Snake-Eater

In anticipation of Karen's upcoming review of SNAKE-EATER, by T. Kingfisher, I'm posting mine now (in advance, because I have limited internet access this week and plan a different topic for next week).

In Kingfisher's afterword to SNAKE-EATER, she summarizes the “platonic ideal” of her horror fiction as “a woman and her dog alone in a house full of creepy family secrets,” which perfectly describes her first horror novel, THE TWISTED ONES. While her others don’t necessarily include dogs, the protagonists do tend to be women returning home in emotionally fraught circumstances, for a certain value of home. In the case of SNAKE-EATER, Selena flees with her black Lab, Copper, from her overbearing long-time lover, Walter -- who dominates and criticizes her only "for her own good," of course -- to her aunt’s home in the tiny town of Quartz Creek, an arid western milieu totally different from anything Selena has known. For decades her only contact with her aunt has come through occasional postcards. Still, a vague invitation to visit sometime makes Quartz Creek Selena’s only possible refuge. The shock of learning her aunt died the year before devastates her, but she can’t consider returning to Walter. He would indulgently take her back, and her abortive escape would become one more time “Selena Had Done Something Foolish and Walter Saved Her.” Selena plans to stay in her aunt’s vacant home, “Jackrabbit Hole House,” for one night, then for a few days, then maybe for a few weeks, while she decides how to move forward.

Meanwhile, she meets engagingly quirky local characters -- another typical feature of Kingfisher novels -- including Jenny, mayor as well as postmistress, fire chief, and police chief; Grandma Billy, who keeps a flock of chickens and a guard peacock; and Catholic priest Father Aguirre, who’s surprisingly respectful toward the local desert gods/spirits (the distinction is fuzzy). Selena, as more than one person points out to her, apologizes too much. She’s paralyzingly afraid of doing the wrong thing and certain her new neighbors, who gift her with fresh produce and (in Grandma Billy’s case) a daily bounty of eggs, will perceive her as a “moocher.” She’s even reluctant to “impose” on the weekly community potluck dinner. At first I thought her need to memorize “scripts” for every social interaction depicts her as mildly autistic, but it soon becomes clear that she simply lacks any shred of self-esteem. Over a lifetime, her confidence has been systematically beaten down by a domineering mother and a gaslighting fiancé. Reluctantly getting used to life in Quartz Creek, she soon realizes she wants to stay. Granted, though, the local people’s matter-of-fact belief in supernatural entities strikes her as peculiar, and she suspects Grandma Billy of being downright crazy. Moreover, as we learn later in the story, Father Aguirre has his own secret.

Selena begins to accept the truth only when she witnesses such things as a timid squash spirit in the vegetable garden -- unless she’s losing her mind. But she has to acknowledge the reality of the spirit realm when she learns of her aunt’s relationship with Snake-Eater, the roadrunner god. As both the narrative and the author’s afterword emphasize, real-world roadrunners don’t resemble the cartoon bird. They’re more like two-foot-tall dinosaurs, which Selena discovers when she balks at filling her aunt’s former role and Snake-Eater won’t take “no” for an answer. Similarly to the heroine of THE TWISTED ONES, Selena (with the help of Grandma Billy and Father Aguirre) follows her dog through a portal into another realm, where she has to face the gods of the desert. Ultimately, she triumphs over Snake-Eater not through combat, physical or magical, but through open-mindedness, friendship, her bond with Copper, and her kindness to creatures such as the squash god in the garden and scorpions in the house. The denouement includes a delightful confrontation that sends the insufferable Walter packing.

I do have one reservation about the novel, in agreement with a review I read: Its setting around or soon after 2050 seems irrelevant and unnecessary. Aside from passing allusions to near-future technology, little of which reaches Quartz Creek, we learn the approximate year only from the age of Father Aguirre’s truck. Why does the author include this pointless distraction? Her afterword doesn’t say.

Margaret L. Carter

Please explore love among the monsters at Carter's Crypt.

Deities in Fantasy Worlds

Recently T. Kingfisher published the fourth book in her "Saint of Steel" series, PALADIN'S FAITH. (The others are PALADIN'S GRACE, PALADIN'S STRENGTH, and PALADIN'S HOPE.) Also in the same setting: The Clocktaur War duology (CLOCKWORK BOYS and THE WONDER ENGINE) and the stand-alone novel SWORDHEART. These works may be broadly described as sword-and-sorcery romances in a late medieval or an early steampunk milieu.

The premise of "Saint of Steel" is that the deity in the series title died, from a cause so far unknown. His paladins felt his violent death. The few who survived the cataclysmic trauma struggle to carry on with their lives despite a void where the bond with their god should be. Two gifts of their divine patron remain, the "voice" that empowers them to persuade anyone of almost anything (provided the paladin sincerely means what he or she says) and a battle frenzy called the "black tide," which grants them superhuman strength and speed but leaves scars on their souls. The surviving paladins have been taken under the protection of the temple of the White Rat.

The stories in this fictional universe feature three principal deities, although others are mentioned: The Saint of Steel, whose warriors fight evil and protect its victims; the pragmatic White Rat, whose temples are noted for exercising charity and correcting injustices, many of whose devotees are lawyers or investigative accountants; and the Dreaming God, whose servants specialize in exorcizing demons. As illustrated by a scene at the climax of PALADIN'S FAITH when the Saint of Steel speaks to a large crowd through the mouth of a character, everyone knows and takes for granted the existence of the gods. In the face of incontrovertible evidence, nobody disbelieves in supernatural beings. If there are any "flat-earth atheists" in this world, we don't meet them:

Flat-Earth Atheist

The background of the Dungeons and Dragons games is similar, but even more so. Everybody knows that multiple gods exist and that clerics acquire their magic spells by praying to their patron deities.

What would it be like to live in a world where the existence of deities is a routinely accepted truth? Faith in the sense of intellectual belief would be unnecessary and nonexistent. You don't have that type of "faith" in something definitely known. No matter how powerful, divine entities would be as mundane a fact as the sun and the moon. Faith in the sense of trust, of course, would be an entirely different matter. Granny Weatherwax in Terry Pratchett's Discworld doesn't approve of believing in gods; it only encourages them.

The rare person who experiences an epiphany like the characters in the aforementioned scene would presumably react with awe. Most ordinary people, lacking either a personal divine encounter or Granny Weatherwax's strength of character, would probably regard the gods as powers to be approached with caution, placating them but not getting too deeply involved. Rather like living next to a forest infested by semi-tame tigers, maybe.

Margaret L. Carter

Please explore love among the monsters at Carter's Crypt.