“The Eternal Champion”, by Michael Moorcock

 

484 pages, White Wolf Publishing, ISBN-13: 978-1565041912

Over the course of the mid-to-late 90s, White Wolf Publishing produced this massive omnibus collection of Michael Moorcock’s “Eternal Champion” stories, a recurrent aspect in many of his tales. The Eternal Champion was the first in this series featuring the character Erekosë and includes the tales The Eternal Champion, The Sundered Worlds and Phoenix in Obsidian. The main character at the heart of the Eternal Champion stories is John Daker, a mortal man who is taken from our world into another and incarnated in the form of Erekosë, a long-dead hero. He finds that he has been summoned in order to lead the human race in their struggle against the Eldren, an alien race that Erekosë defeated in the past. Throughout, Daker/Erekosë must balance his mortal life with his present incarnation, while also learning to distinguish between truth and fiction, as the rules of this new world he finds himself in are quite different from those of Earth, and he cannot decide if magic is real or some other phenomena.

While Erekosë is not as well-known as Elric, Corum, or many of the other aspects of the Eternal Champion, he is perhaps the most important as it is this character that kicks off Moorcock’s Multiverse and is one of the most frequently mentioned aspects of the hero. In one story, told from different viewpoints in The Vanishing Tower and The King of the Swords, Elric and Corum meet a third aspect of the hero who joins with them to form “The Three Who Are One”. When they ask his name, he tells them to call him Erekosë, because it was in that form that he came closest to knowing true peace. In other works, however, it is hinted that Erekosë himself committed a crime of betrayal, and that the Eternal Champion is somehow punished for it; The Eternal Champion is the story of that betrayal.

The first book in this cycle is The Eternal Champion, which Moorcock wrote in less than a week when he was – get this – 17-years-old. Unusual for him, it is written in the first person and chronicles the story of how John Daker is transported to an alien world and resurrected as Erekosë in order to fight an evil race called the Eldren, only to find that all may not appear as it should be (no spoilers here). The tale is told in bright colors and melodramatic language, just as one would expect from a kid. It is also uneven – sometimes strong, sometimes weak – but then, what would you expect from a first-time effort? But what is of true interest is watching a young mind tackle deep subjects and, better yet, defy expectations as he delivers a shot to the solar plexus. This is what I guess one would call high-caliber Sci-Fi, as the world Moorcock crafts comes to life and is a descriptive as a travelogue. Though sparsely written, with only that which is needed to bring the tale along and not much else, even at this tender age Moorcock had learned that what isn’t said is as important as what is.

The Sundered Worlds is where Moorcock’s concept of the Multiverse first saw print. In a nutshell, it is “a multitude of alternative universes intersecting sometimes with our own and to which, of course, our own belongs – in infinite number of slightly different versions of reality in which one is likely to come across a slightly different version of oneself” (from the author, BTW). Renark von Bek undertakes to save various sections of this Multiverse from Armageddon, a suitable quest for an Eternal Champion, one should think. But just when you think this is just a typical fireballs-in-space extravaganza, one finds that there is a deeper story of a man inexorably and inevitable drawn to a hidden Destiny that he can neither avoid nor alter, in spite of his (admittedly) super-human efforts. Renark von Bek (you’ll see that name again in Moorcock’s works) goes about his mission with a cavalier attitude one recognizes from any number of Space Operas, and it is this very attitude of heroic, yet resigned, resolve that earns him the respect of his many friends and the grudging admiration of his enemies. Amazing technologies are on display as well, many of which became real: virtual reality, computer tablets, digital displays and advanced quantum physics. For great, dazzling yet classically-spirited science fiction adventure, The Sundered Worlds is a winner.

Phoenix in Obsidian (or The Silver Warriors, if you prefer) picks up right where The Eternal Champion ended; Erekosë finds himself plucked from his new home and bride to once again put the Cosmic Balance right, this time as Urlik Skarsol of the South Ice, a frozen world with a dying sun and a moon that has crashed into the Earth. This world is populated by a truly degenerate humanity hunkered down in a mountain fastness called the Obsidian City and is subject an alien invasion. One of the book’s first mysteries is just who has summoned Erekosë and for what purpose, or even if anyone here really worthy of saving. Erekosë (or Urlik Skarsol) soon discovers that there is no faith in this world, just people seeking pleasure while awaiting their inevitable doom. Moorcock again plays the contrarian and presents his protagonists with one ethical quandary after another. Fantasy and science fiction are blurred, while the many pseudo-Arthurian tropes to be found throughout the story are intriguing without being pedantic.

“The Forest”, by Edward Rutherfurd

 

624 pages, Crown, ISBN-13: ‎ 978-0609603826

The Forest by Edward Rutherfurd takes place over nine centuries in the New Forest that covers southwest Hampshire and southeast Wiltshire – over 71,000 acres in its present form. When it was first created by William the Conqueror, the New Forest ran from the river Avon from the west to the port of Southampton to the east, with some 100,000 acres of forest and heath that swept down to the Solent water and the Isle of Wight, all set aside for the Kings of England – and nobody else. From the time of the Norman Conquest to the present day, the New Forest has remained a mysterious, powerful, almost mythical place where first Saxon, and later Norman, kings rode forth with their hunting parties (and where William the Conqueror’s son, William II “Rufus”, was mysteriously killed); still later, the fishermen who lived in Christchurch and Lymington helped Sir Francis Drake fight off the Spanish Armada while the mighty oaks of the forest were used to build the ships of the Royal Navy. Although located in the very south of England, one could argue that the Heart of this this sceptred isle can be found in the New Forest.

Beginning in 1099, The Forest is divided into seven chapters: The Hunt, Beaulieu, Lymington, The Armada Tree, Alice, Albion Park and Pride of the Forest; intermingling both real and fictional characters, the narrative traces the lineage of several families over nine centuries. There is Lady Adela, the cousin of Walter Tyrrell who is blamed for the death of the King (as well as Puckle, a gnarled old man who darkly personifies the Forest). Then there is Brother Adam of Beaulieu Abbey who is content to serve God until a poaching incident puts him in contact with an intriguing young woman named Mary Furzey. We have the Totton family of the harbor town of Lymington along with the Penruddocks and Lisles of Moyles Court, all making their ways in their world. The defeat of the Spanish Armada is dealt with, as is the fate of Alice Lisle for her role in the 1685 Monmouth uprising and even a reference to Leonard Hoar, an infamous early president of Harvard. A crime in Bath during the Regency shatters the decorous society of the same before we at last come to the year 2000 and what the world holds in store for The Forest.

I see what Rutherfurd is attempting to do with The Forest, tracing the families who make it their home as they rise, fall and struggle to survive, all while the New Forest rises, falls and struggles right along with them, as if it, too, were a living thing with desires and aspirations, as well. In one sense, the forest is a character in its own right: mysterious, ever-present and with designs of its own. It is also subject to the whims of time and of chance…as are we all.

“The Memoirs of Cleopatra”, by Margaret George

 

964 pages, St. Martin’s Press, ISBN-13: ‎ 978-0312154301

The Memoirs of Cleopatra is the fourth historic novelization I have read by Margaret George, the others being The Autobiography of Henry VIII, With Notes By His Fool, Will Somers (reviewed on March 7^th, 2012), Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles (reviewed on April 10^th, 2012) and Elizabeth I (reviewed on May 8^th, 2020); all but the last were excellent, and so here I go again with The Memoirs of Cleopatra, which follows in the footsteps of George’s first book as purporting to having been written by the Father-Loving Goddess herself (I actually read this after having read Henry VIII and Mary, the order in which they were written; don’t know why it took me so long to review it). As with her prior books, Cleopatra is written with novelesque descriptions of a long-dead world in which life was short and death could come at a moment’s notice (or less); in which the status of the high and mighty did not protect them from the consequences of their actions; and in which beauty existed side-by-side with ugliness. In short: this is some Good Stuff, man.

It’s no wonder that Cleopatra has engrossed people over the many centuries after her death, being a powerful woman in the ancient world who ruled a rich and (sometimes) powerful nation surrounded by so many (male) jackals. Some said she was beautiful, although the consensus anymore seems to be that she was rather more exotic and fascinating; all agreed that she was intelligent, crafty and ruthless when she had to be – in other words, a ruler. With her novel, George also shows Cleopatra to be a woman: seductive, manipulative, fragile and not a little needy – y’know, human. As with her other books, her heroine is taken at face value and not given to many instances of self-recriminations or lack of inspired motivations; as Memoirs is written from the first-person, that person being Cleopatra, this is hardly surprising, but if you want a history of this most enigmatic and fascinating of queens, best find yourself a proper biography, instead (say, like Cleopatra: A Life by Stacy Schiff, reviewed on March 18^th, 2013, or Cleopatra: Last Queen of Egypt by Joyce A. Tyldesley, reviewed on January 23^rd, 2014).

What we DO get with The Memoirs of Cleopatra are the usual suspects: Cleopatra, Julius Caesar, Mark Antony, Octavian, enigmatic Egyptians, brash Romans, royal barges, sacred asps, scheming eunuchs, chariot races, eye-watering riches and stultifying poverty…George, as usual, describes this dead world with the vim and vigor of one who seemingly walked its dusty streets and actually smelled the Alexandrian harbor, tasted the pomegranates, beheld the pyramids and heard the clash of swords. As with most tales in which I already know the ending, it was a fascinating read when it came to all of the details I knew little or nothing about; the Big Picture things I was familiar with – Caesar’s North African campaign, the Alexandrian War or the ill-fated struggle between Antony and Octavian for control of the world – were rather more difficult to get through, seeing as I had already seen the movie but, for all that, George does an admirable job keeping one abreast of the whys and the hows of the Roman conquest of the Med and the consequences thereof. Not a proper history, by no stretch, but still well-researched and described.

As with most historical figures who have lived extraordinary lives, if Cleopatra VII Philopator had never existed and an enterprising screenwriter invented her story out of whole-cloth and presented it to some producer or whatever the script would have been tossed into the trash without a second thought as being hopelessly fantastic and unrealistic. But live she did – and love and rule and conquer and fall. While a novelization of her life (and incredibly forgiving of its subject), The Memoirs of Cleopatra succeeds in bringing this most immortal of women back to life.

“Cloud Cuckoo Land”, by Anthony Doerr

 

640 pages, Scribner, ISBN-13: ‎ 978-1982168438

Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr is an historical and speculative fiction novel that centers around a (fictional) Ancient Greek codex likewise called “Cloud Cuckoo Land” that links characters from 15^th Century Constantinople, 20^th Century Idaho (I think) and a 22^nd Century starship. Yeah, there’s a lot going on. So who are these characters? Well, we have Anna, a young seamstress living in Constantinople, and Omeir, a village boy conscripted (along with his oxen) into the Ottoman army who are preparing to storm the city; Zeno, a Korean War veteran who works in a library in Idaho translating Ancient Greek texts (and whose translation of “Cloud Cuckoo Land” is found scattered throughout the book), and Seymour, an autistic young man who gets caught up with a group of ecoterrorists; and Konstance, a young girl aboard the Argos, a Generation Starship, heading for a planet called Beta Oph2. These five people are connected to one another by “Cloud Cuckoo Land” that they all discover and find solace in.

While the “Cloud Cuckoo Land” referenced throughout this book is, in fact, fictional, the author of the book, Antonius Diogenes, was an authentic 2^nd Century Greek writer and tells the story of Aethon, a shepherd on a quest to find the fabled paradise in the sky; in his travels, he is transformed into a donkey, a sea bass and finally a crow, which allows him to fly to the gates of the city in the clouds – Cloud Cuckoo Land. While these five characters appear to have nothing in common, they are each in fact outsiders in their respective places and times, with this singular book that they all come to know acting as the thread that links them all. The book travels across time and space, starting with the (supposed) author, Antonius Diogenes, who tells his niece that he didn’t, in fact, write it, but instead transcribed it from tablets found in a grave – in a sense, then, the book wasn’t written, but was something that always…Was.

From there, one copy survives in a ruined library from where it is stolen (rescued?) by Anna and thence carried away from the sacked city and hidden in a hollow tree; it is then deposited and promptly forgotten in another, famous library and much later recorded as lost, so that when it is found again it becomes an enormously exciting object, reproduced in facsimile and distributed digitally; Zeno turns the story into a play with the assistance of the children who will perform it, while later still it is reassembled from that script, printed and then digitized; this copy in turn is hidden where it waits for the person who will need it in order to do more than just get to the end of the game. All along its journey and throughout its changes, “Cloud Cuckoo Land” is read to the young, the old, the sick, the healthy and those recovering from their myriad wounds, to their bodies and/or to their souls.

A character in the book likens Constantinople to Noah’s Ark, only instead of being stocked with animals it was stocked with books; and the flood that Constantine’s city is floating upon is Time: “Day after day, year after year, time wipes the old books from the world”. And so the one constant of Cloud Cuckoo Land is that the preservation and dissemination of knowledge is an act of piety; piety for knowledge, piety for culture, piety for civilization and even piety for one another. Or, as one precocious child tells Zeno: “What really matters is that the story gets passed on”.

“Wrong About Japan”, by Peter Carey

 

176 pages, Vintage, ISBN-13: ‎ 978-1400078363

Peter Carey, the Australian novelist who wrote Oscar and Lucinda and True History of the Kelly Gang (along with a bunch of other books I haven’t read) wrote Wrong About Japan in 2005; subtitled A Father’s Journey with his Son, it purports to be an account of Carey’s cultural investigation of Japan alongside his son, Charley (I say “purports”, for a number of issues arose with this book after I read it that casts doubt as to its authenticity). In the meantime, Wrong About Japan relates Carey’s experience in Japan with his twelve-year-old son, a fan of manga and anime, during which they experience the cultural disassociation typical of tourists to foreign nations. But there is more going on here, as the major theme that emerges is the contrast between Peter the father and his interest in Japanese history and traditional culture, and Charley the son and his interest in manga, anime and technology.

All well and good and nothing earth-shattering – even typical for a travelogue – but there is one glaring issue in the book, and that is Charley Carey’s friend, Takashi, the most convenient friend there ever was, as he arrives whenever needed to answer questions, provide commentary and generally just make himself useful…too convenient, as it turns out, for Carey later admitted that he invented Takashi out of whole cloth, which in my estimation makes the whole of Wrong About Japan suspect, for how much else am I supposed to believe about this…account? If Takashi was an invention, then it follows that his grandmother, who was so kind to the Careys, was as well. What about the traditional geisha girls the Carey’s encounter; were they real or an invention of the author, too? Or how about the yakuza crime boss with the yellow shoes and matching suspenders? Can one call this a real-to-life articulation of Japan if so much is invented?

Unlike other reviewers, I liked the book as a meditation on culture shock and generational disconnect and didn’t think it was at all “an odd, unnecessary little book” or a “disengaged feat of thumb-twiddling” (Peter Conrad of The Observer – unnecessary?); and while it may be true that “anyone who wants to find out about Japan or manga will be better served elsewhere” (Marcel Theroux of The New York Times), that was not the point of the book, anyway. That is until, in research for this review, I uncovered all of the chicanery Carey indulged in to make his book more…what. Interesting? Exciting? Enthralling? Perhaps sometime after he began writing, Carey discovered that neither he nor his son were that compelling and so cooked up some imaginary friends to flesh out his tale. Or perhaps he decided he needed filler, for even with all of the fiction he added to his travelogue, this work is still only a slim 176 pages.

So, just what to make of Wrong About Japan? Overall I liked the book as a personal tale of cultural enrichment and generational enlightenment, for that is, ultimately, what Carey wrote about. All of the stuff about Modern Japan vs. Traditional Japan, the merits (or not) of Manga, Anime and all the rest, the Good and the Bad in modern technology and gazillions of gadgets, was really just a backdrop for Carey to investigate, dissect and ruminate on his relationship with his son, and in that regard the book is admirable (although I’d love to see Charley’s take on all of this, for he doesn’t come across at all well here). As for the rest, there are other, better books about modern Japan that I will have to investigate (books that do not involve invented characters, one hopes). For I have a hard time forgiving this author and his mostly fictional account of his supposed trip to Japan.