Review: Keepers of the Dawn by Herb J Smith II

I grew up reading the classics of fantasy and science fiction, and these genres have always been dear to my heart. In recent years, however, I have come to despair at the overblown and bloated thing that fantasy (in particular) has become. It is a pleasure, then, to read and review an SF/F novel that avoids many of the pitfalls into which fantasy is prone to fall.

Keepers of the Dawn, the first volume in Herb J Smith’s Dawn Cycle series is every bit the epic SF/F novel, at around 668 pages in the paperback version. It is set in what (it quickly becomes apparent) is some kind of post-apocalyptic, future earth. The precise nature of the catastrophe that overwhelmed the earth some two thousand years earlier remains unclear. We are introduced into a society populated by the Penitents and the Viles, two offshoots of the human race long at war with one another. The Penitent world is dominated by a Church led by a Popess. The Vile world is united into a Kalifai by a Vile called Rue-A-Kai, who has the ability to transfer his spirit from body to body: as one body wears out he claims another, using a powerful Stone. The Viles are all severely mutated, although it is clear that the Penitent peoples are also not entirely free of mutation. Both peoples of this world participate in the ‘ether’, via which they are able to communicate mentally with others.

The Penitents of this world have for two millennia kept the Viles contained within a particular section of the world, a kind of badlands. Rue-A-Kai has united the Kalifain people in their attempts to break out of this confinement.

The world inhabited by these people is only part of the entire earth. It is bounded on each side by powerful fields of energy known as the Teeth. Religious belief holds that Paradise lies beyond these Teeth, and that both the Viles and Penitents have been excluded from Paradise by a divine being, a Nameless One, as punishment for past sins. One day a Saviour will appear to bring down the Teeth and admit people once again to Paradise. The Viles and the Penitents adhere to different religious interpretations, but there are many commonalities among their beliefs. That there are reflections here of the religious divisions in our own contemporary reality is apparent, but this not laboured too much.

Into this world is born Bartu, the son of a blacksmith in a small village. Bartu is a ‘mishappen’, one born amongst the Penitents who nevertheless has some kind of mutation. Bartu’s physical mutation is emerald eyes, but his other mutation is far more serious: he is a mental deaf-mute. He is heir, via his father, of a secret tradition among the Penitents: his family is committed to protecting the Book of Ancient Power, which ultimately will have a role to play in the redemption of the Penitents. Rue-A-Kai longs to seize this book which, together with the Powerstone in his possession, an ancient prophecy claims can be used to break through the Teeth.

Eventually, circumstances force Bartu on a quest to save the Book and defeat Rue-A-Kai. On this quest he is joined by Penu-Um-Brah, a Vile and former key figure in Rue-A-Kai’s forces, Braxon, a Prince of one of the five kingdoms of the Penitent world, his advisor, Volar, a renegade wizard called Zandow, and Zandow’s enigmatic foster child, Shadow.

I begin my assessment of this book with some negative praise. I will mention some of the things the author does not do.

Although there are minor characters and occasionally other narrative streams, the author invests most of his time and energy into the characters just mentioned. The reader is not overwhelmed by a plethora of voices, or lost in a bewildering array of parallel narrative streams. You do not struggle to remember who that character is, who was last encountered a hundred or more pages ago. You do not drown in the points of view of a hundred minor characters who play no real role in the story, and may never appear again. The narrative is disciplined and constrained.

The author does not drag the reader through every single conversation in which every single character participates. He does not force us to share every meal and every random thought. It does not take the characters one hundred pages to undertake a journey of a few miles. The author knows how to focus on what is important.  At times, years—yes years—pass by in just a few sentences. Again, this is about being focussed and disciplined.

There are battles scenes here, but these are largely sketched out in an impressionistic style, occasionally zooming in on a key conflict. Mercifully, they do not stretch on for page after page of mind-numbing maiming and beheading.

There is political intrigue; there are religious and social systems to be explained. This is done sparingly, on a need-to-know basis. This in no way detracts from the understanding the reader has of this world, or his/her involvement with it.

On a more positive note, the story is engaging, intriguing, and fascinating. The admixture of science fiction and fantasy is not new. However, I found myself hanging on the hints about the world of the Ancients, and about the remnants of that world that persist into the present. The reader quickly understands what the Book of Ancient Power actually is or, at least, what it closely resembles. It is not difficult to work out what the Mountain of Titans is. My one criticism here is that the author occasionally labours over these descriptions past the point at which the reader has ‘got it’. Nevertheless, it is interesting to see the characters struggling to understand these things, and their own interpretations are often engaging.

The characters are all well-developed and multi-dimensional, with complex and fleshed-out back stories. There are no simple goodies and baddies here, except perhaps Rue-A-Kai, who is unrelentingly evil. However, he provides background for the narrative, and rarely assumes the role of an active, present character. The relationships are also complex and realistic. The love relationship that develops here bears no resemblance to the romantic, dewy-eyed, naive romances that often characterise fantasy.

There was one point in the narrative, about three quarters of the way through, when I felt it became bogged down. The action virtually ceases and for a time there is little but conversation, planning and the characters’ ruminations. This provides some additional back story and explains more about the world, but much of this I felt was redundant. This is in contrast with the scene at the end of the book when the magician Zandow is filling in some of the missing pieces. This conversation comes to life, and quenches the reader’s thirst.

Finally, this story comes to a satisfying resolution. Yes, there is clearly more to come. But the reader is not forced to wait years for the next volume in order to find out what happens. There is no cliff hanger here, although there is plenty to whet the reader's appetite about what is to come. There are many unanswered questions about the nature of this world and its future, but I felt satisfied at the end that I had read a complete story.

I have no hesitation giving this four stars.

Some more (bad) writing habits

The more editing I do, the more I realise how we, the writers, are not very creative when it comes to developing bad habits. I most assuredly include myself in this. My novel Maybe they’ll remember me has just been re-edited in preparation for publication by Satalyte Publishing. As I went through the suggested changes I constantly slapped myself for having written what I had written. Of course, I originally completed the novel three years ago, and I think I have learned a little since then.

In an earlier post, ‘Bad writing habits’, I discussed some of these, but here are a few more. 

He turned

‘He turned...’; ‘she turned...’ Sometimes I feel for the characters in a novel. They must become very giddy with all this turning. Usually it’s something like this: ‘He turned and looked at her and said...’ I covered ‘looked at’ in the earlier post. To ‘look’ we now add ‘turn’. What immediately comes to my mind are those dramatic moments, just prior to a scene change in a soap opera. Two characters have been engaged in a tense exchange. One leaves the room, but just before they make it through the doorway, they turn, look at their enemy and deliver their final cutting remark.

As with all these words and phrases, it might on occasions be necessary to draw attention to a character’s turning motion. Usually it isn’t.

It seemed

‘It seemed to her (me) as though...’ This arises from excessive timidity. As human beings we are right to be cautious about guessing what someone else is thinking and feeling. As often as not we get it wrong. So our characters (who are generally human beings) are similarly cautious. They can’t know what the other person is thinking/feeling, so we are inclined to shroud this with cautionary moderators: ‘It seemed...’, ‘He thought that...’ As a reader I become very annoyed at this. I understand that what I am being told, whether it is a third or first person narrative, is what the character thinks, or is what seems, to them, to be the case.

As I was speaking, Fred seemed to become angrier and angrier.

As I was speaking, Fred became angrier and angrier.

Neither is a literary gem, but I know which I prefer. Be more bold, assertive and godlike in your narration.

She started

Unless she didn’t finish, and this is somehow important, don’t clutter the page with this or similar expressions. ‘She began to feel frightened.’ Really? If I say to you ‘She felt frightened’, I think we can safely assume that at some point this feeling actually arose. ‘He began to pack his suitcases.’ Unless Fred is going to burst into the room and stop him, unless he is going to pause and gaze dreamily out of the window for a while, all we need to know is, ‘He packed his suitcases.’

Most of the time, when writers use this expression, all they mean is ‘He packed his suitcases.’ He began to pack them, he continued for some time to pack them, and, finally, he finished packing them.

This (like the other words and phrases I have mentioned) are pointless fillers that add nothing to the narrative.

That

I can’t finish this blog without mentioning ‘that’. By deleting unnecessary instances of this little word from a manuscript I can sometimes reduce the word length by several hundred. ‘He said that he was going to the shops.’ No, ‘He said he was going to the shops.’ 

So (I start to say as I turn to look at you) it seems to me that there are many ways in which we can make our writing more crisp and concise.

Thank goodness for the 'useless'

I was talking today with an older man. He would be at least ten years older than me. For my part I had assumed my grumpy-old-man persona and was bemoaning the fact that pretty soon (if it’s not already the case) no one will have heard of DH Lawrence (for instance). He responded by saying, ‘Good! What’s the point of literature anyway? I could never understand it.’

He was reflecting a very common, probably dominantly male (and perhaps Australian) attitude that only ‘practical’ things matter. Hammers and nails. It’s an idea that our politicians and society in general has pretty much swallowed: that for something to have value it has to be ‘useful’. The only value of any importance is practical value, often reduced to monetary value.

I managed to call upon my civilised self and refrain from punching him in the nose. But what he said triggered a thought process.

I love science. I love mathematics. I love the processes of logic. But, as I look back over my education and my life in general, I recognise that the things that have shaped me—have shaped me—are those pointless things like literature, art, music and philosophy. They have made me who I am, not the practical things. Of course I need all the practical skills to cope with life and society; but what has given me my values, what has coloured the way I see life and think about the world, is the ‘useless’ things.

Without these useless things human beings would be diminished, and our society severely impoverished. Indeed, are we not there already? We have made great progress towards developing artificial intelligence. Soon there will be human-like robots walking the earth. And, when we look closely, we will see that they are us.

Be selfish

It’s been almost a month since I wrote anything here. I won’t force myself to write, neither here nor in my creative writing. One of the things I am trying to do is to live life more freely, without that sense of obligation that others would impose upon me, and which I have long since imposed upon myself.

It’s all part of the process of accepting who I am. If I’m successful at this, others are going to have to accept that too... or not, as they choose. If I decide not to be who I actually am because of that non-acceptance, then I will have failed myself.

Is this selfish? Possibly. I am, in fact, quite a selfish person. It may be a kind of self-justification to claim that all of us are ultimately selfish, but I claim it anyway. It’s okay to be selfish. Some animal parents will abandon their young to a predator if protecting them means that they would die too—leaving the young to die in any case. It makes more sense to save yourself and live to breed another day.

Does this mean I wouldn’t dive in front of a bus to save a child, even at great risk to myself? No it doesn’t. In this case it makes ‘sense’ to save a younger member of the species, who probably has far more to contribute at all levels to the future of the species than I do. Not that such thoughts enter into consideration. Such a response is instinctive, not considered. It is not heroic. If I had time to think about it, I might not do it.

By being selfish, by focusing on the things I enjoy doing, rather than those I feel I ‘ought’ to do, I am actually far more productive. The things I enjoy doing are the things I do best. Or the things I do best are the things I enjoy. That chicken-and-egg debate is purely academic.

Of course, sometimes, to be able to do the things I really want to do, and to enjoy the things I want to enjoy, I have to do and endure some things I don’t particularly want to do to prepare the way. I am prepared to sacrifice my immediate happiness or satisfaction in favour of future happiness and satisfaction. This is something children—and politicians—and perhaps ‘society’—find very difficult to do. Our culture of instant gratification has no place for the postponement of gratification. The postponement of gratification is no less selfish, though. It may be more selfish in the end, because the ultimate pay-off is greater and more enduring. Is the alcoholic more selfish who continues drinking for the sake of the immediate pay-off? Or is it the reformed alcoholic, who sacrifices the immediate pay-off in favour of greater and more enduring benefits?

Let me be me. Let me do the things I want and need to do, and I will be both happier and more productive in the world. 

Review: According to Adam, compiled and edited by Beryl Belsky

I haven't written any reviews for a while. Partly this is because of time constraints. Partly it is because none of the books I've considered for review recently have come up to standard. I have decided to be a little more strict about what I will and won't review. While previously I set the minimum standard at 3 stars, I am raising this to 4. Essentially, then, in future these reviews can also be considered as recommendations. They are of books that I consider as ranging from very good to brilliant. 

This is the final review that I am publishing under the old regime, which will begin in the New Year.

Some months ago I reviewed the first volume of writing initially posted on The Writer’s Drawer website (http://www.thewritersdrawer.net/) and brought together by Beryl Belsky. I gave that anthology an overall rating of 3.5 stars. There were some outstanding pieces in that earlier volume, but also some that were less satisfactory. Here in this second volume the overall standard is more even. Although I will be giving this collection 3.5 stars also, I will be rounding it down to 3 stars rather than rounding it up to 4 (as I did with the first volume) where this is necessary. 

In the earlier volume, despite some less successful pieces, the outstanding pieces really lifted it. Here, although it reaches on ‘average’ a similar standard, there are fewer outstanding pieces to lift it higher. Although in general I prefer fiction to non-fiction, the best piece here for me is a non-fiction piece, ‘Sign Language for the Blind’ by Matt Burkholder. This is an excellent piece, beautifully written, without a word wasted or a word missing. This is the only piece to which I would give 5 stars. ‘A Boy, a Girl, and the Sea’ by Richelle Shem-Tov is a moving story, dealing with Arab/Israeli issues. It is simply and elegantly written and is worth 4.5 stars. ‘Snow’ by Dominik Jarco is nicely written, but skirts the edges of being overwritten. It’s actually great that the reader never knows what is really happening in this story. It captures a moment of intimate communication between two people. This also is worth 4.5 stars. The other story to which I would give 4.5 stars was ‘Joaquin’s Gold’ by Robert Walton. It is a nice story, well constructed and well written.

I would not single out any of the remaining stories as ‘bad’. I would rate them from 3 to 4 stars, with many falling in the middle at 3.5. Some—including the title story, ‘According to Adam’ by Declan O’Leary, ‘A Tale from Ikkapur’ by Sowmeni Menon, ‘Cecilia and Sun Tzu’ by Chris Palmer, ‘The Painting’ by Pothoppuram Kesavan Jayanthan, ‘Pigbeef’ by Niles Koenigsberg, and ‘Rain’ by Peter Hepenstall—would have benefited from tighter and more careful editing.

While the section entitled Biography/Realism seems to stand apart as ‘non fiction’, I found the division between Fantasy/Romance and Mystery/Horror/Adventure unnecessary and unhelpful. Perhaps this reflects a general dissatisfaction I have with the whole concept of ‘genre’. I would have been just as happy to see the whole fiction collection presented in alphabetical order by author, without this somewhat arbitrary division into broad genres.

So while ‘on average’ the standard here was similar to that of the first volume, I enjoyed it slightly less. This demonstrates for me how a collection can be lifted by some really outstanding pieces, even when it contains some poorer pieces. Here, while there were no real clunkers, the only really outstanding piece was ‘Sign Language for the Blind’. This alone was not enough to lift the collection to 4 stars. I will be rounding it down to 3 stars where required.

'Having a go'

During his recent reshuffle of his cabinet ministers, the Australian Prime Minister, Tony Abbott, appointed Scott Morrison as Minister for Social Services. Scott Morrison was formerly in charge of immigration or, rather, what it became: border protection. He was responsible for implementing the government’s hardline, heartless and—some would say—illegal border protection policies. Now he is in charge of social services. Australians should strap themselves in for a bumpy ride.

During his speech while explaining his reshuffle, Abbott explained Morrison’s job to us. His job was to ensure that ‘everyone was having a go’. Not—in a much more Australian phrase—to ensure that everyone in Australian ‘had a fair go’. The implication, of course, is that those who receive some kind of benefit from the government—unless you’re a mining company—are not really having a go. It goes without saying that there are people who are not ‘having a go’ in our society. Some of them are unemployed or disabled, some of them are working, and some of them are in the Federal Cabinet. But Abbott’s word reveals once again his underlying ideology and belief system. We all must be ‘lifters, not leaners’, ‘workers, not shirkers.’ We must all ‘have a go’.

There will always be those who take advantage of any and every system. They are among the poorest and the wealthiest in our nation. But social security should be first and foremost about security (a much more important form of security than border security). It is about ensuring that our citizens are secure when tough times hit. And they do. It is about support. It is about providing a service. People, from time to time, need to lean, and should be allowed to do so. Social security is not a privilege. It is a right. It is—to use a word Abbott hates—an entitlement.

This does not mean that I am some kind of naive, bleeding heart liberal, although I don’t really see those epithets as an insult. Of course we should prevent people (and governments and corporations) from rorting the system. But the primary function of social services is not to ensure that everyone is ‘having a go’. It is to ensure that everyone ‘has a fair go’. It is to ensure that people are given a hand up when they are down. It is to encourage (not bludgeon) people to participate in society. And its purpose is to continue to support people even when they are unable to contribute (at least in the narrow, economic sense of that term). If, sometimes, that means society has to carry along a few bludgers, so be it. The choice is: support those in need and put up with a few bludgers; or get rid of all the bludgers and punish people who are genuinely in need along the way. It seems fairly clear what Abbott’s preference is.

This Weird Universe

I have been reading a biography of Einstein, and it is reminding me of the fascinating discoveries in physics during the first three decades of the last century in relativity and quantum physics. I cannot claim to understand the mathematics of these theories, nor to succeed entirely in visualising them. Nevertheless, every so often I glimpse, from the corner of my eye, something which, I suspect, is the reality of the universe described by these theories.

Einstein, of course, was deeply troubled by the development and implications of quantum theory until the end of his life. Quantum theory seemed to undermine the strict rules of cause and effect which he believed were necessary for any understanding of reality. He believed that quantum theory actually undermined physics, and undertook a long and fruitless quest to find an underlying theoretical framework that would reintroduce, at a deeper level, strict causality into the universe. I would not propose that his failure to do so means that such a theoretical framework does not exist and will not one day be discovered.

For the time being, however, I find the idea that strict causality does not govern the universe at its deepest (known) level, and that chance plays a fundamental role in the nature of reality, absolutely fascinating, if not awe inspiring.

There may be those who believe that this lack of strict causality let’s divine causality in through the back door. On the contrary, though, what this says to me is that there is a spontaneous causality embedded in the natural world, one in which creation ex nihilo is a characteristic of nature and does not depend on the intervention of a deity. In my opinion, this makes reality much more interesting and exciting than one into which a deity must intervene.