Part of the GRRM Reading Project.
Content warning for discussion of sexual violence, rape, and necrophilia.
In the ’70s, George R. R. Martin (GRRM) wrote three stories set in what he called corpse worlds. In these planets, corpse-handlers transmit their will to brainless bodies, controlling the actions of these corpses for whatever ends necessary. Meathouse Man is the third and last of the corpse-handler stories; the previous ones being Override (1973) and Nobody Leaves New Pittsburgh (1976).
The story had a difficult publishing history. Originally conceived for Harlan Ellison’s The Last Dangerous Visions anthology, it was rejected. Then, according to Martin,
“So I set down and ripped the guts out of the story and rewrote the whole thing from page one, and this time I opened a vein as well, and let the blood drip down right onto the paper (…) I was wounded, and in a lot of pain. I put it all into ‘Meathouse Man,’ and sent the story back to Harlan.”
…only to be rejected again. At this point, Martin considered giving up on Meathouse Man, but he had already put too much work on it. He sent it to other markets, finally publishing the novelette in Orbit 18. It’s probably the most well-known of his corpse-handler stories, even getting a comic book version several years later.
Martin still finds Meathouse Man painful to reread, calling it “easily the darkest thing I’ve written.” That’s no light title considering the themes and tropes that he likes to explore in his fiction (although, to be fair, he said this before writing A Feast for Crows and A Dance with Dragons).
Does the story earn this title? Well…
In the Meathouse
Meathouse Man follows the journey of Greg Trager, a corpse-handler. Trager is skilled at his job, but has little in life other than spending his days controlling corpses to mine ores in the crapsack world of Skrakky. He dreams of something better, of feeling alive, of falling in love. Yet he’s also afraid, insecure, alone.
Initially pressured by his colleagues, Trager becomes a customer of meathouses-brothels where the sex workers are corpses that respond to their clients’ thoughts. Meathouses are an ambiguous experience for him, bringing him a sexual satisfaction that no real woman could match, while also intensifying his feelings of loneliness and disgust.
Trager’s life starts to change when he meets Josie. The two become friends and he falls in love with her. This love makes him feel more alive than ever before, but also brings him a new type of agony. Struggling with his fears and insecurities, Greg finally confesses his feelings for her. She rejects him, while also urging him not to lose hope.
Time passes, and Greg has a better life and a better job in Vendalia. He shares his dreams with his friend Donelly, and one day meets and falls in love with Laurel. Unlike Josie, Laurel reciprocates his feelings and the two enter a loving relationship. Donelly also falls in love with Laurel, and GRRM wastes a perfect opportunity for writing a polyamorous relationship. Instead, Laurel leaves Trager for Donelly.
Trager never recovers completely from this loss. Josie advises him to keep on hoping, but her words have lost their power. Other relationships feel meaningless to him, other people feel distant.
“How many times can you speak them, Trager wondered, speak them and believe them, like you believed them the first time you said them? Once? Twice? Three times, maybe? Or a hundred? And the people who say it a hundred times, are they really so much better at loving? Or only at fooling themselves? Aren’t they really people who long ago abandoned the dream, who use its name for something else?”
Eventually, he gives up. He becomes a corpsemaster in a gladiatorial arena, a job he otherwise considered a repulsive use of his corpse-handler skills. And he finds a new lover: a corpse he can control just like the ones in the meathouse.
Hybrids and horrors
I make no secret that I’m a huge fan of horror stories. Horror messes with us in a very personal way, and I find fascinating to see what each person considers to be scary, disturbing, horrific. Defining genres in fiction was never an easy task, but few genres exemplify this difficulty better than horror. So much of what repulses or draws people to horror stories is entirely subjective.
Furthermore, authors are often aware of genre conventions and may purposefully break them. They will mix and match different genres, bringing unexpected elements and creating something that is neither this or that. Martin is one of such authors, actively seeking to mix different genres in his writing. His horror stories evoke horror tropes and horror feelings, but are rarely pure horror.
This is very in line with his personal views of the genre, something he discusses in the autobiographical segments of Dreamsongs:
“Good horror stories are about larger things. About hope and despair. About love and hatred, lust and jealousy. About friendship and adolescence and sexuality and rage, loneliness and alienation and psychosis, courage and cowardice, the human mind and body and spirit under stress and in agony, the human heart in unending conflict with itself. Good horror stories make us look at our reflections in dark distorting mirrors, where we glimpse things that disturb us, things that we did not really want to look at. Horror looks into the shadows of the human soul, at the fears and rages that live within us all.”
For Martin, horror is not the focus, but the wallpaper. Meathouse Man illustrates this vision very well, using a few horror elements and some truly horrific scenes to frame what is essentially a story about heartbreak and loneliness.
But is it more horrific than Martin’s other stories that also explore these themes through a darker lens? Is it that much worse than The Second Kind of Loneliness or This Tower of Ashes? I confess I would hesitate to call this story horror at all, if not for one element.
Not her but it
Corpse-handling is a deeply problematic practice, something Martin seems to be aware of. The very concept of using the bodies of formerly living people raises questions about dehumanization, objectification, and consent. But Meathouse Man also suggests an even more unethical origin for these corpses:
“For the freighters carried cargoes of men, criminals and derelicts and troublemakers from a dozen worlds bought with hard Vendalian cash (and there were darker rumors, of liners that had vanished mysteriously on routine tourist hops). And the soaring towers were hospitals and corpseyards, where men and women died and deadmen were born to walk anew.”
And nothing illustrates the horror of this concept better than the meathouse. Not only because it’s a symbol for Trager’s darkest moments, but also because in the meathouse scenes we gaze into the dynamic and implications of the corpse worlds.
The opening scene is probably the piece of Martin’s writing that made me most uncomfortable to date. As a woman, I found that scene a painful reminder of how we’re often viewed and treated in real life. Martin couldn’t have predicted the whole debate surrounding sex robots, but it was impossible for me not to associate it with the corpse women.
The idea of having female bodies at men’s disposal, to be used as they wish with no regards to these women’s feelings or opinions, is an awful naturalization of male feelings of entitlement over women. And I’m not sure how much Martin was aware of the implications here.
On one hand, he seems to invite us to question this woman’s condition and the ethics of the act:
“The others had gone to other rooms, had left him alone with her (no, it, not her but it, he reminded himself, and promptly forgot again).”
On the other, expressions like “female meat” emphasize her condition as an object to be used and discarded. This condition is almost eroticized, shown as part of the appeal of the meathouses. Trager’s use of these female bodies is also narrated in excruciating detail:
“Trager was drained and satisfied, but he had more time left, and he was determined to get his money’s worth. He explored her thoroughly, sticking his fingers everywhere they would go, touching her everywhere, rolling it over, looking at everything. The corpse moved like dead meat.”
What is the purpose of including such graphic descriptions of what is essentially sexual violence? Martin seems to be aware of the problematic aspects of the act, but does he really address them in the narrative? How much of this violence and dehumanization is not purely used as background for a story told from a male point-of-view?
With that in mind…
Martin’s Moping Males
The benefit of reading Martin’s stories in more or less chronological order is that we gain a new angle on his choices for characters, plot, and themes. Meathouse Man is a personal horror story; Greg Trager’s descent into darkness and refusal of reality and human connections. These elements were already present in stories like The Second Kind of Loneliness and This Tower of Ashes, but here they feel much more of a conscious choice from Trager’s part, making it all the more horrible and heartbreaking.
Martin believes that “the human heart in conflict with itself” is the only thing worth writing about. Conflicted his characters are, and their struggles are relatable. Trager’s pain and the questions he asks himself will find echo in many readers’ thoughts and experiences. We also follow his journey from the beginning, gaining a better understanding of what he wants and who he is as character. We learn of his hopes and dreams, we get involved, we root for him, and ultimately we lament his choices.
Still, at this point I have to confess I find it a bit exasperating to read so many stories about men brooding because they didn’t get the woman they wanted. It’s a pity because each story is interesting in its own right and brings a different approach to the same themes. Together, however, they make an uncomfortable pattern.
My all-time favorite A Song for Lya also centers in loneliness, love, and the incapacity for humans to perfectly understand and complement each other. But there are a few elements that make Lya work that are lacking in Meathouse Man and the other stories.
For one, the title character of A Song for Lya is a relevant and complex character in her own right. While the story is narrated by and ultimately sides with Robb, there’s never a sense that Lya’s choice was incomprehensible. The story doesn’t judge her for it, and it’s all the more powerful because of that. In Meathouse Man, and Loneliness and Tower before it, the perspective of the female ‘love interest’ never gains the same weight.
The Second Kind of Loneliness and This Tower of Ashes take place after romantic rejections, and we learn little of the women involved in those relationships. They’re heavily idealized, just like Josie and Laurel in Meathouse Man. Everything we see of these characters is filtered by the male gaze and related to their effect on the lives of the male protagonists. Their individuality is not important, their opinions and desires don’t matter. They exist to heal or ruin these male characters.
What gives A Song for Lya its emotional core is precisely that it never presents love as the ultimate solution for human miseries. Love here doesn’t conquer all, and realizing the limitations of human connections is the hard lesson the two lovers learn and react very differently to. Conversely, Meathouse Man and the other two stories reinforce the idea that the love of a good woman would be enough to heal all the loneliness and pain of the male protagonists. Love will give them life, will bring them to the human world, will fill the void inside them.
Do I have to explain why this idea is harmful? Why specifically the notion that men need women to fix them emotionally is harmful for all genders? Maybe the real horror was the toxic views on masculinity we met along the way.
As Martin’s stories become longer and more complex, I feel the need to collect those orphan thoughts about them:
- Martin experiments a lot with structure in Meathouse Man. Some readers may dislike the results, but I found them refreshing. I especially like how he approaches the dialogues with Josie and Donelly, keeping just the keywords. It’s a way to avoid what could otherwise sound like a very cliche exchange, plus in hindsight it gains a new layer as we learn these words have lost their power for Trager.
- Martin’s charm is often in details, and I like how he only refers to Trager by his first name in scenes that show his emotional connection with other characters.
- There’s a reference to “Old Earth,” which makes me wonder if this story is also part of the Thousand Worlds universe. Couldn’t find any other evidence for this, does anyone knows for sure?
- The whole idea of “fucking corpses” reminded me of one of the darkest passages in A Song of Ice and Fire. It’s interesting to think of this scene paired with the meathouse scenes and consider the evolution of Martin’s views on female objectification.
- The meathouse scenes were far from the only problematic element of the story. Martin’s description of the black corpse that Trager fights in the arena made me super uncomfortable as well, as did the associations between fatness and unattractiveness that permeate the story. Our boy still has a long way to go.
What are your thoughts on the story? Have you checked the comic book version as well?
Next month we’ll visit Martin’s “first pure fantasy as a pro”: “The Lonely Songs of Laren Dorr.”
The Tower of Cirith Ungol
“The Tower of Cirith Ungol” shares an unenviable position with “The Taming of Smeagol” and “Minas Tirith” as book openers. They are all responsible for taking a narrative speeding along at full steam, halting it in its tracks, rewinding, and starting something else. It’s a necessity for how Tolkien chose to structure his story but a tricky business, particularly after the strength of Book V. “The Taming of Smeagol” and “Minas Tirith” managed to overcome the disadvantages their positions by introducing a new, immediate dynamism. Smeagol and Gondor reorient both stories, creating near-immediate newness and momentum that propel their books forward. “The Tower of Cirith Ungol” doesn’t do this—we’re at the point for tying up loose ends, not creating them.
That’s for the best, but it does mean that “The Tower of Cirith Ungol” drags a bit as an opener. It’s not bad, by any means—we’ll get to the good stuff in a bit—but it does have a tendency to rehash older thematic and emotional beats that were conveyed more emphatically in “Shelob’s Lair” and “The Choices of Master Samwise.” Sam’s horror at what’s happening is affective, but not new. Evil sowing the seeds of its own destruction is a solid Tolkien theme. But its articulation here—as Shagrat and Gorbag tear each other apart, leaving a clear path for Sam—is more convenient and less potent than in an established, nuanced character like Saruman. And the reminder that Mordor keeps people in rather than out is an ominous one, but again, nothing new.
That said, “The Tower of Cirith Ungol” does have some moments that work really well, and it serves as a nice, tender reminder of how kind Tolkien’s sense of heroism is at its heart.
Visions of Power
“The Tower of Cirith Ungol” is one of the loneliest chapters of The Lord of the Rings. Sam spends the first two-thirds of it, as Tolkien tells us, “utterly alone.” Merry and Pippin have flirted with loneliness earlier in The Return of the King but neither were ever really in a position of comparable isolation. Sam starts off Book VI by walking into Mordor by himself. His panic-induced adrenaline has worn off, and he first catches a glimpse of Mount Doom while standing small, cold, and afraid.
Tolkien repeatedly referred to Sam as the central “hero” of The Lord of the Rings throughout his letters and “The Tower of Cirith Ungol” is right in the middle of the chapters where he most explicitly acts out this role. He just maybe-murdered a giant spider of numinous darkness. He’s storming a presumably orc-ridden tower. He’s about to carry Frodo and the Ring up a mountain. And amid all of this, there’s an interesting examination of what Sam’s heroism is and isn’t. First, there is simply the question of power, as Sam faces his main temptation from the Ring around his neck.
As Sam stood there… he felt himself enlarged, as if he were robed in a huge distorted shadow of himself, a vast and ominous threat halted upon the walls of Mordor. He felt that he had from now on only two choices: for forbear the Ring, though it would torment him; or to claim it; and to challenge the Power that sat in its dark hold beyond the valley of shadows. Already the Ring tempted him, gnawing at his will and reason. Wild fantasies arose in his mind; and he saw Samwise the Strong, Hero of the Age, striding with a flaming sword across the darkened land, and armies flocking to his call as he marched to the overthrow of Barad-dur. And then all the clouds rolled away, and the white sun shone, and at his command the vale of Gorgoroth became a garden of flowers and trees and brought forth fruit.
As in other cases, Sam’s rejection of the Ring requires a voluntary abdication of power, even power with the intention to do good. Gandalf, as Tolkien mentioned, would have been far worse as a master of the Ring than Sauron precisely because of his good intentions. Sam—thanks to that solid hobbit common sense—is able to realize that benevolent garden tyranny is still a tyranny of its own.
The interesting thing about this chapter, though, is that Sam is also repeatedly saved by the power that he abdicates. He knows that “the one small garden of a free gardener was all his need and due, not a garden swollen to a realm.” But at the same time, he is also saved in the Tower by the Ring’s transformation of his appearance into “a great silent shape, cloaked in a grey shadow, looming against the wavering light behind; in one hand it held a sword, the very light of which was a bitter pain, the other was clutched at its breast, but held concealed some nameless menace of power and doom.”
There is a sense of tension present throughout The Lord of the Rings around this question. The peace and simplicity of the Shire, its utter disregard for power and conquest, form the core of hobbit courage. But the question of how—and whether—such things can be maintained without force nearly always bubbles below the surface.
Tenderness and Heroism
Yet despite altered appearances and some surprising handiness in spider fights, Sam’s heroism is of course rooted almost entirely in love. When I read Tolkien as a teenager, I was always aware of a strong contingent of shippers who were deeply invested in the idea of Frodo and Sam being a couple. I doubt this was intentional on Tolkien’s part, if for no other reason than because The Lord of the Rings as a whole is a remarkably asexual work. But I also am not surprised by it in the slightest, because the relationship between Frodo and Sam is intimate and tender in a way that feels unique in the depiction of male fantasy heroes. There is hand-holding, spooning, and so many tears!
He lay back in Sam’s gentle arms, closing his eyes, like a child at rest when the night-fears are driven away by some loved voice or hand. Sam felt that he could sit like that in endless happiness; but it was not allowed.
It’s such a non-toxic version of masculinity that—from my perspective—feels very refreshing. Touch and affection are embraced as healing and strengthening. Tears are a mark of empathy and not of weakness. Sam couldn’t quite pop up on Steven Universe, but it’s also not that much of a stretch.
But now the vision had passed. There was Sam kneeling before him, his face wrung with pain, as if he had been stabbed in the heart; tears welled from his eyes.
After his more traditional heroic role in “The Choices of Master Samwise,” Sam here is heroic in the inverse. He sings, he cries, he hugs, he doesn’t fight anyone. I do wonder, to a certain extent, if Tolkien manages to be so old in his views here that he feels new. In any case, it does feel like another indication of the wobbly foundation for claiming Tolkien as the grandfather of modern fantasy. It’s hard for me to think of subsequent fantasy author who treats emotion in anything approaching a comparable way.
- The first paragraph I wrote for this review described the chapter as “rocky.” It occurred to me that this could be read as a pun in relationship to the landscape, and that seemed so terrible—lampshaded or not—that I just deleted the entire paragraph and started over.
- I’ve always been really into the Watchers and I’d forgotten how small a role they actually play. I apparently just had a thing for frightening boundaries as a child, between this and the Sphinx Gate from The Neverending Story.
- As a kid I also made up a melody for Sam’s song in Cirith Ungol and would sing it to myself when I was by myself because I was a neeeeerrrrrrrddddd.
- I like that Ring-ravaged Frodo is often indistinguishable from a nihilistically-depressed millennial on tumblr: “Here, take this elven-cake, and drink that last drop in your bottle! The whole thing is quite hopeless, so it’s not good worrying about tomorrow. It probably won’t come.”
- Was momentarily but deeply baffled to discover Tolkien talking about the orcs “fighting over the swag” in Cirith Ungol. Swag, though, has a long and fun etymological history you can start reading about here. The use here probably comes from 17th century English thieves’ cant.
- Poor Frodo. He tells Sam that “two great brutes came and questioned me, questioned me until I thought I should go mad, standing over me, gloating, fingering their knives. I’ll never forget their claws and eyes.” Sam, who believes in the power of tears but not psychotherapy, tells his best friend to lock that shit up in his mind vault and never think or talk about it again. No wonder Frodo has to sail off the face of the earth away from his problems.
- Prose Prize: Not a highlight for prose, to be honest. Everything’s perfectly fine but there aren’t a lot of standouts. I do quite like the ending of the chapter though. The drama of what’s occurring pairs nicely with a simplicity of prose. The will of the Watchers was broken with a suddenness like the snapping of a cord, and Frodo and Sam stumbled forward. Then they ran. Through the gate and past the great seated figures with their glittering eyes. There was a crack. The keystone of the arch crashed almost on their heels, and the wall above crumbled, and fell in ruin. Only by a hair did they escape. A bell clanged; and from the Watchers there went up a high and dreadful wail. Far up above in the darkness it was answered. Out of the black sky there came dropping like a bolt a winged shape, rending the clouds with a ghastly shriek.
- Contemporary to this Chapter: Tolkien does it for me this time! He mentions that it is March 14th, just a bit before the Rohirrim arrive at the Pelannor. By the time they leave Cirith Ungol, the Battle of Pelennor Fields is well under way. As with the beginnings of the other books, Tolkien does make some (at least token) efforts to reorient the reader to the new narrative stream.
Art Credits: Film stills are from Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003), courtesy of New Line Cinema. The painting of Sam approaching Cirith Ungol is courtesy of aegeri.
Politics in Polgara the Sorceress
Only two of the books in this series list both David and Leigh Eddings as co-authors. It’s fitting that they are Belgarath the Sorcerer and Polgara the Sorceress. This duology shows the way that POV shapes history and politics. The 1997 Polgara the Sorceress wraps up the entire series. It showcases the moments Belgarath wasn’t there for and the hidden moments where he was. This book is a fitting conclusion to their longest collaboration, and to their own hidden metaphor.
Spoilers for all of Polgara the Sorceress and the Eddings’s previous works.
So, What Happened?
Birth to Beldaran’s Death
Polgara starts with Ce’Nedra and Garion’s arrival at Polgara and Durnik’s farm. Ce’Nedra asks Polgara to tell her side of the story, and Polgara refuses. Ce’Nedra manages to manipulate Poledra into thinking it’s for Geran and the future to know ‘the truth’. Poledra then manages to convince Polgara that it’s a worthwhile task.
Polgara’s biography starts before Poledra gives birth. Poledra and Aldur shape Pol and Beldaran’s brains to better suit them for their tasks. Then, it details Pol’s grudge against Belgarath, and her adoration of Beldaran. When Belgarath arranges Riva and Beldaran’s wedding, Polgara protests and goes to live in the Tree for a time. They arrive at Riva, Polgara ‘pretties up’, and starts playing adolescent games with young courtiers.
After Beldaran’s wedding, Poledra and Belgarath educate Polgara in magic separately. When they return to Riva for Beldaran’s son’s birth, she also learns about medicine. After Daran’s birth Polgara and Beldaran go visit the Mrin and Darine prophets. Eventually, Poledra summons Polgara to Riva, because Beldaran was dying. Polgara can’t save her because the priest of Belar sabotaged any attempt to give Beldaran medicine. He’s a member of the Bear Cult. Belgarath puts Polgara and Daran in charge and leaves. Polgara and Daran accuse the priest of witchcraft and eventually exile the members of the cult. Eventually, she returns to the Vale of Aldur, and studies the prophecies for several centuries.
Arendia to Vo Mimbre
Poledra summons Polgara to Arendia, and tells her that Ctuchik was planning something. Polgara proceeds to stop three Murgo plots. She tells the Duke of Waconia that his advisor is a Grolim. The Duke of Asturia proves incompetent, and she initiates a rebellion against them. She then collaborates with one of Mandorallan’s ancestor’s. They prove to the Duke of Mimbre that the supposed ‘Tolnedran Legion’ on his banks is a fake.
She remains in Arendia for the next several decades. Polgara rescues the son of the Wacite Duke from the nephew of the first Asturian Duke. The three Dukes then give her the Duchy of Erat, which then becomes Sendaria. Polgara spends a great deal of time guiding Sendaria into competency. A tournament to name the Duchess of Erat’s champion leads her to Ontrose. Ontrose is the only man Polgara loves before Durnik. He’s the quintessential knight: intelligent, sensitive, powerful, and handsome. Eventually, Ontrose’s friend betrays Erat and Wacune to the Asturians, and they destroy Vo Wacune.
Belgarath drags her back to the Vale to keep her from fighting. However, she works through factors to protect Erat, the survivors of Waconia. For the next several centuries she protects Erat, as it becomes Sendaria, bartering with Tolnedran Emperors and Alorn Kings to keep it free.
This persists until the death of Gorek, whereupon she takes charge of protecting Geran and the line of the Rivan King. She apprentices various heirs to artisans, and then eventually buys out the shop of their childless teacher. They occasionally flee from Murgos and move around Sendaria and Aloria. Then comes the Battle of Vo Mimbre, which progresses as Belgarath described it. Poledra and Polgara spy upon Torak and Zedar in the form of an owl. Poledra helps Polgara defy him when Torak confronts Brand.
Gelane to Garion
From Vo Mimre, Polgara resumes her task of protecting the Rivan heirs. Gelane, the heir during Vo Mimbre, proves slightly troublesome. He knows who he is, and Chamdar, or Asharak the Murgo, finds him, and controls him. Belgarath and Polgara break this control and move the family away from Sendaria.
Things continue peaceably from there, with Polgara making a side trip to Nyissa at one point. She meets a former Salmissra, and prevents Chamdar and Ctuchik from manipulating her into causing problems. After educating and befriending ‘Sally’, Polgara returns and moves the Line to Annath, where Garion will be born. There’s a short trip to Nadrak, where she meets Yarblek and Drosta, when Poledra realizes that they’ll be significant.
Geran and Ildera, Garion’s parents, meet and get married in the usual fashion. Then tragedy strikes. Darrel, Geran’s father, is killed in a rockslide. His wife forgets that he’s dead, her mental health deteriorates, and Polgara and Ildera care for her. They later discover that Asharak engineered both events, as well as Alara’s madness. Alara wanders off on Erastide, and Polgara goes to find her. Ildera gives birth, and Asharak kills Geran and Ildera. Only Belgarath’s timely arrival prevents him from stealing Garion. Polgara heads to Faldor’s farm and establishes herself there.
The epilogue shows the life of Geran, Garion’s son, one winter in Riva. He plays with his baby sister, and Ce’Nedra reads to him from Polgara’s book. Ce’Nedra then fully realizes the impact that magic had on her life as she puts her son to bed.
Women vs. Women
One of the persistent problems in Polgara the Sorceress is how women are pitted against each other. Their relationships prove adversarial, except for sisters, mothers, or mentors.
Even then, Polgara spends a good portion of her childhood trying to be ugly. She never combs her hair, bathes, or changes clothes unless forced. Polgara rationalizes it by saying, “Beldaran and I were twins, and we should have been identical. The master changed that, however.” (p. 28). Polgara compares herself to Beldaran and finds herself wanting. Only when Beldaran and Riva fall in love does Polgara clean herself up. She looks at Beldaran when she enters and thinks, “I’d rather hoped to see just a twinge of envy there.” (p. 59) Beldaran remains nonplussed, to Polgara’s mild disappointment.
The precedent of comparing women to other women based on looks and pitting them against each other continues. At Riva, Polgara joins the other young courtiers and sets about breaking hearts. She captures the attention of all the young men based on her looks. Polgara remarks that, “quite a few of the ladies pled headaches and quietly left the room. It might have been my imagination, but after they left I seemed to hear a gnawing sound — a sound that was remarkably like the sound of someone eating her own liver.” (p. 70). She enjoys the pain she causes other women because of her conquests.
The competition between women continues even between Olane and Alara, Geran and Ildara’s mothers. The wedding planning devolves into one-upmanship between the two. Women can compete against each other, yes, and they frequently do. The fact that only the sparse mentoring and familial relationships remain free of competition makes this problematic.
Men vs. Women
Another thread in this book shows how men try to force women to submit. Polgara rebels against this, of course, and tries to help other women, but it proves slightly outdated in this respect. At Beldaran’s wedding Polgara notices something. “I idly noticed in passing that all the rights fell to the groom, and the duties and obligations were the bride’s domain.” (p. 85). This thread of spousal submission continues in the book’s discussion of spousal abuse.
After Beldaran’s death, Polgara helps Daran try a case where the husband abused his wife. The families quarreled over some land. Daran dissolves the marriage and then punishes the husband further by whipping him in court. When Polgara leads Erat, she establishes laws that harshly punish spousal abuse.
“A man who’s stupid enough to beat his wife isn’t likely to listen to reason, so I instructed the constable of each village to ‘persuade’ wife beaters to find another hobby. I did urge the constables not to break too many bones in the process however.” (p. 358).
While abusers seldom listen to reason, removing the victim from the range of the abuser would be better. Polgara created schools, hospitals, and an informal lady’s academy. She could easily create a system to remove the victims from their abuser’s reach rather than leave them at the continued mercy of their husband.
Men vs. Polgara
Polgara just notes these events in passing. She dwells more on the instances where men attempt to personally control her. Lathan, the man who betrays Erat and Wacune to Asturia, committed treason because he couldn’t possess Polgara. He hoped to beat Ontrose and be her champion. As Polgara says, “Arendish literature positively swarms with improprieties involving highborn ladies and their bodyguards, and Lathan seemed to be well read.” (p. 362). His loss to Ontrose led him to betray Wacune and Erat.
Torak also desires to control Polgara. When Poledra and Polgara spied on Torak and Zedar before the battle, they learned of Torak’s plans.
“She is not fond of me, but, truly, I shall much enjoy bending her to my will. She will obey me—nay, even worship me. … My brothers have cast me out, so now must I father a new race of Gods to assist me in my domination of the world. Who of all the women of this world is fit to share my throne—and my bed?’ ‘Polgara?’ Zedar asked incredulously. … “I will have Polgara to wife, and will she, nil she, Polgara will be mine.” (p. 563).
Torak wants to possess both the Orb of Aldur and Polgara. The Eddings’s frame the two in the same light. Torak with the Orb would control the Purpose of the Universe. With Polgara, he would further disrupt that purpose.
The Eddings’s use of gender politics showcases the biases when they wrote. They recognize the evil in spousal abuse and the submission Torak wants. But they don’t understand, or properly convey, the strength that women can give each other. It’s to their credit that they address these issues, and I strongly suspect Leigh’s hand in it. But time has outstripped their understanding in the past 21 years.
Politics, Economics, and Our Metaphor
We discover Polgara’s enjoyment of politics in Polgara the Sorceress. She attended the first meeting of the Alorn Council and established the Arendish one. Both of these events occur because of pressure by the Murgos and Grolims. The arrival of the Murgos, Nadraks, and Thulls on the Western Continent precipitated the Alorn Council. Polgara’s foiling Ctuchik’s plots in Arendia led to the second.
The Alorn Council grows into a pseudo-United Nations, and it began with the intent of preventing Angarak influence in the West. The parallels between the Cold War barely need to be drawn. It reads as the Red Scare all over again, except with less cause. With the Arendish Council, it’s more along the lines of the Middle Eastern Cold War-era conflicts. The guerilla warfare fits Arendia better than the political machinations in the United Nations. Also because the Arendish Council dissolved after Haldon’s betrayal.
Another aspect of politics in Polgara the Sorceress lies in duty. After Gelane’s seduction by Asharak, Polgara gave him a lecture. “There are two sides to nobility, Gelane. Most people only see the fine houses, the fancy clothes, and all the bowing and scraping by lesser nobles. The other side’s more important, though, and much simpler. Duty, Gelane, duty.” (p. 631-2). Polgara teaches Gelane that lesson because it proves the most important one to the Cold War. The politicians refocused on preventing nuclear war and considered that more important than everything else. Polgara’s treatise on duty to Gelane keeps him and his family safe, and it leads to Garion and the end of the cycles.
Polgara the Sorceress also showcases the only example of unrestrained capitalism in the entire series. We saw it through metaphor. But now, in her stewardship of the Rivan line and her shepherding Sendaria, we see it firsthand. She lectures Ontrose, and he repeats her lesson, economics 101, back to her.
“For certes now can [the emancipated serfs] purchase such goods as previously were beyond them quite. The merchant class prospers, and their share of the tax burden doth lighten the load borne by the landowners, thy vassals. The prosperity of the former serf is the base upon which the economy of the entire kingdom doth stand.” (p. 364)
Polgara spends centuries hammering that principle into the heads of her vassals. That shapes the national character of Sendaria and ensures it’s prosperity. Despite the archaic speech, it speaks truth in linking the economy on the spending of the masses, rather than the hoards of the wealthy. The fact that Polgara’s economics leads to a healthy Sendaria, the most sensible country, furthers the metaphor.
In addition, Polgara threatens to create a mall to some vulture-like merchants after the death of a Rivan heir. “Then, when the new widow is virtually out of her mind with grief, they make ridiculously low offers for the family business. … I told them quite casually … I was seriously thinking about expanding the business. … They wouldn’t have to spend whole days wandering around town to buy what they needed. … [they] bought me out at about three times what the smithy was worth.” (p. 520). In doing this, the Eddings’s take what’s normal to their audiences, a mall. Then, they insert it into their fantasy world, and in doing so, normalize the conditions and systems that create such things.
At the very end of Polgara the Sorceress, we discover that Geran dreams about Zandramas and remains terrified of her. It shows the very slow steps out of institutionalized fear of the enemy. Geran thinks, “if he refused to think about them, they’d go away entirely.” (p. 745). All of this plays into the final metaphor, because now the cycles are over. They just need to ignore the nightmares, and it’ll all go away.
The end of Polgara’s story undercuts that, however. Her history ends with Belgarath, Garion, and herself at Faldor’s farm, hiding from Asharak. The Eddings’s later pointed out that Polgara completed a literary cycle. You can go straight from Polgara to Pawn of Prophecy. This proves especially ironic because their entire metaphor counted on the breaking of cycles.
The entirety of this book, and this series relates in so many ways to its cultural context. No one could not write this now, because the events that underlie the plot and philosophy of the book. Despite the undercutting via the literary cycle, the metaphorical one is complete.
Image Courtesy of Del Rey Books
An introduction to Goblin Emperor
This week, I received some interesting news. A book I’d thought to be a rare standalone fantasy work will be receiving a sequel! I am talking about Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison. The sequel is still a long ways off… but it’s also a good opportunity to introduce this book to our readers.
An unlikely Emperor
The titular “goblin emperor” is our protagonist, by the name of Maia. He is, in fact, half-goblin… which brings us to the first peculiarity of the setting. It takes place in Ethuveraz, also known as elflands, an elven empire. Maia is the son of the previous emperor, but his mother was a goblin.
Unlike in most fantasy, though, goblins and elves differ physically about as much as different human ethnicities. Goblins have dark skin, where elves are pale, and their eyes have different colors, but that’s about it. They can mix freely, with many people of mixed heritage appearing all over. Needless to say, political and ethnic tensions happen and in fact play a major part of the story.
When we meet Maia, he’s living in Edonomee, a manor in the middle of nowhere, where his father, Varenechibel IV, had placed him. You see, while a son of the Emperor and thus technically an heir to the throne, Maia wasn’t exactly his father’s favorite. His father married Chenelo, Maia’s mother and the daughter of the goblin ruler, for political convenience and wanted little to do with her afterwards.
When she died, Maia remained in a nigh-empty manor with only a handful of servants and Maia’s abusive, alcoholic cousin (whose placement there was a punishment) to look after him. Maia met his father exactly once, at his mother’s funeral, at which point the emperor remarked that “the whelp looks just like his mother.” Let’s just take a moment to pity poor Maia.
That is, until His Imperial Serenity Varenechibel IV and his three sons die in an airship crash leaving the half-goblin son he barely acknowledged as the sole heir to the throne. Maia is suddenly torn away from his dreary, unhappy home and thrust into the robes of the emperor, despite having no clue whatsoever what it involves.
Indeed, Maia is as clueless as we are about the workings of the Ethuveraz when we begin the story. His father’s concern for his education was even less than his concern for Maia in general. Ending up in a position you have no idea how to fulfill is stressful for anyone anywhere, and poor Maia’s sudden position is that of an emperor. Of an empire that’s not any nicer than empires generally are.
A very thick setting
This is unfortunately where the book’s first flaw comes in. We are introduced to many facts about the Ethuveraz at a break-neck pace. This puts us in the same state of acute confusion Maia is, although of course we don’t get his crushing anxiety, near-constant state of at least mild panic, and a deep wish he were anywhere else. This is realistic, but from a reader’s perspective feels a bit like cramming for a history exam the day before. The names of the people, their titles, the buildings, and the functions all blur together.
Of course, litanies of excessive world-building aren’t exactly an uncommon thing in fantasy, are they? And here at least we have a protagonist as ignorant as we are, so we learn at his pace. Which is considerable. Maia is a clever kid, but this is just too much for him.
But what do we find out as we explore the elven empire with Maia? As I said, it’s not a particularly nice place. It’s rife with social inequity – from the rich, ambitious noble houses to the masses of laborers breaking their backs to support them. It’s deeply patriarchal – a woman is her husband’s property in all but name. Finally, it’s racist – goblins and people with goblin heritage are looked down upon as barbarians.
A somewhat unusual feature of the setting is that it’s industrial. Ethuveraz is full of somewhat steampunk technology, such as the airships. There’s also some sophisticated clockwork contraptions – a fairly major plot in the books is an attempt to build a collapsible bridge. Unfortunately, it also means that the condition in factories and workshops are inhuman… or is it inelven?
Needless to say, the ascension of a half-goblin kid to the throne shakes things up considerably. Maia is ignorant, of course, but he is also not sheltered by the massive wealth and privilege that the noble houses live in. Moreover, he is simply a good, kind person. He wants to be friends with people around him, but unfortunately, to them he’s the emperor now.
Once Maia realizes that he can’t be friends with people around him, though, he never stops thinking in ways that are largely alien to the imperial court. To the highborn, the servants, workers, and commoners are background at best. They enable their lavish lifestyle and political ambitious but deserve no further consideration. Not so with Maia. He sees them as people, which shakes things up more than anyone expects.
I should note here that the message and atmosphere of the book are ultimately optimistic. While Maia goes through many hardships and his attempts at doing good often don’t work, eventually they do. While I obviously won’t go into detail about how it happens, it’s something to remember. Maia is a good and caring person who ends up in the center of a system of privilege, oppression, and tradition. He’s not going to upend it in a day, but he works to face it on his terms.
No humans in evidence
You may have noticed that while I’ve mentioned elves and goblins, I haven’t mentioned humans. That’s because there are none. There’s some mention of another race of people who don’t seem to be elves or goblins, but they apparently have sharp teeth, so they don’t exactly sound human.
You might wonder, why even have elves and goblins if they might as well be just human ethnicities? I think it does add some flavor to the story, myself. It’s a way for us to realize it’s not quite what we’re used to. One feature both elves and goblins display is their expressive ears. They’re described as moving to display their owners’ emotions, such as lying flat on their heads if they’re upset or distressed.
If it’s fantasy, you may ask, is there any magic? There is, but it occupies a curious role, a minor one. There are people who we’d call wizards, but in the book’s copious internal glossary they’re referred to as “mazei.” They do cast spells, but we only ever see one spell, with another one happening off-screen. Nonetheless, one of the emperor’s two bodyguards is a magician (the other one is a soldier). The emperor has four bodyguards, actually, but they take shifts. Two of them must attend him at all times. Including when he sleeps. Or, yes, when he consummates his marriage with his empress. If this sounds incredibly awkward to you, just imagine how Maia feels about the prospect.
Much more important to the plot is the ability to speak with the dead, which a priest of the god of the dead displays. It’s not exactly reliable, but enough so that his visions are legal testimonies (even in one case where he really wishes they weren’t). Does it mean the gods the elves and goblins worship are real? We don’t really get to find out.
Goblin Emperor shows us a fantasy world and a great empire, warts and all. It’s the story of how someone everyone thought was the worst possible person in the worst possible place turned out to be the right person for the job after all. What will the sequel show us? It will apparently take place during Maia’s reign, but he won’t be a viewpoint character. I won’t be surprised if the latter is the case; the first book mostly finishes his character arc. So, I am eager to find out where the next one takes us.