Spar

Nicola Griffith has become one of my go-to authors: as soon as I hear of a new book from her, I know I'll pick it up. Not necessarily on Day One, but I immediately look forward to reading it, and avoid any reviews, summaries or other information that may color my initial reading.

 

In a bit of reverse chronology, I finished reading Spear (written in 2022) after Menewood (written in 2023). I think that in my mind I had somewhat conflated the two: they're both set in England near the middle of the first millennium and (as usual for Griffith) feature awesome lady protagonists.

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They are pretty different, though. Menewood, like Hild before it, is a doorstop of a book, while Spear is much briefer at just around 150 pages. Both books feel anchored in their historical moments and geographical places, while also inviting in a sense of mysticism: but in Hild/Menewood that mysticism is itself grounded in history, and we can see both the secular origins of mystery and the effect it has on peoples' minds; in Spear, the magic actually is real, and the novel slowly grows in the direction of myth and legend.

It took quite a while into Spear for me to get a bead on the question of "is magic real or not". The protagonist is initially nameless, just known as "the girl" or "her." Eventually, she wins a name for herself: Peretur, referencing her self-trained skill with a spear. She has special qualities from the start of the novel: able to calm animals, to sense changes in the weather. Later on these become increasingly special and uncanny: during a duel in a stream, she recognizes by a movement in her opponent's eyes that there is a root hidden beneath the water, and she is able to avoid stepping in it. It isn't until nearly halfway through the book that we realize she can have actual visions: seeing things far away, or that nobody else can see: not merely heightened senses and keen perception, but a real sixth sense, combining telepathy and divination. This isn't a magic to hurl fireballs or call down rain or compel men: it's a magic that makes her the best at things other people can do.

Unlike Hild, who had great wisdom and carved out a unique role for herself as a "freemartin", protected by her boldness and strangeness, Peretur cloaks herself (literally and figuratively) in a man's garb. She wants to be a fighting companion of the king, and no woman can do that, so she presents herself as a man. Since this is more of a fantasy, she probably could have succeeded without the ruse, but it adds a really great layer to the story. The narrative always refers to Peretur as "she" while the dialogue usually uses "he". I kept half-expecting her to be found out, but that doesn't really happen: a few others do learn, but only when she chooses to share with them.

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It's great fun to discover, surprisingly far into the book, that this is a reimagining of one of the Arthurian legends. We start to hear of King Artos, also called Arturus; later on we meet Llanza, Gwenhwyfair, Myrddin and others - all very Welsh, obviously. Peretur herself turns out to be Sir Percival, who discovers the Holy Grail.

One of the things I liked best about this book was how, when you learn new things later in the book, they illuminate things from earlier in the story. One of the biggest examples is the bowl: one of Peretur's earliest memories is the black, decorated bowl that her mother Elen used for water and cooking. Much later, we learn that this bowl is one of the four great treasures of the Tuatha: her mother stole it from Manandan, one of these godlike creatures, as revenge and payment for her captivation. I'm pretty sure that this is the same item as the Cauldron as depicted in Lloyd Alexander's Black Cauldron; in this book, it's one and the same as the Grail as in the Quest for the Holy Grail. And this bowl/cup/grail/cauldron is the source of Peretur's great abilities: the bowl confers immortality, and by casually drinking from it from a young age, Petetur has absorbed god-like abilities.

As with many of Griffith's other novels, this one features an excellent romance. There's a sweet casual-ish connection between the young Peretur and an innkeeper's daughter that in some ways reminded me of Hild's "bed games", simultaneously sweet and no-strings-attached. The main romance is between Peretur and Nimue, Myrddin's apprentice and captor. Once again, there's a unique spin on the classic mythology here: Nimue is once again a young woman who learns sorcery from Merlin and eventually imprisons him: but in Spear, Myrddin is a manipulative jerk, stealing Nimue's power while pretending to grant his to her, and shaping her into an accomplice to help seize the Tuath treasures. Rather than a betrayal, her imprisonment of Myrddin is an act of justice. Anyways, Nimue is understandably wary of Peretur: her magic, her power, and, as we eventually learn, her kinship with Myrddin. But they work through this and secure a really wonderful relationship.

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The book also includes an afterword that I found really interesting, describing Griffith's long interest since childhood in these kinds of stories, the various historical and literary antecedents of the tales, and how she as a writer found her way into this particular novel. That raised a few connections I had missed while reading the book but that make perfect sense in retrospect.

The timing of this post is somewhat fortuitous, as Nicola just announced today the republication of her Aud Torvingen novels! I don't think I ever blogged about these since I felt like I didn't have anything particularly insightful to say, but I highly enjoyed them: great hard-boiled modern noir mysteries with (as usual) a vivid and compelling protagonist and sharp writing. She has previously blogged about the ordeal in dealing with these books: although it is a linear trilogy, each had a separate publisher, and none of them were ever motivated to publicize the other books or offer a unified visual appearance. After a LONG time she got the rights back, and I'm sure she's thrilled to finally have them presented as she'd like them.

Anyways! I highly enjoyed Spear, and I think just about anyone would like it. It's a much easier commitment than Hild, familiar enough to be accessible, unique enough to be intriguing, with great characters and telling its own flavor of a heroic journey.

Womenwood

I really adored Hild, a historical fiction book from Nicola Grifith that often felt like fantasy but was very rooted in early English history. She was very clear that a sequel was coming, but the wait had been long enough that I had stopped tracking the book. The follow-up, Menewood, was recently published and is a terrific read, continuing Hild's extraordinary story as she enters young adulthood.

 

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"Hild" put me in mind of books like Merlin, with a wise seer who offers counsel to a powerful king. "Menewood" felt a bit more like "The Outlaws of Sherwood", with a focus on building a community: not just one remarkable person, but a whole collection of people from various backgrounds (ethnic, linguistic,  religious, professional, etc.) joining together, learning to work together and accomplishing great things under the thoughtful guidance of a leader.

(Apologies in advance for how much of this post will be comparing Hild to Menewood, that's just how my brain is working right now!)

There's less explicit discussion of religion in the new book. By this time the supremacy of Christianity is mostly taken for granted and the old Woden worship is seen as a last gasp. But as Christianity becomes dominant, we start to see internal politics at play, with British priests and Irish monks alongside the Roman priests from the previous book. There isn't exactly friction between them, but what feels like some considerable side-eye. Hild herself seems to preach a syncretic faith, declaring that there is a single God but that God can manifest in various forms, including Woden. Based on other readings, I think that's a very common tendency during conversions, where indigenous beliefs will get wrapped into the new faith.

There's also less "seer" business here, and Hild herself explicitly notes that change and the reason for it near the end of this book. When she was a powerless girl in a hostile court, she needed to lean in on mystical trappings for her own survival, convincing the king that she had powers which made her more valuable alive than dead. Now, she is a leader in her own right, with sworn men who will follow her. She still uses the skills she had as a "seer", but now she's more clearly explaining her source of information and her reasoning to the people around her, and not just to use the readers.

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For most of Hild I was riveted by her love life, particularly the heartbreaking connection with Gwladus. I was really bummed when she got with Cian in the first novel, which ended the book on a sour note for me. Seeing them in Menewood, though, they do seem to have a strong relationship and make each other happy. The fact that Cian dies takes the sting out of the union. Hild returns to loving women, including a brief (and surprisingly narratively elided) fling with the wife of a chieftain, but she mostly plays "bed games" with Brona, a real salt-of-the-earth butcher from York. As she continues to mature, Hild seems like a recognizable type of bisexual, generally preferring a certain gender but having a strong attraction to a specific individual of another gender.

I'd forgotten the "bed games" nomenclature from the first novel; I think it was Hild's mother Breguswith who first introduces the term. In this era and culture, marriage is supremely significant and far too important for any individual to decide on their own: marriages are frequently arranged to cement a peace between warring neighbors, or to strengthen an alliance, or dispose of a potential rival. But while marriage and producing an heir are public matters, love and sex are private matters. "Bed games" are introduced as a way to fulfill passions, let off steam, satisfy physical and emotional needs, and are seen as a way to support, rather than undermine, an arranged marriage.

I haven't written much about the plot... it's good, but also somewhat unusually paced. There's a lot of "worldbuilding" early on as Hild takes on her leadership role and plans to build up Elmet, including the refuge of Menewood. The big development of the first part of the novel is King Edwin's disastrous war against Cadwallon and Penda. Hild knows that it's going to go poorly, which is a big part of why she works so hard to prepare Elmet, but she's still powerless to stop this catastrophe. (And just when you think things couldn't get sadder or more tragic, there's probably the single saddest passage I've read in the last decade, when Hild realizes the fate of her child.)

There is a long stretch after the death of Edwin and Cian where Hild is grief-stricken, practically mute. This section felt very much like Act 2 in a traditional Hollywood movie, "long dark night of the soul" style. But I did enjoy this part: it feels very important to honor Hild's trauma. She works through things, but she'll never be free of the intense grief that she's suffered.

The second half of the book is mostly about Hild trying to make things good again. In a traditional story this would be a revenge plot; she definitely does feel anger towards Cadwallon and his supporters for the violence they have inflicted, but Hild, ever far-sighted, is thinking about what comes next. How can she help build an enduring peace that will enable her and her fellow survivors to thrive? (Interestingly, she does swear revenge against Cadwallon, but on behalf of her allies, not on her own behalf.)

There's another long stretch of planning and preparing, after Hild returns to Menewood, takes stock of the situation and writes letter after letter to potential allies. For a while I was wondering if the actual confrontation with Cadwallon would wait until the third book. But the campaign starts very late in the novel and does come to a satisfying conclusion by the end. This is my favorite part of the book: it's exciting and dramatic, with Hild's long-planned schemes coming to fruition but also needing to improvise and quickly take advantage of surprising developments. Eventually all of the many forces she has lined up come together and defeat his army, with Hild herself getting to strike the killing blow. I think this sequence is perfect for the story being told. Yes, Hild is strong and brave (and tall!), but her superpower is her mind, her ability to notice things that others don't, to think of things that others won't, and to thoroughly plan.

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Menewood wraps up more neatly than Hild, with the major conflicts resolved and most people receiving an appropriate reward or punishment, but there are still some tantalizing plot threads left open. These particularly involve relations with other parts of (what we now call) England, and if and how Hild would be involved in those relations. I'm sure we'll be getting at least a third book, although I am curious what time it would cover. The first book covered about 15 years of her life while this one spans less than 2 years (albeit historically eventful years!). It would be interesting to have another book that covers the time until when Hild re-enters the historical record as the abbess of Whitby, but that would follow a much longer time.

I don't know exactly what Nicola's plans are - she had originally intended to write a trilogy. These books do feel fantasy-ish, and fantasy series are infamous for growing longer than originally planned, so we may have even more to look forward to. But at the same time, this is based on a historical person, so there are limits to where the story can go. Regardless, I'm looking forward to reading whatever comes next!

Not So Lucky

I started a couple of other novels on my vacation, but the last one I finished was So Lucky, a surprising new novel from Nicola Griffith that just recently came out. I've caught up with all of her extant works, and it was fun to dive right into a fresh work from her without an extended wait.

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It's a little hard to place the genre of this book. Griffith is a very adaptable writer, skilled at writing detective noir and science fiction and historical fiction and whatever else she wants. So Lucky is internally more varied than any of her other works. A sort-of mystery spins up near the end, but it isn't structured like a mystery. There's a slight, possibly supernatural element, but it's ambiguous and not really central to the plot. There are some compelling relationship vignettes, but this is probably the least romantic of any of Griffith's books. I can imagine any one of these elements filling a separate novel, but this story works really well with the combination.

The book isn't mostly focused on the plot: it's focused on the very flawed but wholly sympathetic protagonist, Mara. She isn't some angel: she's a real, grounded, ambitious woman who is swiftly adapting to the titanic changes in her life. This can include reversing her previous actions (or lack of action): when she was fully abled, she casually blocked the creation of a wheelchair access ramp at work, focusing on the dollars saved rather than the people served. Now that she's on the other side of the fence, she's even more determined to see it built.

That might seem a little selfish, but once Mara is awakened to the daily injustices of her new world, she develops a very broad vision that includes a range of disabilities: not only people with limited motor function but also those who are deaf or otherwise face social and environmental obstacles that limit their ability to live their daily lives with dignity.

Mara comes across as an angry person, and I like that! She, and the book, feel very vital: someone who deliberately acts to change the world, not just reacting to her circumstances.

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This was a short read, but a great one. It feels more personal than Nicola's other books... she's always had a great worldview, but this work seems more polemic than most, in addition to being a compelling character portrait. It was thrilling to see a little tie-in with one of her other franchises, and makes me curious if we'll ever see these characters interacting in the future.

Rapids

I'm not sure exactly how I got into this habit, but for the last couple of years I've read a Nicola Griffith novel each time I fly to and from Chicago. Other than the Aud Torvingen series, I'm not reading them in any particular order, and so am finishing with her second published novel, Slow River. It's good!

I'm increasingly impressed at Nicola's versatility. She's adept at writing noir mysteries, imaginative science fiction, mystic historical fiction. Slow River is set in a near-future very-mildly-dystopic world; the setting seems almost cyberpunk, with subdermal identity chips and a few riveting hacking scenes, but the overall vibe feels quite distinct from most cyberpunk.

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It's less obviously sci-fi than Ammonite, but there might be even more science in this book. Specifically, there's a really cool and deep look into environmental science, microorganisms, public works and infrastructure. I don't know enough about life sciences to know if all of this is established science or if some of it is speculative, but it all sounds plausible and intriguing.

I increasingly enjoy reading about people who are good at what they do and take pride in their work, and Lore is a great example. She knows a great deal about the underlying theory and the practical operations of the treatment plant she works at, and feels compelled to help it perform well. There are multiple tensions opposing this drive of hers. First, she's keenly aware of the source: her knowledge and her determination come from her family, from which she is estranged, and even when she benefits from that association she's simultaneously brought down by the reminder of her past. She's also constrained by her secret identity: she can't seem to be too good, or know too much, lest she ruin her disguise and expose herself to dire consequences.

But she overcomes these hesitations and does what needs to be done. I really liked how the public good and a general sense of responsibility are powerful incentives in this novel. Lore doesn't say "It's not my job" or "What's in it for me?" She knows the consequences of getting things wrong, the mild-to-major harm that will be visited upon untold numbers of people should these systems fail, and that drives her to sacrifice her self-interest and support the greater good.

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Of course, Lore hasn't always been so altruistic. She hasn't been exactly selfish, but she has been focused on herself. Among other ways, this is shown through her sex scenes: there are a surprising number of encounters she has throughout the novel, starting from a very young age and continuing through a series of disconcerting liaisons while working with Spanner. I thought it was interesting that, of all of Lore's short-term and long-term romantic partners, Magyar is the only one who doesn't get a sex scene. There is still a nice focus on physicality in their relationship: when they tap each other while wearing biohazard suits, it feels more erotic than the graphic parties that occurred a few pages before. The bond Lore forms with Magyar is powerful, built on respect and trust long before they thought of one another as partners, and it's kind of cool to see that Lore decides she will spend the rest of her life with Magyar before sleeping with her.

The Magyar relationship is kind of the opposite of the one Lore has with her mother, which began with love, then moved to trust, and devolved into suspicion and adversity. While Griffith's novels are all very different, I've noticed that the mother characters share a lot of similarities. They tend to be powerful, manipulative, emotionally distant, and clever. Their protagonist daughters inherit their wealth and education, and share some of the high-society connections while being estranged. I don't want to overstate this - Aud's mother is much more sympathetic than Lore's - it's just an interesting theme.

The revelation of Katerine and Oster was seeded very well and cleverly revealed, with all the important information present long before Lore receives the answer. I'd had a suspicion that something else was going on - Oster's behavior didn't really fit the scenario - but for some reason Katerine hadn't been on my radar for that incident, and I was impressed by the conclusion. The Greta revelation didn't make as much sense to me. All the pieces to that puzzle had also been set out in advance, but it wasn't and isn't obvious to me how they fit together, how Lore goes from the old black-ops team to Greta's role in it to blackmail to the kidnapping. It's possible I just missed something in the sequence, though... I was wrapping up the novel near the end of a very long delayed flight.

I'm still undecided on how I feel about the structure of the novel. Within each chapter, it shifts between present-tense and past-tense narration, and between first-person and third-person narrators. These are used to denote different time periods: one starting from Lore's childhood, one starting immediately after her escape from the kidnappers, and one when she starts her job at the plant. It always felt jarring to me, and I'm not convinced that the novel is much better from having the timelines overlap this way than it would be told chronologically. We already know the outcomes of the first two timelines, so it doesn't really build any suspense. It definitely isn't bad, it just seemed distracting to me.

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All in all, Slow River was a great read. Lore is yet another terrific Griffith protagonist: resourceful, thoughtful, resolute, driven by a winning mix of compassion and self-determination.  While it's technically another science fiction novel, I think it stands on its own, with a very different setting and feel from Ammonite. In some ways it anticipated the crime noir of Aud Torvingen, but with a very different protagonist and a unique set of concerns.

Ordinarily, I would feel bummed to have exhausted the output of a newfound author, but! Fortunately, Nicola is just about to release So Lucky, which will be out in less than a month, yay! That should help tide me over until the sequel to Hild arrives.

She Sees Seed Shells by the Spaceport

I haven't written enough about Nicola Griffith on this blog. I've read and loved her Aud Torvingen  noir thrillers, but have never been able to articulate my thoughts about them. That might just be because I don't read that much detective fiction to begin with. That said, I do read a lot of speculative fiction, so books like Hild and Ammonite are on much more familiar ground for me.

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Ammonite is set far in the future; I pictured it as taking place at least several centuries and maybe a millennium from now. Earth has gone through multiple waves of colonizing other planets: settlers will arrive somewhere, put down roots, become self-sufficient, and acclimate to any local flora and fauna. Earth is now in a later phase, where the profit-minded Company (no, not that Company) seeks to exploit the resources of those planets. (Not necessarily in a strip-mine-the-surface way, but transforming a world into a luxury resort can be disconcerting in its own way.) Company is theoretically overseen by the SEC (no, not that SEC), but as in our present times, this relationship is subject to regulatory capture, and also complicated by the strong-willed individuals who make up each faction.

We catch some glimpses of all the above in the opening of the novel, but Ammonite takes place on Jeep. Jeep is an excellent near-Earth-like planet, with multiple moons, a distinct solar cycle, lush indigenous flora, thrilling electrical storms, and deadly thermal eruptions. It also harbors an exotic virus, dubbed Jeep as well, which slaughters 100% of the men and roughly 20% of the women it infects. Soon after landing, the original colony faced the brink of extinction. And yet, they somehow survived, and over many generations have developed a thriving exclusively-female society.

As in all of Griffith's novels, Ammonite features a fantastic and thoroughly unique protagonist. Marghe Taishan is an anthropologist (!) who arrives at Jeep with a dual mission: to act as the guinea pig for an experimental vaccination against the Jeep virus, and to study the culture of these people. Marghe is willful and bright, but not the stereotypical "Strong Female Protagonist" that just collects masculine attributes into a woman's body. Nor is she especially "sensitive" or "empathic" or "nurturing". She's a person, working hard, making mistakes, learning from those mistakes, pursuing her passions, finding new passions to chase.

There's an overarching plot concerned with the integration of new Earth arrivals into Jeep culture: the military Company agents have been infected by the virus, and Marghe's research will help determine whether they will be allowed to return home to Earth or will remain quarantined on Jeep and forced to adapt to native customs. Most of the book, though, is focused on Marghe's personal adventure: her journey into native lands, conversations with its people, witnessing its natural phenomena, enduring its hardships. This starts out as "research," with Marghe acting the part of the clinically distant outside observer, but as the novel progresses she becomes more and more deeply entwined with the culture, losing her objectivity but gaining infinitely more.

"Ammonite" challenges us to rethink what is "normal". We think that the way things are done on Earth are the only way they can be done, but, like a lot of great science fiction, Ammonite hits a reset button and asks us to imagine something different. One aspect that particularly struck me was "trata", which is sort-of-but-not-really the trade system of Jeep. On modern Earth we're accustomed to a market-based economy that uses currency to facilitate the flow of goods and services. But that isn't the only option: in our own past, there have been successful alternatives like the gift-based economy of the Pacific Northwest and Polynesia.

On Jeep, most settlements are more or less self-sufficient, but everyone can benefit from trade: accessing the crafts of another group, or recovering seeds after a botched harvest, or gaining a promise of protection against threats. Trata shares some characteristics with a gift economy, but it's a bit more dynamic. The bonds and obligations created by an exchange are seen as valuable in themselves, and to some extent can be securitized: if clan A has trata with clan B, and B with C, then A can ask B to intercede with C on their behalf.

There is no currency associated with trata, and it isn't intended to immediately cancel out like numismatic transactions do. Instead, the outstanding debt of the lesser party in a trade is itself seen as an asset, a sort of karmic balance that will encourage further trata in the future. Trata is facilitated by viajera, travelers who function as a combination of judge, bard, and scholar.

When I started reading Ammonite, I would sometimes think "Oh, so this is what the world would look like if women ran things!" As I got further along, though, I realized that that wasn't the point. The society on Jeep works just fine without any men, but I don't think it would be impossible with them, either. There's no mystical feminine energies moving things along: perhaps slightly more of a drive for nurturing and a bit less aggression, but there are still plenty of examples of the latter. For the most part, the gender makeup of Jeep just sort of fades into the background, and I completely forgot about it for long stretches of the book. I would suddenly remember it at random points: "Huh, all of the sailors on this ship are women. Oh. That's right! All of the people on this planet are women, so of course all the sailors are."

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The central mystery of Ammonite is probably how the virus works and how the women can reproduce. I liked how this was presented: nobody is trying to hide the answer, and the natives have been explaining it to Company all along, but Marghe can only understand it after she becomes vulnerable and lets down her barriers. She needs to experience it, to become the observed as well as the observer.

This explanation, like several others in the book, is a nifty blend of science with a little quasi-mysticism. There's an acknowledgment of the underlying problem, a bit of a leap for a solution, and then a thorough description that helps it all feel grounded and plausible. It ultimately falls under the umbrella of "sufficiently advanced technology", except in this case it isn't machines or computers, but a deeper understanding of natural processes.

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I'm rapidly approaching the end of available Griffith novels, but have thoroughly enjoyed each one so far. Ammonite in particular scratches a very particular itch. I hesitate to compare it to other books, but in some ways it reminds me of the fantastic Steerwoman series and Hellspark: it's another fantastic novel that's adventurous, focused on discovery and growth and negotiations, a refreshing alternative to the combat-focused plots that dominate so much speculative fiction.

Angling

Hild is the best book I've read so far in 2017! OK, that's faint praise, but it's also one of my favorites from 2016. It's a historical novel set in Britain in the seventh century. It's evocative of much of the fantasy that first ignited my love of reading: a coming-of-age story, swords and seers and secrets, dynasties and wars. But it's fundamentally different: realistic (not magical), with a female protagonist, morally gray dilemmas, more interested in wielding power than acquiring or defeating it.

To an extent, the book reminded me of John Gardner's Grendel, one of the most influential books of my teenage years. Like that novel, Hild is intensely curious about first principles, in the origins and purpose of social and political structures. Not just "there was a king": where did the king come from? Why would one man willingly submit to another? What benefit is gained by having a local warlord monopolize violence in a region? How does wealth encourage the formation of power, and how does power support the accumulation of wealth? Both stories are set around the same time period (with a considerably longer back-story in Grendel), but they feel very different and are trying to accomplish different things.

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For example, most fantasy and medieval historical novels will depict kings wearing gold crowns and rings and such. I think Hild does a better job than any other book I've read in depicting why they would do this. A king like Edwin doesn't have a castle with treasury and towers and such. He's constantly on the move, visiting his feudal underlings, impressing them with his power and attention. So his wealth needs to be mobile. Carrying gold on his body is the safest way to keep it. And, in a world where coinage is scarce outside of international trade centers, he needs to be ready to pluck off a ring or other bauble to pay for services rendered or offer a gift to a potential ally.

As in the best speculative fiction, Nicola Griffith never actually comes out and says any of this, either in narration or through in-universe dialogue. Rather, she does a great job at building up the world, showing us how it works, letting us absorb its characteristics through osmosis, and then leaves us to infer the rules underlying it. I was surprised at how emotional I got during scenes where Hild demonstrates her mastery of this system, like when she accepts Oeric as her sworn man, or the thanks of the swineherds after her prophecy saves their household (and then proceeds to care for them further). This world operates by different principles than our own, but the story is deep enough that those principles become real for us, and we cheer to see Hild rising to the heights of this world.

I loved how Nicola handles Hild's prophecies. This isn't a supernatural book, and she never has any actual visions. Instead, she's really good at observing the world around her and drawing conclusions. Because she's so soft-spoken, the people around her don't see her thought process: they only hear her conclusions, which seem to come from out of nowhere and are accepted as prophecy. As readers, though, we can admire the intelligence rather than the fate underlying those prophecies. These are drawn from a wide variety of sources: overheard gossip, secret reports from informers, knowledge of actions being taken by her mother and other major actors. My favorites, though, were the ones that are evocative of "real" historical prophecies. It's a bit of a cliche for a wise man or woman to look for signs in nature, like the flight of birds or the appearance of other animals. (We have a remnant of this in our Groundhog Day tradition.) Hild sometimes delivers prophecies based on birds, but in her case, it's because she knows what those birds are, where they're supposed to be, and what external forces would cause them to appear here instead of there.

With things like prophecies, we get insights into Hild's thoughts that help us piece things together. Often, though, we're just immersed in the world. This pays particular dividends in the language. There are a bunch of examples, but my favorite is wyrd. Again, nobody ever defines it within the novel, but you can suss out its meaning through context, and, over the course of hundreds of pages of seeing it used, I came to really grok it. That's cool within the context of this book, but as a fun little bonus, I also now have an extra layer of understanding and appreciation for the "weird sisters" of Macbeth, focusing on their role as fate-spinners rather than their status as outsiders.

There are a ton of things to puzzle out. Sometimes our understanding runs ahead of Hild's, but often it lags behind; other times, you get the impression that Hild is resisting conclusions that are painful to bear. One big thing running throughout the course of the book is the connection between Hild and Cian, which isn't explicitly spelled out until near the end, but is very clearly forecast.

Hild is a very cool heroine, but her relationships form the heart of the novel. Cian's is the longest-running and one of the most affecting, but my favorite might have been her bond with Begu. Among other things, I just love the way she talks, an endless torrent of random details pouring out in a stream of consciousness. It's endearing to see Hild, who is so bright and skilled at piecing things together, utterly lost when talking to her. (And it was super-touching to see Begu's self-awareness late in the novel and realize that her mind is also sharp, just tuned to a different end.) I also loved how close Begu and Hild remained even after they each paired up with their own separate romantic partner.

I had a hard time for a while getting a bead on Gwyladus's deal, so open and generous in one way but so closed and cold in another. I think I get it now, and am still kind of processing what it means and how I feel about it. I'm not used to seeing asymmetric romantic relationships depicted in fiction, especially ones with a physical component. I was so happy at the start of that plot thread, and so sad at the end... Hild is making the right choices, but falling farther from the happiness I want for her.

However, I did really appreciate how almost everyone seems to accept their liaison, including Begu and her sworn men. I was particularly struck by Breguswith's conversation with Hild when she's counseling her to treat her frustration: Breguswith plays the pronoun game, always saying "person" or "someone" rather than "man" or "him". Breguswith is probably the most perplexing character in the novel, and I'm still not sure exactly what to make of this. She might be an extremely perceptive mother, and have observed her daughter's inclinations, and implicitly freeing her to pursue her desires. Or it might be the opposite: she's so cold and aloof that she literally does not care who Hild dallies with, so long as they are discreet. I also found myself thinking back to the start of the novel. Given Cian's parentage, it's totally understandable that Onnen and Breguswith would have a strained relationship. But is it possible that Onnen and Breguswith were themselves involved with one another? That would add a whole other layer to the dynamic, and even more complex overtones to the children's upbringing. I don't think there's any real evidence in the text to support this, but the idea fascinates me.

Romantic entanglements are especially significant in the context of the Church's (re-)arrival in England. The novel opens just as emissaries from the Roman church arrive from the mainland, seeking to convert the Anglisc kings and their subjects. I really liked how religion was depicted in the novel: it's a well-rounded view that looks at the political, social, economic, and spiritual impacts that the conversion has. It isn't just a matter of defiling temples to Woden and building churches for Christ: it's also an introduction of literacy, of working in this world to achieve a reward in the next, of replacing an old set of values built around glory and conquest with a new set of values built around humility and elevation. Paulinus, the chief bishop, is one of the major antagonists of the novel and Hild's primary rival; but Deacon James is one of the most likeable men, and his choral music awakens a genuine epiphany from Hild.

Hild's struggle to understand and conform to Christianity was very touching. She's very insightful about the worldly aspects of the church, predicting when the drive to conversion will be counter-productive or understanding how alliances in faith will translate to alliances in arms. But she's also concerned about the personal, spiritual aspect to it. She seems genuinely sad that, no matter how she tries to pray, she never hears God speak to her. She tries to understand sin, coming to a good understanding of it as a stain, and worries about being burned when her sin is removed at baptism. She also worries about her place in the world: she's very aware that, as a woman and as a seer, this new church does not value her words, and she tries to build a place for herself where she can help her king and her people without incurring the wrath of God.

Throughout her whole life, Hild stands outside of her expected role. Tall and fierce, she draws blood while fighting as a young child, speaks confidently to her king, and gains the respect of hardened warriors. But she also weaves cloth with women, aids in healing and birthing, wears dresses, separates cream, and otherwise performs traditionally feminine work. Her appearance and activities cause others to fear and gossip about her, which, despite her well-trained exterior, hurts her feelings. One of the many slurs she overhears is "Freemartin", which I haven't heard before but is particularly resonant for Hild, especially in light of her bond with Cian.

While this in-between existence can be painful for Hild, it's a boon for us readers. It allows some awesome, and kind of horrifying, full-on action sequences, like the scenes where Hild and her posse chase down bandits who are hurting her people. A lot has been written about "Strong female protagonists", and I agree that it doesn't necessarily have to mean a Rambo-esque woman who's good at killing people; but here, that's what Hild is, and she rules. The operative phrase that keeps coming up is "skirt and sword". Almost everyone needs to pick one path or the other. These are usually chosen based on birth gender. Some men, notably priests, choose to follow the path of the skirt rather than the path of the sword. Hild is the one character in the entire novel who straddles both worlds, and she does so believably and with supreme skill.

A few other random miscellaneous thoughts:

The novel is written in limited third-person, and almost every section is anchored on Hild, but there are a handful of scenes throughout the book where we jump to someone else's perspective. Hild is still present in those scenes as well, and it's interesting to get an outside perspective on her. There isn't anything particularly necessary about these passages - Hild is very aware of what others think of her, so there aren't many new revelations - but it's still an interesting way to occasionally shift things around.

This is an unabashed work of prose, but there is some good, subtle use of old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon alliteration scattered throughout the book. For example:
"From Arawn's realm, Onnen said, stirred by the hooves of the horses and hounds of Hel as they hunted high in the sky."

There's also some more modern rhyming later on:
"It was the kind of song they loved: blood and gold, never grow old, never feel cold, honey in the comb, hearth and home, glory and story."

Unlike some fantasy novels, Hild doesn't usually drop entire segments of poetry into the narrative, but song and music are portrayed as important elements. They aren't just backstory or flavor, like Aragorn singing the Lay of Beren and Luthien: they're deployed to achieve specific ends. You can see the showmanship behind the scop's use of dramatic chords when Edwin is about to make a pronouncement, or how the gesiths rouse themselves to frenzy with songs of glory, or, conversely, how Gwyladus will ask the bard to cease singing of combat while Hild worries about Cian's fate.

I was thrilled to see Cædmon pop up in the story. I'm not sure if it's the historic one, but it fits the time period. It's awesome to see him translating scriptures into the vernacular, even as a child, finding the beautiful and true way to best say a thing.

Little nuggets like that helped this story feel really grounded and realistic. It's heavier on the "fiction" side than the "historic" side, but the history seems very well-researched, so as to not be distracting. (Only two anachronisms jumped out at me: Hild considers corn a potential crop in seventh-century England, and the Roman clergy say variations of "God helps those who help themselves". Not bad for such a long book!)

The only other book of Nicola Griffith's that I've read is "The Blue Place", which I thoroughly enjoyed but didn't have a whole lot to say about (apart from inarticulate teary sputtering) and never got around to posting about. Anyways, as I got further into Hild I found myself periodically comparing Hild to Aud, the protagonist of the earlier book. Both of them are unusually tall, and slightly outsiders. (Aud is a Norwegian/Englishwoman living in America; Hild is the daughter of Hereric, living in a rival's household.) Both have difficult relationships with mothers who are ambitious, ruthless, talented, and often absent. But Aud seems a bit more butch, embracing some traditionally masculine characteristics and roles, while Hild seems more otherworldly, transcending and charting her own course. (To be fair, though, it's an uneven comparison, since we never see Aud as a child and Hild is just barely an adult by the end.)

MEGA SPOILERS

So, yeah. I enjoyed this book, though I would have enjoyed it a lot more without the incest. I don't think that was done specifically to be edgy, or to send a "the heart wants what it wants" message, but I was still a bit baffled and disappointed by its inclusion.

END SPOILERS

I was thrilled, though, to see in the author's note at the end that Nicola has already started work on a sequel! As long and epic as this book is, it feels like Hild's story is only beginning: she's a bright, talented young woman in a world filled with danger and opportunity, with the resources and will to make a difference. I'm eagerly looking forward to seeing Hild navigate the path ahead.