some rigorous depiction of the minutia of this fictional realm, or the unique ways in which it interacts with the characters who are experiencing it; no. Words are words, and dirt is dirt. it seems redundant to say that one cannot become the other no matter how much you describe its color, its texture, its grit on the tongue. What does that leave us with, then, really?

Well, this will seem like a tangent, but let's talk about the Inuit. The way they conceive of places is totally unique. Just look at this:

That is an ammassalingmuit, a spatial and temporal map. In effect, it is a four-dimensional depiction of the Greenland coastline, incorporating the movement of tides and snowfall throughout the seasons in which it was made. I think these gorgeous works of art highlight the extremely helpful perspective of the Inuit when it comes to places: as archeologist Peter Whitridge puts it, "The cognized landscape of the Inuit was not less precise or rational for the immense cultural burden it bore." That is to say these maps may seem "inaccurate" to a Western cartographer because the features of the land are distorted. Such an assumption disregards place in favor of space, however, and if we think for a moment about this, it makes no sense.

Whitridge sums up this point nicely: "place is merely a particular (non-Western, communal, local) case of space." We say "space" to mean the objective features of a location, but by what metric do we measure such things? A foot? A meter? How about by the stories which take place upon it? That then is the point. Why does one invented unit of measurement and quantity dominate the other in our minds? Space does not exist. Place does not exist. It's all cultural context!

That is not to say Western senses of place have been stripped of stories or more "fantastical" elements; I just think the traditionally narrow view of place and space, however difficult it may be to dismantle in the lived world, is far more fragile in fiction. After all, if the stones are as much a part of the temple as the sermons, what then are we left with in a world that exists only on paper?

Now, finally, we see the flaws in painstakingly making places in fantasy feel "real." The truth is, they are as much part of the story as the dialogue, as the action. Places are not set dressing; they are monoliths of story. When we think of real places, so much springs to mind in an instant, far more than can be conveyed in the pages of a publishable novel. Subconsciously, or consciously if you're Inuit, the stories of a place fill our heads. Incredibly, that same link persists even when we don't consider a place real. An author need only tap into that link; the reader will do the rest.

So the next time you read about a place, or hell, write about one, remember the insights of the Inuit: a place is not the stage on which a story is told; place and story are one and the same. Dirt is words, and words are dirt.

Almost universally in fiction -- traditional mythology and modern fantasy -- dragons are defined by two things: age and power. These two are often linked together in a sort of linear relationship, i.e. older dragons are also more powerful, either physically or magically. In Ursula Le Guin's The Farthest Shore we see this same relationship played out on a cultural level among the dragons, or at least we do at first. In how she characterizes dragons, it highlights the strengths and weaknesses of man in quite a beautiful way.

When Ged and Arren make their trip down the Dragon's Run, the size of dragons they encounter becomes larger and larger, until at last they meet Orm Embar, whose sheer size makes Arren realize "how small a thing a man is." I think it is by design that we see all interactions with dragons through Arren's eyes in this book, since he can't comprehend their speech, yet it still fills him with awe and reverence. Here too we see the crucial relationship dragons have with their language. Without it, they are literally winged beasts, cannibals who cannot help but feast upon their dead -- a chilling parallel to humans; without language, what else separates us from beasts?

But this power, this incredible scale, is subverted near the end of the book. In Orm Embar we saw power and age as one, but [SPOILERS] the so-called "greatest" dragon dies like any mortal creature by the hand of one man. After Ged and Arren's quest is complete, however, we see one more dragon, the very oldest of their kind: Kalessin. This iron drake is old, so old its sides are "scored and scarred" and "the long teeth yellowed and blunt." Arren does not cower in awe or fear at Kalessin, and just looks into his eye, where he describes "the mourning of the world was deep in it." So here we see the price of age, the cornerstone of dragon culture. The relationship is not linear; they grow, become powerful, and they too wane like men, reduced to scars and blunted teeth and memories.

Dragons in Earthsea are deeply, fascinatingly human, which makes sense in world, but really helps drive home the themes of The Farthest Shore. We see a culture upheld as something vast, unknowable, and infinitely powerful reduced to cannibalism and ruin. Those believed to be its oldest and wisest sit by, the weight of their memories dragging them down. The writing is subtle and leaves much to the imagination, like much of Le Guin's work, and I won't pretend to make some grand point here. I just really appreciate how she is able to humanize something so wonderful and quintessentially fantasy without losing any of the magnificence of a dragon.

Silk! You know it, you love it, you touch it and go, "oooooh, soft."

This weird wacky worm byproduct has captivated the minds of historical juggernauts and fantasy authors alike, to the point that it is almost a trope in and of itself to have silk be the token "luxury good that means someone is rich and powerful" in a story. But this is not without good reason.

Historically, silk was the warp and weft of the social fabric for much of the world for centuries, if not millennia! For a fascinating look into how silk dominated many societies, look no further than Palmyra. Who? Oh come on, you know Palmyra -- Queen Zenobia, fancy tombs -- that Palmyra? Whatever, point is that according to Cynthia Finlayson, cultural archeologist for BYU, silk elevated "the status of women" in the kingdom to the point of "matriarchy," almost exclusively due to "the influence of the silk trade upon their lives" (Finlayson, The Women of Palmyra, 4). That alone would be incredibly unique, but their connection to silk even transcended death! Palmyran women would be buried and mummified in silks during elaborate funerary rights, which allows us such a thorough look at their lives even today, nearly 2000 years later.

It is no small wonder, then, that silk continues to fascinate and motivate societies that exist only in the annals of fantasy. In Ursula Le Guin's The Farthest Shore, magical buddies Ged and Arren visit the decrepit down of Lorbanery (side note, is it pronounced Lorbanery or Lorbanery?), a settlement and indeed whole island famed for its silks. Quite literally the lives of every person on the island seem irrevocably tied to silk, to the point of stagnation when their precious dyed fabric suddenly loses its luster. Unlike any other place we've seen in any of the Earthsea books, here we find a people utterly dominated by their work.

Unfortunately, such reliance can easily spiral into dependency. Whether it's Palmyra or Lorbanery, staking your existence on the stable trade of a most fragile fabric is inherently risky. That, then, is the appeal of silk in stories, the notion that so small a worm could topple empires.

Leadership, especially new forms of it, does not have a rulebook. No, the leader must carve out their power through whatever means work. In Tombs of Atuan, we see a fascinating piece of the two-fold theater taking place within the Kargish Empire -- a small slice of the performative political dance that has been taking place within the Kargish lands for millennia.

Generally speaking, "governments and rulers establish the legitimacy of their rule by civil or numinous means or both" (Dickson, Public Transcripts Expressed in Theatres of Cruelty: the Royal Graves at Ur in Mesopotamia, 133). Civil rule is what we think of as power in the traditional sense, meaning all the facets of power we can see. But what gives lordship its legitimacy requires more: numinous rule, that of the extraordinary.

This sense of the ephemeral pervades Tombs of Atuan, from Place of Tombs and its competing temples to the vast Undertomb and Labyrinth beneath. Ultimately, the delicate balance between three systems of religion acts to uphold the same goal: the rule of the Godking. It is a messy system, and it certainly has its strange and sometimes torturous aspects, but it is all necessary. If even a single piece falters, it risks the entirety of rule being delegitimized.

Whether you are the ruler trying to keep your subjects in their place or a subject trying to make sense of your society's structure, this careful balance is reassuring. It tells you that everything is meant to be this way, that your life on top or on the bottom holds perfect meaning as part of something far greater than yourself. This transcript between Godking and man paints the world in a beautiful light, where all is as it should be. But to quote a wise flaming tree sage: no matter how tender, how exquisite...a lie will remain a lie.

In the first Earthsea novel, we hear tell of the Kargish lands -- whispers, mostly, of a distant empire ruled by a God-Emperor whose fierce warriors occasionally raid the Inner islands. The second book, Tombs of Atuan, expands upon this nation greatly. We learn especially of the faith of the Kargs, or more specifically, the faiths.

Kargad, as it happens, follows not one faith, but three! From newest to oldest, they worship the Godking, the Twin God-Brothers Atwah and Wuluah, and finally the very old Nameless Ones. I absolutely love this characterization. It instantly adds a sense of rich history and intrigue to Kargad, since we get a very strong connection between the age of the deity and their degree of veneration/support.

Take the various temples at the Place of Tombs, for instance: The Godking's temple, with its "gold roof" and "cedar columns" reeks of vanity and excess, speaking to the mere century and a half since the establishment of the ruling Divine Emperors (Le Guin, Tombs of Atuan). We get the least description of the Temple of the God-Brothers, though it has a treasury, implying that it too relies on wealth and offerings to survive, though it seems to be largely overshadowed by the Godking. Finally, we have the Hall of the Throne, domain of the Nameless Ones, which has "cracks in the roof" and is "thick with dust." Even this visual symbol of the Old Powers' well...power...is harshly juxtaposed with the newness and decadence of the other "gods" of Kargad.

Perhaps the best example we get of the superficiality of rule in Kargad is the protagonist Tenar (or Ahra). By her late teens, she already "had come to consider the self-styled Divine Emperors of Kargad as upstarts, false gods trying to filch the worship due to the true and everlasting Powers" (Le Guin, Tombs of Atuan). And indeed, we as readers come to recognize that the Old Powers of the Earth are truly godlike, if not at all beneficent. Tenar gives everything to the Old Powers -- her name, the life she could have led -- and in return they give her nothing. Even as she sails far from the shores of Kargad with Ged, she quite succinctly says, "I am not free."

It's right there in the name: A Wizard of Earthsea. Yet I struggle even after reading the book to truly imagine what life is like on a world so utterly dominated by ocean. A quote that comes to mind is this: "Out of the sea there rise storms and monsters, but no evil powers: evil is of earth."

In this world of Ursula Le Guin's creation, the very magic of the world comes from balance and its disruption. The sea represents constancy: from it islands rise and fall, people come and go, yet water remains. This sense of impermanence permeates Le Guin's work, the idea that all things come and go (or should, at the very least). Ged's journey, from my reading, is that of a young man learning to live "life for life's sake" and not for glory nor power (Le Guin, A Wizard of Earthsea).

I imagine that the world itself teaches this lesson to most living in Earthsea. Ged visits many islands throughout his flight from and later hunt for his shadow, and the one thing he comes to cherish more than any other is connection. That is what defines Earthsea. Ged's link to his shadow, to Vetch, to his home of Gont and his master Ogion -- by the end of the book, no matter how far from these he is, he can feel them always in the waves that surround the world. No matter what shore he finds himself upon, the waters of the world are one, and on them he can always find his way home.

I'd like to preface this by saying that yes, the focus of this blog will shift to content about Earthsea for at least the next few weeks, so bear with me if you have not read the books.

Now let's talk Kargish raiders. I mean, in name, in style, and in the way they plunder and loot it seems pretty obvious to me that Ursula Le Guin was inspired by Vikings. Who isn't? There is something undeniably fascinating about the pre-historical seafaring peoples of Scandinavia that really get the ol' creative juices flowing.

What interests me and stood out to me when reading the opening of A Wizard of Earthsea though was which aspect of Viking culture Le Guin focused on: the raiding. Specifically, she mentions the taking of captives as a motive of the Kargs. This is in fact historically accurate: the Vikings did take captives (a nicer word for slaves, really), though "captivity and slavery remain an enigmatic aspect of [their] daily life" according to Ben Raffield, writer for Slavery and Abolition. Prior to some recent reading, I certainly was not aware the role slavery played in Viking life, much less its normalcy. Yet it seems Le Guin knew of this when writing the Kargs. Why is that?

I would suggest that, like much of Le Guin's work, the Empire of Kargad represents a power struggle that exists in our own world. If you read her other essays and interviews, it is clear that Le Guin has strong, well-evinced feelings about power and powerlessness, which even in the more childlike first book of the first Earthsea trilogy shines through in her characterization of the Kargs. Much like the protagonist's latent heroic power, the Kargs are made threatening to us in that not only do they wield power, but they seek to actively take it from others, to reduce them to captives without agency. Such a fear, I believe, pervades Le Guin's work, and the Kargs are our first real introduction to the danger of a parasitic power dynamic.

We all know the classic fantasy opening: young hero grows up in sleepy idyllic farming village next to a river, meets a wise mentor, and eventually leaves after some kind of big event makes it dangerous for them to stay. It's such a classic because it works. That is not to say that you must always follow this formula, however. In fact, I'd say Ursula Le Guin's characterization of the village of Ten Alders in A Wizard of Earthsea is a great example of how to establish a sense of place without leaning too heavily into any typified fantasy conventions. Of course, as the basis of comparison, I will be using the Shire, since I can't not talk about Tolkien at least once a week.

First off, we have the description of Ten Alders. Right away, we break from the friendly conventions of the Shire by having it described as "lonely" (AWoE, Chapter 1). We can still picture its farmlands and distant mountains well enough, and the general comforting vibe is maintained, yet in that one simple word the village in my head shifts from one of naïve joy to one of distant isolation.

Next we have the wise mentor, typified by Gandalf. In this case, Le Guin includes this convention, but shakes it up by splitting the mentor character in two: a primary mentor of the village witch -- a well-meaning woman who is ultimately self-serving and is "one of those who fled" when danger arrives at Ten Alders' doorstep; and a wise wizard Ogion the Silent who quite literally guides the protagonist from childhood to adulthood. I quite like this, since it still feels comfortable but admits that our mentors (especially the early ones in childhood) are not peerless, and wisdom in one aspect does not imply it in another.

Finally, we have the inciting incident. In the Shire's case, we have of course the arrival of the Nazgul, and likewise in Ten Alders we have an arriving evil: the Kargs. Both are a sort of faceless, animal evil, yet again, Le Guin subverts this trope by having the young hero face the danger head on when their mentor fails to do so. "Need called knowledge out" as Duny (or Ged as he would be shortly known) summoned a great fog and helped scare the Kargs back to the coast to be slaughtered. Not only does this make for an unexpected, thrilling scene, it sets up Ged as different from your run-of-the-mill protagonist. We know he has great power and is not afraid to use it. I don't mean to imply that Frodo is a typical fantasy protagonist, but I'd say Ged's characterization so early is stronger and more memorable.

I have not been to war, and every day I am grateful for that. In fantasy, though, war is almost ubiquitous. What better conflict is there between good and evil, after all, than a great war between the two? Tolkien certainly knew of war when writing Lord of the Rings -- it is in some ways representative of the World Wars he lived in and through.

One thing that has always stuck with me about the ending of Return of the King is its ending. Even after the ring is destroyed and Sauron is vanquished, the world remains. Those who had to live through the War of the Ring remain. The blasted, defiled landscapes and permanent scars of Mordor remain. And as Gandalf says, "There is a long road yet" for Middle Earth and all who live in it (RotK). It is often said that time heals all wounds, and for wounds of the flesh and of the land, that may be, but wounds of the mind and soul may never heal. The scarred landscape around the tower of Orthanc becomes a garden by the effort of the Ents, yet Frodo, one more deserving of rest than any other, bears a wound that, by his own admission "will never really heal" (RotK).

This is the one instance where I will not recommend that everyone incorporate this into your own fiction. Frankly, without experiencing this sort of trauma, I think placing it into a work of fiction can come across as inauthentic. I believe that realistic portrayals of the trauma of conflict and loss of self and home are incredibly powerful and elicit very strong emotions, so I would exercise caution in writing them. That being said, I believe there is nothing more moving than when this is done right.

Even in the movies, where the trauma of the war is not nearly as explored as it is in the books, the scene of Frodo leaving this world at the Gray Havens brings me to tears every single time in a way not many other sights can manage. The only feeling I can relate that scene to (in text and on the screen) are memorials of war. Staring at the memory of those who died and those who will never really live again, I am held enraptured by at once a great futility and great respect. It is a paradox of war that those who fight it never really stand to gain. It is through them that all who remain can live, and the sheer selflessness of that act I cannot quite put into words. Really, reason the movie moves me in this respect more than the book is simple: Into the West. I'll leave this post with the opening stanza from that song, a sort of cathartic lullaby for Frodo and for all the survivors of war. I implore you to listen to the song in its entirety.

Lay down Your sweet and weary head The night is falling You have come to journey's end Sleep now And dream of the ones who came before They are calling From across the distant shore