Village Green Preservation
Society
Today’s blogpost brings together my reviews of two
very different novels. One is a
whimsical fantasy story featuring antropomorphic bears, written by an author
best known for her tales of Gothic horror.
The other is a medieval mystery told in reverse. Why these two novels are inextricably linked
in my mind is anybody’s guess (including mine...). It possibly has to do with the fact that both
are set in isolated villages whose boundaries are set by a river. Or that both portray society’s where fear of
the outside(r) holds sway. What the two
novels surely have in common is that they are well-written and strangely memorable.
It’s some time since I read them, and yet, at the most unexpected moments, I
find myself revisiting these lost villages...
Oothangbart – A Subversive
Fable for Adults and Bears
by Rebecca Lloyd
Oothangbart is a strange place. It is somewhat reminiscent of an ancient
English village or market town, except that it lies in splendid isolation,
surrounded by a river (“long may its waters encircle us!”), its frontiers
further confirmed by a frightening forest and a gate at one end to stop the
more intrepid amongst the villagers from exploring further. The only link with
the outside world is the flotsam and debris occasionally washed up by the
river, hinting at the existence of other settlements which the villagers have
never seen and which might not even exist. The legendary “Bristol”, for example.
Within Oothangbart, life is regimented and regimental. Time, in particular, is
considered precious and Oothangbart’s inhabitants are obliged to make use of it
as the elders dictate. There is also a strict hierarchy, with the Mayor heading
a select coterie of officials who make it clear that they rule the roost. Life
is designed to be predictable, safe and reassuring – and in such a world,
thought and imagination are dangerous.
Most of the citizens are happy to play by the rules, others less so. Take
Hutchinson, for instance, who makes it a point to come across as an eccentric
loner. Or the novel’s protagonist, one Donal Shaun Hercule Poseidon. Donal
sincerely tries to fit in, diligently carrying out his unfulfilling chores at
the Department of Found Objects. However, he cannot help dreaming of a
different life, and wondering whether the citizens of the outside world
(supposing that they exist) have it better. These are dangerous, treasonous
thoughts which Donal expresses only in the presence of the closest of friends.
Love might have something to do with Donal’s romantic trait. For a long time he
has admired Pearl Offering, owner of the village bakery, but he has always been
too shy to make the first step. A love letter baring his soul remains, day
after day, unsent.
But things might soon change. Fish have been jumping out of the river and
Oothangbart is in turmoil. Donal, who is one of the witnesses of this frightening
phenomenon, is catapulted into officialdom and, during a state of emergency,
persons who think differently might win the day.
Rebecca Lloyd is best known as an author of dark fiction, with two of her short
story collections published by contemporary horror and weird fiction
specialists, Tartarus Press. In Oothangbart, however, she opts for a gentler
sort of fantasy, a “fable”, as the subtitle itself implies. Oothangbart
reiterates what is quite a common literary (and movie) trope, the idea of a “dystopian
utopia”, a seemingly perfect community where safety is achieved at the expense
of freedom and imagination. What distinguishes this book from others of the
sort is its delightful “oddness”. There is quirkiness in the world-building –
little touches such as the “Escalator” which the dignitaries of the community
ride just to show their importance, or the kite-flying competitions during
which the villagers are, albeit briefly, allowed a measure of freedom. There is
quirkiness in the characters and in the way they are portrayed, even physically
– indeed, it might not be immediately obvious but the inhabitants fo
Oothangbart are, in reality, antropomorphic bears. These fantastic elements
emphasize the “fable-like” character of the title, which is further conveyed
through the imaginative use of archaic-sounding language and expressions which,
however, have nothing to do with old English. Thus, all males are “fellows”,
females “sweetfellows”, the postman is the “Postal Fellow”. The different times
of day have strange names such as “newtime”, “whittletime” or “fishthoughts”.
The villagers greet each other with curious sayings – “long may our flags
flutter in kindly winds! Long may sweet clouds drift!” Often the main
characters indulge in philosophical discussions, hinting at the pressing social
concerns underlying this seemingly innocuous fantastic tale.
Indeed, the author’s real aims are not far to seek. As Lloyd’s afterword
confirms, “Oothangbart” is a satire poking fun at (and occasionally savagely
attacking) contemporary society and, particularly, common workplace mores. We
live indeed in a context where conformity and productivity are the order of the
day and where original thought and imagination are therefore considered
“dangerous”. As in Oothangbart’s absurdly inconclusive committee meetings,
“group activities” are sometimes merely an excuse in fuelling the
self-importance of supposed leaders. I’d like to believe that this is not as
pervasive a problem as the author makes it out to be and that there is a place
in our world for diverse “fellows” and “sweetfellows” like Donal. But as the
characters in the novel ask at one point, what is belief? Is it merely a “hope”
to help us get through life? A subversive fable it certainly is...
Published September 25th 2016 by Pillar international Publishing
The Western Wind
by Samantha Harvey
The Year of Our Lord, 1491. The hundred-or-so villagers of Oakham, in
rural Somerset, are celebrating the raucous days of Carnival. This year,
however, a tragic occurrence has cast a pall over the revelry. Thomas Newman
has disappeared, likely carried away by the churning waters of the river which
cuts of the village from the rest of the world. Newman was a relative newcomer
to Oakham, having settled there upon the death of his wife and daughter.
However, thanks to his financial clout, he acquired much of the surrounding
land, meaning that most of the villagers depend upon him for their living.
Moreover, despite his unorthodox ideas, he is considered a person bearing moral
authority. His sudden death – whether through accident, murder or suicide – can
only bring bad tidings to Oakham. Especially since the rural dean has descended
on the village to investigate, and there are rumblings of monks setting their
sights on Oakham’s fields.
Reading a skeletal outline of the plot, you’d be
forgiven for expecting “The Western Wind” to be another “medieval crime novel”.
But this is so much more than a “cozy historical mystery”. It is narrated by
the village priest, John Reve, who as the repository of Oakham’s secrets, is
the closest we get to a detective figure. Interestingly, Reve reveals more
about himself than about the villagers – indeed, on one level, this novel could
be read as a book-length character study of Reve. He comes across as a person
with a mission, one who considers himself as chosen by God, but is torn by
feelings of inadequacy. It seems that he is being continuously being weighed
(including in a literal sense) and found wanting – whether by his flock, by his
ecclesiastical superiors or by God himself. The 'western wind' becomes the
metaphor for the deliverance for which Reve prays, to no avail.
A particular characteristic of the novel is the
narrative timeline which, in a structure worthy of a Christopher Nolan movie,
moves backwards from Shrove Tuesday to the Saturday before. It is a
deliberately confusing ploy which leaves the reader feeling thrown into the
deep end, much like Newman’s fatal dive into the river. But it’s a brilliant
move – as it effectively evokes the feeling of loss and incomprehension shared
by the villagers of Oakham.
Early readers praised the novel’s historical
accuracy. I do not have enough knowledge of the period to comment about this.
However, I did find some aspects of the novel unconvincing. What disturbed me
most is the fact that Reve, who otherwise comes across as quite a decent and
dedicated priest, displays an uncharacteristically cavalier attitude towards
the secret of confession. By the time the events in the novel take place, the
gravity of a breach of the “seal of confession” had been established for
centuries, with severe canonical and spiritual consequences for whoever went
against this strict rule. Yet, Reve lightly discusses penitents’ confessions
with his superiors without any feeling of compunction or fear of worldly or
otherworldly punishment.
Another slightly puzzling point is that, apart
from the “confessions” which are central to the plot, and apart from his
ruminations about whether he is a “good enough” shepherd of the Oakham flock,
Reve rarely seems to discuss theology, or religious rites, rituals and prayers.
Indeed, despite the narrator being a priest and in spite of the fact that the
novel touches upon subjects such as faith and superstition, I wouldn’t classify
this as a “religious” novel, and it does not delve into the type of theological
discourse you will find in novels such as The Diary of a Country Priest, Gilead or, for that matter, the more recent Fire
Sermon.
Then again, the feeling I got was that the primary
concern of the novel is neither religious nor historical. What the Western Wind
gives us instead is a complete immersion into the world conjured by the author.
The novel creates an almost physical sense of oppression, of damp, of fetid
air; of a sense of poverty and sickness; of helplessness in the face of
impending catastrophic change. What counts at the end of the day is not strict
historical accuracy - just as the narrative style sounds convincingly
“archaic”, without necessarily accurately mimicking 15th century parlance, the
novel definitely delivers a sense of “authenticity”.
Hardcover, 304 pages
Published
March 1st 2018 by Jonathan Cape
