FSF, April 2007 Read online

  I couldn't disagree more. YA books aren't a place where anything can happen. A belief such as that just shows a disrespect to your audience. Teen readers are as smart and savvy as adult readers—some of them more so. And adult novels can have all sorts of whimsical and dark oddities in them.

  They aren't “mannered fabu-lism” in the right hands. Readers will accept many things when they start a book, but no matter how outlandish the things we meet in its pages might be, the good author roots it all in believable characters. Characters that live and breathe and grow as the story unfolds.

  And that's where Un Lun Dun fails. Mie´ville's characters are differentiated only by their physical attributes. They act a certain way, because they look a certain way. I think he was trying for an Alice in Wonderland quirkiness, and that might have worked in a smaller book, or perhaps one with longer scenes. Even Carroll spent more time in his scenes than Mie´ville does, and while Alice is an innocent to whom things happen, Mie´ville's Deeba isn't. She's a doer, but we're always told what she feels and why she does the things she does; we don't actually get to know her.

  It's too bad. If Mie´ville had just taken a bit more care with his characters, and reined in the barrage of images and events a little, he might very well have had one of those classic children's books he mentions admiring so much in his interview.

  As it is, enjoy Un Lun Dun for the wonderful images it can conjure. Just don't expect to be with any one for very long, or to ever really get to know the characters.

  The final book will have fifty illustrations by the author which weren't included in the galley I read, but you can see a few at: www.unlundun.com. They're wonderfully odd and charming, proving that Mie´ville appears to be as talented an artist as he usually is an author.

  * * * *

  Underland, by Mary Patterson Thornburg, AuthorHouse, 2005, $9.90.

  Mary Patterson Thornburg understands the need for strong characterization. Her Underland might be a self-published novel, but from page one, she knows that if she wants readers to stay with her, she has to give us someone we can care about. And so we get Alyssha Dodson living in the small Midwestern city of Granville, and we do care about her.

  Alyssha lives with her dad and cat Hoppy. Four years previously, her brother mysteriously disappeared, and they've been looking for him ever since. Except as the book opens, a pair of nasty men comes looking for them, or for something they have, and familial love isn't part of the equation.

  When Alyssha and her father make their separate escapes, Alyssha's takes her all the way into an otherworld, and soon we begin to see connections between the two worlds, Alyssha's missing brother, and just what those men were looking for.

  I liked this book right from the start, and though the protagonist is young, the story feels more like an all-ages fantasy than a strictly YA book.

  In sharp contrast to Mie´ville's newest novel, Underland moves at a more leisurely pace—perhaps too leisurely for the MTV generation, but I don't see that as a flaw. The world she depicts, and the people inhabiting it, are such that I'm interested in spending time with them and learning more about their history and relationships. It's all wonderfully realized.

  I find it interesting to contrast these two books—one from a big publishing house, the other self-published—mostly because, without all the big name and hoopla behind it, Underland still proved to be the much more satisfying read. Yes, it could probably have used a light editing hand here and there—but only a light one was needed. Mostly, the book stands admirably as it is and should delight fantasy readers of all ages.

  * * * *

  Conan: The Ultimate Guide to the World's Most Savage Barbarian, by Roy Thomas, DK Publishing, 2006, $24.99.

  The book in hand is only the latest volume celebrating the centennial of Robert E. Howard. I know; the title's a bit over the top, and the full-color artwork that leaps out at you from every oversized page appears to be mostly culled from various comic book interpretations of Howard's famous character, but it should still delight all but the most scholarly of Conan readers.

  The text—penned by Roy Thomas, who with his comic book scripts probably wrote more words about Howard's characters than did Howard himself—is basically a heavily illustrated biography of the world's most famous barbarian. It sets the stage of the Hyborian Age with a background of the landscape, gods, and history, then starts with Conan's humble beginnings on a battlefield and takes us all the way through to his rule as King of Aquilonia.

  As such, it serves as an enthusiastic introduction to the character, and readers unfamiliar with the canon can easily cross-reference the events Thomas describes with the original stories to get the full impact of Howard's storytelling skills. A comprehensive index will take them back to the entries in The Ultimate Guide where connections not so readily apparent in the stories themselves are clearly described.

  I'm not sure it's a “must have” for longtime readers of the prose books, but it will certainly appeal to anyone who followed the monthly comics from Marvel, and provides a fascinating look into the history of Conan to readers who only know the character from the comic book series currently being published by Dark Horse, as well as readers of Dynamite Entertainment's Red Sonja series. (Although the “she-devil with a sword” doesn't actually get any face time in this book; probably because she was created by Thomas and artist Barry Windsor-Smith, rather than Howard, and so isn't a part of the official canon.)

  * * * *

  Material to be considered for review in this column should be sent to Charles de Lint, P. O. Box 9480, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada K1G 3V2.

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  A Thing Forbidden by Donald Mead

  Don Mead's first published story was “iKlawa” in our April 2006 issue. He returns now with a daring story that takes us back almost 160 years to El Dorado County, California, where we meet a young woman with a most unusual conflict facing her.

  Mr. Mead reports that he is working on more short stories. He serves on sf convention panels in the Midwest promoting short fiction as a way to build a writing career. He's also a moderator for the writer's workshop at Windycon in Chicago.

  Christ's dead eyes opened and he gave me a blood-soaked stare.

  My yelp was swallowed up by the lingering chords of the hymn. I grabbed Mrs.

  Mora's arm and pointed at the wooden crucifix that hung at the front of the sanctuary.

  She gave it a look and shrugged. “A lot of things are going to be different in a Catholic church, Virginia. Our cross has Christ nailed to it. You might think it's distasteful, but it reminds us of His suffering for our sins."

  I regarded the crucifix again. Christ sagged, eyes closed. Maybe it was just the mountains come-a-calling, although the horror had never before followed me into church. That always had been my safe place. My breathing eased as we sat.

  Mrs. Mora tucked the hymnal away and handed me several loose sheets of paper. “Have you been following along?” She touched her finger to one of the sheets. “We're here."

  I nodded and took the sheets, giving Christ a quick glance.

  I fought the urge to yank off the thin black scarf Mrs. Mora had given me to wear over my hair—over my hat, really. I didn't know women wore scarves in Catholic church, and I had so wanted to make a good impression with my little round hat fixed up with flowers and feathers. It matched perfectly with my calico hooped skirt and jacket. But when Mrs. Mora saw it, she had insisted I wear “a modest scarf.” She had even wanted me to take off my hat, which I couldn't do since it was fixed with pins and held my curls up.

  Mama had helped me with the hat that morning. She put her love into it despite the circumstances. “Please come with us to the Methodist service at the fort,” she had said. “One Christian is as good as another in God's eyes."

  "You know the vow I made in the mountains, Mama.” I smiled, but the look she returned held only anguish.

  Papa had hitched up the carriage for me; I couldn't ride horseback in a ho
oped skirt. He didn't answer when I said good-bye.

  People in the front pews rose and shuffled into the center aisle, led by a man in a dark jacket and matching trousers. His thick black hair was tied back and stuffed down his collar.

  They lined up in front of the priest. Father O'Rourke seemed almost dwarfish standing before the man in the dark jacket. I guessed the Spanish cowboy—vaqueros Mrs. Mora called them—stood six and a half feet tall.

  Father O'Rourke retrieved a plate of wafers from the altar. He took one and held it up. “Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam. Amen."

  He placed the wafer in the man's mouth.

  I looked at the papers again—Mrs. Mora's handwritten translations. May the Body of our Lord Jesus Christ preserve your soul unto everlasting life. Amen.

  The man turned away and the next in line, a much shorter vaquero, just a bit taller than Father O'Rourke, stepped forward.

  Mrs. Mora nudged me and gave me an impish smile. “So many men."

  I felt myself flush and looked away. The church was filled with men—women sprinkled among them like cactus flowers. Many were Spanish, but there were also Irish, German, and American immigrants.

  Mrs. Mora leaned closer. “There's so much work to be done. Jobs are bringing men from everywhere. Some people are getting rich.” She poked me to make me look at her. “How old are you? Old enough to marry?"

  I shook my head. “Sixteen."

  "But soon,” she said. “And your pick of men."

  I looked forward to keep from laughing. “When I write to my cousins in Springfield, I tell them to forget Illinois and come to California. They could get a good man in no time."

  "And things will only get better once we become a state,” said Mrs. Mora. “I hope they send more priests. So many souls to save. So many baptisms."

  People in the next pew stood and moved to the aisle.

  "What should I do when it's our turn?"

  Mrs. Mora reddened. “Oh, nothing this time. The Holy Eucharist is for Catholics only. But you won't have long to wait to receive the body of Christ. Were you a Christian before...?” Her voice became strained. “Before you joined the Donner train?"

  "Yes. Methodist."

  "Oh, that's good.” She released a pent-up breath. “You won't have to be baptized—just a profession of faith and confession. Then you can consume the body—I mean, join in the Eucharist."

  Mrs. Mora looked down and fiddled with the hymnal.

  I patted her hand. “It's all right. I know it's not really flesh."

  She looked at me and gave a distressed smile. “But Virginia, it's symbolic only for Protestants. Not in the Catholic faith. Once the bread has been sanctified by the priest, it is very much the body of Christ. You consume His flesh, drink His blood, and accept His divinity."

  Father O'Rourke's voice filled the tiny sanctuary. “Quod ore sumpsimus, Domine, pura mente capiamus."

  I looked at the translation to fight a stab of panic. What has passed our lips as food, Lord, may we possess in purity of heart.

  "But you won't taste flesh or blood or bone,” Mrs. Mora said. “It still tastes like bread. It's part of the miracle of the Eucharist. Sister Rosa was supposed to explain all of this."

  I shook my head. The Sister was probably just as concerned for my sensitivity as Mrs. Mora.

  I looked at the crucifix. This is your first test, isn't it? But you can't test me like you did Job. After the mountains, you know I can withstand anything.

  I cocked my head. Christ's face seemed different. I squinted, trying to see through the haze of incense. His eyes were open again, and the crown of thorns was gone. His beard was longer, and his face was even more gaunt than before.

  I forced down a scream and tugged on Mrs. Mora's dress. “Do you see anything wrong with the crucifix? Look at the face."

  She studied it for a moment. “No one knows how Christ actually looked. You see a lot of different faces on crucifixes."

  She couldn't see it, but that wasn't her fault. You had to battle Satan before you could recognize his devices. The Enemy had followed me from the mountains and had taken the feral face of that awful Hessian, Louis Keseberg.

  I stiffened as the wooden head swiveled to look at me. His lips moved and a whisper found my ears. “It's too late for you, Virginia. You've tasted unsanctified flesh. You belong to my army, not His. And our battle for California is about to begin."

  I grew dizzy and closed my eyes. The battle's long over. You should've stayed buried in the mountains.

  A bang at the back of the sanctuary caused me to open my eyes. I looked back, along with the rest of the parishioners, to see a young ranch-hand in filthy work clothes standing by the open doors. He fought labored breathing. “They found gold at Sutter's Mill!"

  * * * *

  I lifted my skirt and dodged a pile of horse manure. Sutter's Fort wasn't nearly as modern as Springfield, and I missed the conveniences of gas lighting and street sweepers. But the warm sunny winters more than compensated for rough living.

  A man, unkempt, smelly, and toting a basket of otter furs, smiled as he walked by. Papa was right—there were endless ways to make a living in California, depending on how hard you were willing to work and what unpleasantries you were able to endure. I used to worry about having lost all of the cattle, but not anymore. A year had passed since our rescue from the mountains, and Papa's work at Sutter's Mill had afforded us a house next to Hock Farm.

  It was a good thing Captain Sutter was a Christian. All these men streaming in from the States with pockets full of money—it was a troublesome combination. But the Captain didn't allow alcohol to be sold at the fort, and he was most intolerant of gambling and women who made gain of their loose virtue.

  I stopped and looked back at the worn paddock that was used for morning muster on sunny days. Odd. There were usually soldiers coming, going, or sitting in front of the barrack having a smoke. If I didn't fend off at least one marriage proposal during a visit I considered it a wasted trip. Today—nothing.

  I ducked into Mackey's Store.

  A wide brown dress topped with a bun of blonde hair was busy shelving canned beans. Doris turned and smiled. “Virginia. Your mother was in just this morning. Did she forget something?"

  I shook my head and glanced around. “Where's Mackey?"

  "Gone!"

  She wheeled and returned to stacking. The cans clacked as she put her weight into her work. “Damn fool! Off with a bunch of men to find their fortune. Can you believe it? Not three days after some kid finds gold up in the hills and the whole valley's gone loco."

  She stopped and looked at me. I noticed her eyes were puffy and red. “Forgetting the good solid work that brought him out here, paid for this place along with our wagons and horses."

  Doris turned to the counter where some loose tobacco lay next to an open tin can. She wiped her hands on her apron. “And for what? To chase a dream? California's about hard work, not easy riches."

  "Is that where all the soldiers are?"

  She nodded and started sweeping up tobacco with her hand.

  "But who's guarding the fort? What if there's trouble? What if someone gets stranded in the mountains again?"

  She dumped tobacco into the can and closed the lid. “Well, there you have it, girl. A man can be as dumb as a horse. Dangle a carrot in front of his eyes and he'll go right off a cliff. Guess it's up to you and me. I'm as strong as any man, and Lord knows you have history tracking around those mountains."

  I shivered. “I hope it doesn't come to that. I don't ever want to go back into the mountains again. Can't Captain Sutter do something? Order the men back to work?"

  "The Captain's up at the mill trying to keep squatters off his property—mostly his own men. Isn't that a dandy? He hires these men, clothes and feeds them, and then they turn on him. It's devil's gold. Brings out the worst in folks. A lot of them are so-called Christians. And what do you think is going to follow?"

&
nbsp; I shrugged.

  "Every slacker, sinner, charlatan, and shyster is going to come riding over the mountains to get a share of that gold. And every harlot in the country will be hot on their heels."

  * * * *

  My own heels pounded the boardwalk. I had stayed too long at Mackey's just to hear bad news, and now I was in danger of being late to the Catholic ladies’ social.

  So it would be a war. The horrible vision in church had been right, but God wasn't defenseless. I'd seen it in the mountains.

  I must have been too deep in thought. I came upon a man, his back turned, and had to skid to a halt to avoid a collision.

  He turned and greeted me with a toothy grin and vacant eyes. “The end of the world is at hand."

  "Keseberg!"

  His grin faded, and although his dust-covered, reeking body was only a few feet away, he squinted as if he needed glasses. “Virginia Reed?"

  "You know it's me! You tried to convince the party to hang my father back in the Sierra Nevadas! Did the mountains scatter your brains?"

  His eyes drifted as mine sometimes did when those awful memories took hold. “Why didn't they listen? We should've hanged him.” He babbled a couple of words in German.

  I considered launching myself at him, but his fleas kept me at bay. “If they had, no one would've ridden ahead to the fort and brought back help. How many more would've died? How many more would you have eaten?"

  His eyes shifted to me. “I only did what was necessary to survive. We all did."

  "That's a lie! You murdered Levinah Murphy. Captain Sutter's men found her jewelry in your pockets and her body butchered in your cabin!"