Asimov's Science Fiction 01/01/11
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Adams starts cleverly by grounding us in the known world with sharply delineated characters just deep enough for empathizing with, all in some sort of peril. Among them we have Miles, a ne’er-do-well antiques dealer with a gambling problem, in debt to a vengeful loan shark; Sophie, an adolescent autistic girl; Penelope, a flapper whose boyfriend is secretly a homicidal sex maniac; Tom and Elise, two dissipated jazzboes; and Pablo, a poor young Spanish laborer. Each of them, at a moment of danger, gets their hands on a mysterious Chinese box that serves as a gateway to the World House, and is propelled to that strange, non-coterminous venue willy nilly. There they meet other castaway humans, and the deadly bizarreness of their new environment becomes painfully intimate.
Adams employs muscular vivid prose that works equally well at depicting the reality we know and the irreality of the World House, where a seemingly normal bedroom door can lead to arctic wastes or an entire sea (a sea that dissolves the bather in bliss if one is not careful). His sentences and plotting and action scenes are assured and straightforwardly utilitarian, offering fast-paced thrills, while at the same time there’s plenty of room for startling and even poetic figures of speech. Consider this description of a monster:
“There was something of both amphibian and human ancestry to it. Its skin was off-white, like a glass of milk on sixty cigarettes a day. The eyes were much bigger than any eyes have a right to be, rolling around in sockets that held them as fast as holes in mud grip a stray foot . . . The teeth looked no more solid than gristle or single grains from a sieved rice pudding.”
Adams’s World House is not the numinously flavored Gormenghast that Stoddard created. Rather, it resembles a couple of Marvel Comics venues—the Mojoverse and Arcade’s Murderworld. It has elements of the deadly labyrinths in Budrys’s Rogue Moon (1960) and Silverberg’s The Man in the Maze (1969). Its feature of blending people from different eras recalls Farmer’s Riverworld series, as well as the World of Tiers. And finally, of course, it’s a more savage version of Carroll’s Wonderland, that’s been run through some sort of deranged E. Nesbit/C. S. Lewis filter. (One character even references Narnia in conversation.)
Ultimately, the science fictional explanation for the existence and nature of the World House comes to displace the fantasy aspect, and the reader realizes that all along Guy Adams has been brilliantly expounding on a Big Dumb Object in the manner of Clarke’s Rama! Nice fakeout, sir!
The sequel to this fine book, Restoration, is due out in the middle of 2011. Take out a mortgage now.
Seaside Haunts
Impressed by various reviews of Carlos Ruiz Zafón’s two novels for adults—The Shadow of the Wind (2004) and The Angel’s Game (2009)—I purchased those books on my own. (And for a professional reviewer, used to getting free books galore, such an outlay is a real mark of interest!) You can guess, of course, that I have still not had a chance to read them. Highly frustrating!
So when I learned that Zafón had a YA novel about to be published, I ordered that one too off Amazon, and resolved to make it my entry point into his oeuvre. My only regret was that I would be reading his work out of chronological order.
Well, imagine my surprise when I opened The Prince of Mist (Little, Brown, hardcover, $17.99, 214 pages, ISBN 978-0316-04477-6) and discovered in the author’s foreword that his first four books, previously untranslated, were YA novels, and that this one was his debut, from 1993. So now, by starting here, I would indeed be reading him in chronological order.
Sometimes it pays to procrastinate.
First off, I should say that this “new” work is translated by Lucia Graves, who was also entrusted with translating The Shadow of the Wind, and that her English version of Zafón’s original Spanish is by turns playful and sober, lighthearted and grim, yet always lucid and engaging.
Zafón begins his tale with a situation that is at once urgently particular and yet timeless. He will continue this blend of the eternal and quotidian throughout the book. To my mind, this kind of portrayal of the human condition, which is at once rooted in the individual present circumstances of the characters and simultaneously in the ancient shared heritage of humanity, produces the best kind of fiction—think of John Crowley’s Little, Big (1981) as a great instance of this type of achievement.
In England, on the eve of the increased hostilities of WWII, paterfamilias Maximilian Carver informs his family—wife Angela, son Max (thirteen), daughters Alicia (fifteen) and Irina (eight)—that for safety’s sake they will abandon their city lodgings and go to live in a small seaside town. Reluctantly, the family agrees.
Once in the unnamed, toylike village, they find much to like—including a slightly older boy named Roland, on whom Alicia develops a crush—but also much to make them wary. Their house seems haunted, an overgrown garden features creepy sculptures that move when one’s eyes are averted, and a sunken wreck just offshore radiates menace.
As the tale progresses in all its implacable fatedness, Max and Alicia come to learn the true secrets of the village, as revealed reluctantly by Roland’s protective grandfather Victor. The three kids finds themselves facing an evil out of Victor’s own childhood, the Prince of Mist, aka the Bradburyian Dr. Cain. Their victory over the evil fellow, in a bravura setpiece of a climax, will be only partial and painful.
Zafón conjures up an aura for his tale that is akin to that produced by the best classic horror writers—let’s name M.R. James and Robert Aickman and Russell Kirk as touchstones. His themes involve the inescapable repercussions of bad decisions and the limits of one’s ability to protect loved ones, and the wisdom of letting go. Weighty topics for even an adult novel, yet perfectly realized here in a manner that will be instantly apprehendable by any savvy youngster.
I can only hope that we see imminent English-language editions of Zafón’s other three YA books, so I can continue my own education in his work.
The Curious Doings at Melstone House
We seem to be enjoying a house-themed streak of novels this column. First came Adams’s World House, then the haunted cottage in Zafón’s novel. And now, in Diana Wynne Jones’s Enchanted Glass (Greenwillow Books, hardcover, $16.99, 292 pages, ISBN 978-0-06-1866684-5), we get Melstone House, a pleasantly dilapidated country home that is a haven for magic and magicians.
Before detailing the curious doings at Melstone House, let me call to your attention a trilogy of hilarious memoirs by one Beverley Nichols, beginning with Merry Hall (1951). These books chronicle in droll and arch manner how Mr. Nichols acquired the shabby mansion of his dreams, only to find himself at the mercy of servants, workmen, and neighbors. They will repay your attention, especially in their handsome new editions generally available.
Now, keep Nichols in mind, because I’m pretty sure Diana Wynne Jones did—as witness the MH initials shared with Merry Hall and Melstone House!
Professor Andrew Brandon Hope has come into his inheritance, the aforementioned Melstone House, upon the death of his beloved grandfather, Jocelyn Brandon. Now, Jocelyn was a wizard of some power and repute, and Andrew has a few amateur skills in that department himself. But he’s more concerned with gaining the liberty to pursue his academic studies upon his early retirement, due to this bequest. But Andrew does not reckon with the fact that his grandfather is hereditarily responsible for the thaumaturgical upkeep on a certain “field-of-care.” And that the responsibility for maintaining the queer zone of enchanted influence surrounding Melstone House has fallen to an unprepared Andrew.
This basic plot engine is surrounded by an apparatus of joyful screwball complexity, propelled mainly by an assortment of eccentric characters. Besides Andrew’s incorrigible servants, Mr. and Mrs. Stock (not related), we get leprechaun-resembling Tarquin; his beautiful computer-friendly daughter Stashe; a weredog who answers to Rolf; and a rural doofus named Shaun and his “counterpart,” the giant named Groil. But the key spanner in the works, destroying any chance of peace and quiet for Andrew, is a runaway boy who shows up on his doorstep.
> Aidan Cain, all of twelve, is an enigma to himself and others. Without any relatives upon the death of his grandmother, Adela (note the parallel with Andrew’s case), he finds himself pursued by occult beings called Stalkers. His own tiny magics are insufficient to protect himself, and he places his fate in Andrew’s hands. The reveal of Aidan’s identity, far from solving matters, only clarifies and heightens the immense stakes involved.
And we have not yet even spoken of the officious, demanding, and scary Mr. Brown, and the nebulous claim he has on Melstone House.
In the grand tradition of Thorne Smith, Tom Holt, and Wallace & Gromit, this novel is larded with non-sequiturs, absurd personality tics, surreal misunderstandings, and quintessentially British humor. But despite—or perhaps because of—the abidingly silly nature of the protagonists and their doings, the reader—at least this one did—will come to embrace Andrew and company whole-heartedly, and invest much feeling in the outcome of their actions.
The sprightly lightheartedness of this novel is a testament to the true magic that inheres in her own art.
And Her Shoes Were Number Nine
Fresh off her success with Boneshaker (2009), Cherie Priest maintains her heady steampunk momentum with Clementine (Subterranean Press, hardcover, $25.00, 201 pages, ISBN 978-1-59606-308-2). As you might suspect from its less-weighty title, which will inevitably invoke childhood memories of a silly ditty, Clementine is more of a romp—less fraught and dire—than its predecessor, despite being set in that exact same fictional universe. Consider it as the best episode of The Wild, Wild West never filmed.
We focus initially on two larger-than-life characters, veritable forces of nature, who will entertainingly and suspensefully split alternating chapters of the narrative until their paths finally cross. First comes Captain Croggon Beauregard Hainey, ex-slave and now a legendary sky-pirate. Hainey is in hot pursuit of his own stolen airship, the Free Crow, which a dastard named Felton Brink has stolen and rechristened Clementine. Brink is heading to Louisville, Kentucky, bearing a mysterious cargo, and Hainey wants revenge. (The secret of the cargo will tally with the re-naming of the ship, if you like clues.)
On Hainey’s trail is Maria Isabella Boyd, a woman “nearly forty years old and two husbands down,” in her own words. Not that Boyd has ever relied overmuch on men. She’s been a Confederate spy, an actress, and a general survival expert. Now, having been hired by Allan Pinkerton himself, she’s a private detective/cop. She’s leery of her first assignment, but determined to give it a go.
When Hainey and Boyd meet, it’s a titanic dustup that ultimately settles down in strained cooperation. The rigors of their madcap odyssey will mellow that prickly relationship into respect and friendship, and leave each antagonist with a forced but genuine friendly feeling for their rival.
Priest’s tale this time around benefits from a wider canvas. With Boneshaker being set exclusively in Seattle, and mostly in that city’s walled ghetto, events got slightly claustrophobia-inducing, and we did not see as much of her alternate-history America as we might have wished. But Clementine remedies that small deficit, as our heroes go ricocheting around the West and Midwest, and we get a larger sense of the festering Civil War back East.
Priest exhibits a minute and juicy particularity about her imagined past, grounding us in tons of sensory details. We can feel the jouncing flight of the dirigibles, smell the booze-redolent cellars and cheap hotel rooms of the tale. When Boyd is sent on a long trip in an unprotected two-person airship, the Flying Fish, we shiver with her, and brace for the dangerous descent.
The Flying Fish is the proud creation of one Algernon Rice, another Pinkerton agent, and Rice’s rich depiction and coherent actions, despite his being basically a walk-on character, illustrate the care and ingenuity that Priest lavishes on even the most minor personages in her story. She’s mastered the Dickensian trick of doing quirky-memorable-but-not-overbearingly-so.
With a woman and a black man—three black men, actually, given Hainey’s two memorable sidekicks, Lamar and Simeon—at the center of her tale, Priest could have chosen to go all heavy-handed pot-of-message on us. But although both Boyd and Hainey do get off some good quips and ripostes refuting their alleged second-class status, the theme of equality remains objectified mainly in their actions, residing at a subtle, almost subliminal level. The thrilling tale is Priest’s main concern here—as it rightly should be—as she lets adventures serve as enlightenment in a most admirable fashion.
Copyright © 2010 Paul Di Filippo
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TWENTY-FIFTH ANNUAL READERS’ AWARD
What a milestone! It hardly seems possible that we could be celebrating our Twenty-fifth Readers’ Award, but that’s what the calendar says. Seems like it was only yesterday that we started it!
Please vote. Most of you know the drill by now. For those of you who are new to this, we should explain a few things.
We consider this to be our yearly chance to hear from you, the readers of the magazine. That’s the whole point behind this particular award. What were your favorite stories from Asimov’s Science Fiction last year? This is your chance to let us know what novella, novelette, short story, poem, and cover, you liked best in the year 2010. Just take a moment to look over the Index of the stories published in last year’s issues of Asimov’s (pp.109-111) to refresh your memory, and then list below, in the order of your preference, your three favorites in each category. By the way, we love to get comments about the stories and the magazine, so please free to include them with your ballot. Please note: unless you request otherwise, comments will be considered for publication with attribution in the editorial that accompanies the announcement of the Readers’ Award Results.
Some cautions: Only material from 2010-dated issues of Asimov’s is eligible (no other years, no other magazines, even our sister magazine Analog). Each reader gets one vote, and only one vote. If you use a photocopy of the ballot, please be sure to include your name and address; your ballot won’t be counted otherwise.
Works must also be categorized on the ballot as they appear in the Index. No matter what category you think a particular story ought to appear in, we consider the Index to be the ultimate authority in this regard, so be sure to check your ballots against the Index if there is any question about which category is the appropriate one for any particular story. In the past, voters have been careless about this, and have listed stories under the wrong categories, and, as a result, ended up wasting their votes. All ballots must be postmarked no later than February 1, 2011, and should be addressed to: Readers’ Award, Asimov’s Science Fiction, Dell Magazines, 267 Broadway, 4th Flr., New York, NY. 10007. You can also vote online at asimovssf@dellmagazines.com, but you must give us your physical mailing address as well. We will also post online ballots at our website, so please check us out at www.asimovs.com.
Remember, you—the readers—will be the only judges for this award. No juries, no panels of experts. In the past, some categories have been hotly contended, with victory or defeat riding on only one or two votes, so every vote counts. Don’t let it be your vote for your favorite stories that goes uncounted! So don’t put it off—vote today!
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INDEX
This index covers volume 34 of Asimov’s Science Fiction magazine, January 2010 through December 2010. Entries are arranged alphabetically by author. When there is more than one entry for an author, listings are arranged alphabetically according to the story/article title. All entries are followed by a parenthetical note: (a) article; (c) cartoon; (ed) editorial; (na) novella; (nt) novelette; (p) poem; (r) review; (se) serial; and (ss) short story. Collaborations are listed under all authors and are cross-referenced. When a title, a parenthetical note, or an author’s name is omitted, it is the same as that of the previous entry.
> Baxter, Stephen—
Earth III (na) . . . . . Jun . . . . . 70
The Ice Line (na) . . . . . Feb . . . . . 72
Beckett, Chris—
The Peacock Cloak (ss) . . . . . Jun . . . . . 42
Bergmann, F.J.—
Cultural Boundaries (p) . . . . . Aug . . . . . 23
Xenoaesthetics (p) . . . . . Dec . . . . . 57
Berman, Ruth—
DoT Acolytes (p) . . . . . Jan . . . . . 59
Egg Production (p) . . . . . Sep . . . . . 61
Kitchen Deities (p) . . . . . Apr/May . . . . . 9
Martian Opal (p) . . . . . Apr/May . . . . . 61
Bieniowski, Brian—
Guest Editorial: B-Side Mentality (ed) . . . . . Apr/May . . . . . 4
Borski, Robert—
Neosaur (p) . . . . . Jul . . . . . 55
Bossert, Gregory Norman—
Freia in the Sunlight (ss) . . . . . Dec . . . . . 42
Slow Boat (nt) . . . . . Aug . . . . . 90
The Union of Soil and Sky (na) . . . . . Apr/May . . . . . 10
Boston, Bruce—
The Gears of New August (p) . . . . . Jul . . . . . 21
Marble People (p) . . . . . Mar . . . . . 35
Broderick, Damien—
Dead Air (ss) . . . . . Feb . . . . . 24
Creasey, Ian—
Crimes, Follies, Misfortunes, and Love (nt) . . . . . Aug . . . . . 32
The Prize Beyond Gold (ss) . . . . . Dec . . . . . 70
Crowell, Benjamin—
Centaurs (ss) . . . . . Mar . . . . . 36
Petopia (ss) . . . . . Jun . . . . . 25
Wheat Rust (nt) . . . . . Sep . . . . . 48
D’Ammassa, Don—
No Distance Too Great (ss) . . . . . Oct/Nov . . . . . 78
de Bodard, Aliette—