Paul Kearney’s new novel draws together a number of familiar threads in contemporary fantasy, but makes something new and beguiling out of them. The plucky heroine, Anna Francis – who turns twelve towards the end of the book and roams wild across the Oxford landscape – recalls Philip Pullman’s Lyra; except that she’s a Greek exile, with recurring memories of the Graeco-Turkish War of 1919-22 which engulfed her home city in flames, killing her mother and brother and sending her into exile with her troubled father in a chilly northern country. She’s not at home in Oxford as Pullman’s Lyra was, and is subjected to racist abuse by the hostile locals; the fact that she is home schooled also deprives her of Lyra’s motley network of friends. J R R Tolkien and C S Lewis – as Ronald and Jack – provide her with a welcome substitute for the company of her peers, but they compete for her attention with issues of politics, economics, gender, class and race that they largely ignored in their fantasies. Ancient conflicts emerge from the shadows in the course of the book, and Anna gets caught up in them much as Will Stanton does in Susan Cooper’s The Dark is Rising; but they too seem to share in the complexity of British culture between the wars, making the clear moral division between Light and Dark impossible to maintain. Wytham Wood – the place that once inspired William Horwood to write epic stories about itinerant moles – here gets transformed into an outpost of Robert Holdstock’s Mythago Wood, full of shadowy monsters and half-forgotten perils. One gets the impression that Kearney has hugely enjoyed running themes and people from the books he loves up against the radical changes in social and political consciousness that have taken place since they were written.
It’s as much fun, then, spotting the ways this novel disrupts those older fantasies as picking out references to familiar elements in them. Kearney traces – and partly reinvents – the roots of Tolkien’s fascination with hobbits, Ents and skin-changers (such as Beorn in The Hobbit), as well as Lewis’s interest in portals between worlds, Greek myth of the kind he elaborated in Till We Have Faces, and the problems and possibilities of the Christian religion. Christianity finds itself in dialogue with older religions – much as it was in Tolkien’s beloved Beowulf – and there is a magnificently convincing representation of the old Archfiend, Satan himself, as a Holdstockian mythago, as much at home in the world of the pagan blacksmith Weyland as in the cosmic wanderings of the first two books of Paradise Lost. Herne the Hunter, who featured so memorably in The Dark is Rising, gets caught up here with Gowther Mossock of The Weirdstone of Brisingamen and an archangel from either the Bible or Pullman’s His Dark Materials in a struggle for souls with this quasi-biblical damned spirit. What’s impressive about Kearney’s achievement is his success in combining so many disparate elements into a seamless new whole, the disparate threads that have gone into its composition barely noticeable until you’ve finished reading. For fantasy lovers this book combines the pleasures of the boardgame or the quiz with those of the thriller, the predictable with the surprising, and ends by leaving you with the hope that it’s just the start of something larger.
A neat example of Kearney’s method is his references to knives, which run through the text like a crimson thread from first to last, changing allegiance and signification with each appearance. Anna encounters one first on the rough common grasslands of Port Meadow, where travellers fight to a bloody denouement and suck her into a world where casual death by violence is as commonplace as it was rare in the imagined worlds of Oxford’s two most celebrated fantasists. Approaching the scene of the fight Anna wishes she had brought her knife – ‘a little Watts penknife Pa used to keep for scraping out his pipe’ – but it’s as much because this represents her only protector – her father – as for any practical use it might have had (‘I don’t think it’s big enough to cut a Turk’s throat,’ she tells herself, associating all dangers at this point with the people who destroyed her family). Already she’s conscious that knives may have two different functions – symbolic and practical – and that weapons in themselves are ineffectual if not suited to the task in hand (a ‘stupid little knife would be nothing’ to the swords and spears of the Homeric heroes, she tells herself later). But the knife that does the killing in Port Meadow demonstrates something else about weapons like these: that they can be double-edged, turning against their owners with fatal consequences. And not long afterwards her own knife gets used in transgressive acts: first to cut an opening to a part of the house her father doesn’t know about (‘Not a weapon, but a tool,’ she tells herself as she traces the edges of a hidden door that leads to the attic); and later still to perpetrate a second murder, then to expose it. This second death-by-stabbing teaches her that trusted friends can be double-edged too, turning against their companions with the kind of racially-motivated, casual cruelty that would come to characterize the new decade of the 1930s. The same little penknife reveals to Anna the kind of man her father was – a double-edged figure, very different from the melancholy Greek hero she idealized in her childhood (though this is something his occasional violence had already taught her). And at the end of the novel Anna uses it herself in an act of violence, a near mirror image of the one she witnessed on Port Meadow. All these developments confirm the impossibility of passing absolute judgement on any given action: the drawing of a knife, the drawing of blood, a bloody war between families or nations. And the centrality of the knife to Kearney’s narrative forges further links with folklore and fantasy: the second volume of His Dark Materials, for instance (The Subtle Knife), or the iron-shaping powers of Weyland the Smith, whose entry into ancient Britain announced the arrival of powerful strangers wielding weapons no weapon of bronze could hope to compete with. That’s a lot of symbolic weight to be packed into a single recurring image, and Kearney carries off the trick with real aplomb.
The aspect of the narrative that most clearly marks out its difference from the works of Lewis and Tolkien is its concern with the body. Kearney pays attention to many aspects of the body those men could never have brought themselves to mention: the need to relieve oneself at awkward moments, the effect of period pains on one’s efforts to effect a cross-country getaway, the impossibility of resisting the urge to blush, the problem of getting clean in a waterless wood, the necessity of cutting long hair when it gets too filthy to be washed or combed. Bodily changes are his subject; but where Lewis’s shape-shifters are invariably morally shifty – think of the werewolf in Prince Caspian – Kearney’s are neutral, tied in like the menstrual cycle to the changes of the moon, and so symptomatic of the role played by transitions in human experience. Lewis’s children in the Narnian chronicles ‘grew out’ of fantasy, learning to replace those allegorical representations of religious concepts with direct encounters with the concepts themselves. Kearney’s Anna finds instead that her fantastic encounters are directly tied in with the process of her own maturation. It’s her growth to adulthood that makes her useful to the ambiguous beings who inhabit the Oxfordshire woodlands. Constancy, in Kearney’s novel, is the property of dolls, not people, and Anna carries a reminder of this about with her throughout the book in the form of her own doll Pie: Pie is short for Penelope, the wife who stayed constant to Odysseus through all the years of his wanderings. Constancy is also the property of the dead, and Pie was given to Anna by her older brother, who died fighting the Turks. The centrality of change to the text is an implied critique of the ages-long constancy of Tolkien’s Elves and Ents, of Lewis’s Aslan. Even the most ancient communities in Kearney’s book are subject to change, dwindling in strength and potency as they drift though time – and each change of body the shapeshifters among them undergo robs them of vitality, changing their human bodies more swiftly than the ordinary ageing process. Changelessness as applied to mortals is a myth, and not a particularly helpful one in an age of such radical change as the twentieth century.
At the same time, the book shares with Lewis, Tolkien and other British-based fantasists a deep delight in the English countryside – a delight which is most fully felt by his Greek protagonist (and Lewis, who felt it too, reminds Anna that he is an Ulsterman, and so understands her sense of exile). Kearney’s depiction of snow recalls Lewis’s account of it in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. His evocation of the Berkshire downs rivals Garner’s of Alderley Edge for the pleasure it takes in rendering the familiar contours of the land mysterious. His Wytham Wood echoes the Wild Wood of The Wind in the Willows, another British fantasy he references, this time through Anna’s passion for the books of Graham and Nesbit. Like Tolkien’s, his characters lament the rapidity of the changes that are stripping such woods from the landscapes of Britain, Europe, the world. There will come a time, one of them predicts, when all will be gone. Then books like these will be the imaginative scars that mark the places where the woods once grew – like the scars that her adventures leave on Anna’s body, or the scars left by her lost loved ones on her mind. Anna will become one of the Cassandras of our generation, her fears for the future of her beloved hills and valleys only believed when they have been fulfilled. But her courage, her heroic resistance to having her changes dictated and used by others, also suggests that the erasure of the beautiful places can be withstood. That’s a fantasy worth cultivating.
Adults and children live in different time zones, their internal watches set to different rhythms, their days constructed around alternative timetables. The question of how to communicate across the temporal divide is confronted daily by parents and offspring, teachers and pupils, at school and in the home, and gets intensified in the strange encounter between child and adult that takes place in a work of art made for children. Such works are usually made by adults, whose principal challenge – how to imagine themselves into a frame of mind they inhabited years beforehand – is complicated by the problem of keeping track of the rapidly-shifting cultural reference points among young people. Living in a household with children may help the would-be creator tune in to the latest developments in music, gadgetry and fashion, but it’s likely too to reinforce the conviction that adults can never really understand what makes their offspring tick. In the struggle to communicate despite this lack of understanding, artists fall back on imaginative reconstructions of their own childhoods in the vain hope that the radical changes of the intervening decades haven’t rendered them wholly redundant, or distorted beyond redemption by overlays of sentiment and cliché. Such reconstructions invariably emphasize the chronological gap even as they seek to bridge it. And they often take as their subject – as the driving motor of their narratives, so to speak – the complex interplay between time zones that constitutes the domestic environment in each successive generation.
One way of thinking about how the generations co-operate in a household is the concept of synchrony, which has been explored by psychologists and sociologists for several decades. The idea that a mother and child can achieve physical synchrony with each other by spending time in close proximity – that the movements and even the heartbeats of mother and child fall into step with one another when they sleep together or engage in activities face to face – is widely accepted by psychologists. So too is the notion that the synchronization of heartbeats, of rhythmic movements and of emotions can be extended, in time, from the mother-child relationship to the wider parent-child community. Sociologists have also investigated the effects of using rhythmic rituals of various kinds – marching, chanting and dancing, for instance – to achieve better co-operation (that is, psychological and social synchrony) between members of a group, an army, church or organization. Less threateningly, perhaps, there have been studies of the effects on families of spending time together, co-ordinating timetables and calendars to accommodate one another, and how this can improve both partnerships between adults and relationships between the generations. Fictional explorations of how a family community can bond in spite of their chronological differences may be thought of as an effort to understand metaphorical and even literal synchrony – how the movements of a household’s members may be combined to their mutual advantage.
But such a process of coordination is a highly complex one; largely, perhaps, because the differences between members of the family or household may be considered to be as valuable as their capacity to fall into step with one another. How to work together, to fall in step to solve common problems, while valuing and nurturing the effects of the different experiences imparted to a household’s different inhabitants by virtue of the different times at which they happen to have been born – these are questions that fascinate specialists and householders alike. I’d like to think about two texts that attempt to discover the means of preserving the chronologically-generated differences between members of a household community while enabling them to work together. These are a celebrated children’s novel by Diana Wynne Jones, Howl’s Moving Castle (1985) and the equally celebrated film adaptation of that novel by Hayao Miyazaki (2004). And it seems to me that these two works of art approach the problem of synchrony in rather different ways, as I’ll try to explain.
The concern of Diana Wynne Jones with the complex chronology of domestic and other communities, where the time zones of the young, the middle aged and the old converge and clash, is evident throughout her work: from Seven Days of Luke (1975) and Dogsbody (1975), in which the lives of immortal beings (gods and stars) intersect with those of children, to The Homeward Bounders (1981), whose young protagonist finds himself ageing at a slower rate than his contemporaries, and Fire and Hemlock (1985), about the friendship between a young girl and a grown man, which changes as the girl gets older. Wynne Jones’s novel Howl’s Moving Castle represents synchrony not merely as a prerequisite for the successful cohabitation of different generations within the same building or society, but as a psychological condition achieved with difficulty by individual men and women, aspects of whose personalities develop or mature at different rates, thus effectively establishing different time zones within a single mind and body. It’s this perception, among other things, that seems to have drawn Miyazaki to the novel, as permitting a new departure in his own lifelong exploration of temporal interfaces in domestic and social space.
The protagonist of Wynne-Jones’s novel is a teenage girl, Sophie Hatter, who lets herself be seduced by the rules of fairy tale into believing that her destiny is predetermined by her position as the eldest daughter in a family. This conviction comes easily to her because she lives in the land of Ingary, ‘where such things as seven-league boots and cloaks of invisibility really exist’ – a land of fairy tale in action, where witches are as common as bakers. Since she’s the eldest child, so the tales affirm, nothing interesting can ever happen to her: it’s always the youngest child who sets off on adventures and who gets the prize. In addition, her sole surviving parent is a stepmother, who Sophie assumes must therefore be tyrannous, if not wicked. As a result, Sophie’s lifelong entrapment in the family hat-making business (which she doesn’t enjoy) is for her as certain as if she’d already lived through it, and she behaves and dresses as if she were already the elderly spinster she expects to be. So when she’s transformed into a real old woman by a jealous witch, who has mistaken her for one of her attractive younger sisters, Sophie embraces her new condition with some enthusiasm. Before the transformation she was in effect an old woman trapped in a young girl’s body; after it she’s a young girl trapped in an old woman’s body; and since her life and story are now effectively over, she leaves the hat-making business and wanders out into the world to seek her fortune.
Sophie, in other words, is the victim of a particularly oppressive social form of synchrony – of ensuring that individuals know and retain their place within the community – which works hand in hand with ideology; synchrony as imposed on female children by the gender roles assigned to them by fairy tales and other narratives. Fortunately, however, the world – and the old women who play a vital part in it – proves to be very much more mobile than Sophie’s enslavement to fairy-tale convention leads her to expect. The delightful metaphor for this mobility is the Moving Castle of the title, and its erratic movements across Ingary can also be seen as standing for a more complex form of synchrony than the one that governs traditional fairy tales and hackneyed fantasies.
When she stumbles across the Moving Castle by accident, Sophie discovers in it a peculiar all-male household quite unlike the ‘conventional’ nuclear family (if such a thing exists, which Wynne Jones would have us doubt). It’s composed of the teenager Michael, an apprentice wizard; Calcifer, a stubborn but friendly fire-demon, whose magic keeps the Castle moving; and the wizard Howl himself, a dashing charmer whose one aim in life is to dodge the responsibility to which Sophie has always been a willing slave (hence Howl’s construction of this unusual mobile home). Including Sophie, these four householders span a tremendous age range, from the apprentice, who is fifteen, to the demon, who has lived for millennia. But they are none of them restricted in their movements by their apparent or actual age. In financial matters Michael behaves with a responsibility beyond his years, keeping some of the household money hidden from Howl to prevent him wasting it. Calcifer is as dependent on the other members of the household as an infant, confined to the Castle’s only hearth as a baby is confined to its cradle until somebody is willing to lift him out. Howl behaves like a spoiled adolescent, obsessed with his appearance and refusing to let Sophie clean his room. And Sophie, who makes herself Howl’s housekeeper because she can’t imagine herself as capable of anything else, becomes increasingly energetic as the novel goes on, despite her extreme old age: dashing across the landscape in seven-league boots, plotting to foil Howl’s various affairs, and rearranging the Castle so extensively that it eventually becomes her own home – quite literally, since Howl moves the building into the hat-shop at one point to avoid the unwanted attentions of the Witch of the Waste.
Age, then, in the Moving Castle, is no trap but a matter of attitude, and attitudes are always changing. Even the physical strength of the individual inhabitants’ bodies varies as much in response to hormones, cold germs and lashings of self-pity as to the motions of the heart (and Howl’s young heart is just as compromised, we learn in the end, as Sophie’s elderly organ). The movement of time determines nothing about a person’s character; it isn’t time that induces emotional or intellectual maturity, but successful interaction with other people, a capacity to adapt one’s personal needs to the demands of a community (and to resist those demands, of course, when they become oppressive). Household synchrony at its best, then, is for Wynne Jones a matter of careful and prolonged negotiation, enabling competing narratives and attitudes to achieve compatibility with one another, to co-exist – with frequent setbacks and digressions that prevent the negotiating process from becoming either consistent or linear. Her book is a celebration of domestic negotiation as a form of perpetual motion, like all her novels.
The identities of the Castle’s four eccentric tenants are as flexible as their ages. Michael disguises himself as a red-bearded man, or a horse, each time he leaves the building. Calcifer, in his capacity as (quite literally) the hearth of the Castle, changes the building’s appearance as well as its location with his demonic powers. Sophie successively takes on the roles of Howl’s assistant, his aunt, his mother, and (eventually) his partner, as the book goes on. And Howl has a different name and role in each community he visits. The Castle’s magical front door opens on a range of locations depending on the opener’s wishes: Kingsbury, Porthaven, Market Chipping, and (oddly) modern Wales; and in each place Howl has a distinct identity: as reluctant royal wizard, well-intentioned local magician, demonized ladykiller, and idle waster, all of them with alternative costumes and reputations as well as names. These conflicting roles of Howl’s converge and overlap in the interior of the Castle; and as a result the Castle provides an active illustration of the sheer dynamism of the domestic space to which Sophie has confined herself. All political and social action, all adventure, all identity originates in the creative melting-pot of the household, and the relationships between householders are forever mutating; responding to and influencing the mutations that take place in the world beyond. Nobody need be fixed, the Castle implies, in any role, whether by age, sex, birth, or any other factor – unless the community they inhabit, the household and the society it is part of, and above all their own state of mind, exert all their energy to imprison them in a single unchanging function. Nobody dominates the household, either. Control of the Moving Castle alternates between Howl and Sophie, with Michael and Calcifer taking the reins when the need arises. And the shape of the community inside it is always changing, as new members join the strange little family through Sophie’s influence. It’s a political as well as a temporal interface, a functional democracy, where the needs, pleasures and pains of old and new inhabitants succeed one another as the focus of attention according to the demands of the time.
To put an end to this condition of perpetual motion is the aim of Howl’s and Sophie’s arch-nemesis, the Witch of the Waste. Attended by a bevy of robotic page-boys, the Witch specializes in locking her victims into forms designed to limit their capacity for mobility and self-determination: a scarecrow, a dog, a skull, and of course the old woman Sophie. Each of her victims proves unexpectedly vigorous in resisting their containment; and each derives his or her vigour from Sophie’s boundless energy, which releases them one by one from their bondage through her capacity to ‘talk life’ into things – sticks, scarecrows, skulls, the dog’s inarticulate tongue – and transform them into dynamic components of her own and other people’s narratives or stories. The Witch needs only one more victim, Howl, to complete the construction of her ideal man: a crude puppet-being fashioned from parts of the complex actual people she has metamorphosed into objects or animals. She aims to set up her ideal puppet as King of Ingary – with the Witch as queen – transforming the land in the process into a barren desert bereft of material for the tales of which it should be composed, like the wasteland where she has built her own immobile fortress. Sophie’s resistance to the Witch is achieved through her ability to enable the Witch’s victims to work together as a community in spite of their differences, in spite of the instability of their personalities, in spite of their uncertainty about their individual identities. Her household is a domestic democracy rather than a monarchy. And this notion of domestic democracy, or democratic domesticity, is another thing that seems to have attracted Miyazaki to the novel when he chose to adapt it for what was slated at the time as his final film, his swansong to the animation industry and the century in which he was born.
Miyazaki’s movie has been described as less an adaptation than a reimagining, synchronizing the novelist’s concerns with the director’s through a series of daring shifts away from her storyline towards a set of themes that have engaged him for years. The problem of age remains at the centre of the narrative. Once again Sophie’s premature old age is balanced by Howl’s over-extended childhood, and the central problem is how to synchronize their ages, enabling them to cohabit in the Castle of the title. The problem could be said to represent the plight of an ageing film-maker as he seeks to engage the attention of much younger viewers – the problem I mentioned at the beginning of this talk. But in addition, the two time zones that converge in each of Miyazaki’s central characters – youth and elderliness, adolescence and maturity – become symptomatic of a pervasive dualism that extends through every aspect of their environment. It’s with the nature and function of this dualism that the rest of this post will be concerned.
The principal dualism in the film is a socio-political one, concerning the two alternative futures towards which Ingary may be moving: as a bright, colourful, mutually supportive community dedicated to the arts of peace, or a dark, war-ravaged wasteland, the energies of whose inhabitants are synchronized in a collective drive towards destruction. Suspended between these possible future destinies, the Ingary of the film is an in-between place, drawing on sources in art and history that look two ways. The setting of the movie, for instance, is an alternative turn-of-the-century Europe, where a pastoral landscape of mountains and flower-strewn valleys is overshadowed by smoke-spewing industrial chimneys and half-monstrous, half-comic flying gunships. The model for this landscape is Alsace, the disputed border territory between France and Germany which found itself caught at the epicentre of two world wars. The machines that move around this landscape – from flying kayaks to steam-driven trams and the bomb-filled gunship-zeppelins that patrol the skies – derive from the work of the visionary French artist Albert Robida (1848-1926), who became famous in the fin-de-siècle for his exuberant illustrations of technology as he imagined it would evolve in the coming century. Every visual detail of the film, then, looks two ways, to war and peace, to the past and the future, so that the competition between ages fought out within Howl and Sophie serves as a miniature enactment of the competition over alternative destinies being fought out in the world around them. And the Moving Castle becomes an embodiment of all these dualisms, its erratic movements recalling the jerky progress of a turn-of-the-century nation (in the 1900s or 2000s) towards cataclysm or prosperity, towards life or death – or rather towards both, since the film’s audience is conscious that both will dominate the century they have just emerged from.
Our first view of this building comes with the opening credits, and it’s a very different structure from the chimney-shaped fortress of the novel. Mounted on four metal chicken-legs, Miyazaki’s Castle resembles the hen-footed hut of Baba Yaga the Russian witch, an ambiguous figure who is either child-eater or magical helper depending on the storyteller’s whim; it points, then, to the centrality of ambiguous witches to the narrative. The surface of the Castle bristles with gun turrets and rural cottages, as if to point up the two opposite conditions towards which it may be moving, the military and the cosily domestic. The gun turrets embody Howl’s desire to defend himself from being drawn into war; but they also resemble the gun turrets of the ironclad dreadnoughts of Ingary’s navy, and thus point towards his possible enlistment as a secret weapon in the national defence force. And these ships have been part of the wizard’s life since early childhood. When Sophie visits the lakeside cottage where Howl spent his lonely vacations as a boy, she sees the model of a dreadnought on the table, reminding viewers of how boys are acculturated to play at war by the toys and games on offer. Howl’s Castle, then, fuses two influences from his upbringing, the isolated cottage and the ever-present warship, and Sophie’s adventures in housekeeping there have a direct influence on the direction in which the country, as well as the Castle and its occupants, is moving.
The first major change Miyazaki makes to the novel, then, is to place war at the heart of his film’s narrative, embodying its centrality in the eccentric mobile fortress. You might remember that the military is one of the areas in which sociologists have identified the extensive use of synchrony; by moving in concert, soldiers can be trained to subsume their interests to the interests of the group, even to the extent of sacrificing themselves so that collective actions can be successfully completed. One of the things you’ll notice in Miyazaki’s movie is the coordinated movements of the flying airships, with their flapping wings, and the fleets of human-faced bombs that drop out of their bellies. Clearly certain forms of synchrony encourage only conformity, and total conformity can be as disastrous to a community as total individualism. Some other form of synchrony must be found for the household, if it’s to become a successful centre for resistance to conformity with collective aggression.
The second change Miyazaki makes is to the villain of the story, who gets split in two, like everything else in the movie. The movie’s Witch of the Waste starts out as monstrous as she is in the book: a towering, fleshy presence who conjures Sophie into decrepitude in a spontaneous fit of jealousy. But she is soon supplanted by a much more devious enemy called Madame Suliman. Howl’s former tutor in the magic arts, Suliman deploys her formidable powers, ostensibly in the service of Ingary, as a combination of spymaster, bomber command and military general; and she is eager to secure her most promising pupil as her successor in all these capacities. Her character, then, combines aspects of Miss Pentstemmon (Howl’s kind old tutor in Wynne Jones’s novel), and the novel’s Witch of the Waste, who wishes to fix Howl in an unchanging form as her puppet husband. Like the Witch, Madame Suliman repeatedly tries to invade Howl’s domestic space – the Moving Castle – by a range of methods: direct assaults on the Castle doors by her servants, the blob men; enlisting Sophie’s mother to deliver a magical spy-worm to the building; and above all, by drawing Howl deeper and deeper into armed conflict, on defensive raids from which he returns to domestic life with increasing difficulty, often still locked in the form of a monstrous flying demon he assumes when fighting. Howl’s repeated transformations make him more and more like the flocks of identical flying fortresses that threaten Ingary. Sophie’s challenge in the movie is to compete with Madame Suliman in the effort to synchronize her heart with Howl’s well-protected organ, which he has hidden in the hearth of the Castle for security, guarded by Calcifer. The two women stand for alternative versions of his destiny, his social role: as imperialist warmonger or affectionate family member, as obedient marcher in step with the military or as participant in the mutually supportive domestic community. And the richness of the film consists in its implicit acknowledgment that he could well end up as both.
One of the ways in which this perception is conveyed is through the refusal of the film to set up clearly demarcated opposing sides, of the kind Wynne Jones creates by installing the Witch of the Waste as Howl’s antagonist. Characters literally metamorphose into new shapes as the film goes on, taking on aspects of each other’s appearance and actions, and changing sides in a conflict whose causes and participants are never certain. The blob men who begin as henchmen of the Witch of the Waste seem to switch allegiance half way through, hiring themselves out to the more powerful sorceress, Madame Suliman, after her easy defeat of their first mistress in a showdown at the royal palace. Meanwhile, the defeated Witch becomes a member of the eccentric family circle that occupies Howl’s Castle – a kind of second Sophie, as if to acknowledge Sophie’s complicity with the spell with which the Witch aged her. So too does the asthmatic dog Heen, who starts out as Madame Suliman’s spy but ends as the playmate of Howl’s apprentice Merkl (a younger version of Wynne-Jones’s Michael). In Heen’s place, Sophie’s stepmother becomes Suliman’s spy, delivering the spy-worm to the Moving Castle under pretence of a family reunion with her long lost stepdaughter. Meanwhile another member of Howl’s household, the scarecrow Turnip, turns out in the end to have been an enchanted prince from the neighbouring country with which Ingary is at war. Enemies and friends, in the world of Miyazaki’s later movies, can be indistinguishable – which serves both to point up the painful futility of the conflicts that break out between them, and the possibility, against all odds, of bringing them at last into synchronistic alignment.
The most disturbing ambiguity of affiliation is that of the blob men. As the servants of Madame Suliman one might expect them to form part of Ingary’s army, and indeed when they attack the Castle they wear Ingarian military uniforms. But they also share a civilian uniform – of top hats, masks and tarry bodies – with the winged monsters who emerge from the bellies of the flying gun-ships as they attack Ingary. Madame Suliman, then, seems to be fighting on both sides of the conflict she presides over. For her it’s nothing but a game: the kind of war-game that might delight the young pages who surround her, each of them designed to look like Howl, as if to illustrate her desire to add him to her collection of pretty boys. Madame Suliman exposes her attitude to conflict at the end of the movie when she tells the pages, ‘Let’s put an end to this idiotic war’, implying that she could have done so at any point in the preceding action. She is sinisterly playful, indulging a second childhood in old age as she conducts the affairs of the country from the comfort of a padded wheelchair in her flower-filled conservatory. Yet even Suliman cannot be dismissed as a mere monster; she is too humorous, too detached and too attractive to be so easily summarized, especially because it’s never entirely clear if all her machinations are actually causing damage to the people caught up in them. Her body, like Howl’s and Sophie’s, or like Ingary itself, is a space where different elements converge, each in turn becoming dominant as she wearies of the game she has been playing and moves on to a new one. So she too harbours the potential to be subsumed into a new model of domestic cohabitation.
War itself slips between identities as the film goes on, becoming sometimes a game, sometimes a hideous nightmare, in response to the changing moods of its conductors. At the beginning it’s a carnival, a form of collective play for the people of Ingary, whose lives are filled with toys: fancy hats from Sophie’s hat-shop, fancy cakes from the bakery where her sister works, national flags, charmingly silly steam-driven vehicles. It’s conducted by dashing soldiers in bright uniforms, post-adolescent show-offs who steer motorized kayaks around the sky like teenagers in sports cars. At the harbour, the civilians celebrate with childish enthusiasm the deployment of the national fleet. Sophie’s own stepmother adds to the air of flippant collusion with warfare by wearing a hat decorated with naval cannon in honour of the dreadnoughts. At first, then, war is full of light and colour; but it soon grows dark and violent, swallowed up in the bomb-torn night whose reds and blacks threaten by the end to dominate the movie’s palette. Lightness, then, and light, are capable of giving birth to heaviness and gloom; and in this war follows the trajectory along which Suliman is keen to steer her pupil Howl.
From the beginning, Howl shares Suliman’s moral ambiguity. Rumour has it he devours the hearts of the girls he seduces; and although he first makes his appearance in a very different role – snatching the girl Sophie from the clutches of a pair of soldiers – even at that point he’s a source of danger, pursued by blob men who threaten Sophie more than the soldiers did. Not long after this, Sophie undergoes her transformation at the hands of the Witch, leaves home and joins Howl’s household as an elderly cleaner. But when she starts to clean up, she accidentally switches the blond and black hair dyes in his bathroom; and the transformation of Howl’s hair from blond to black signals his potential to transform himself from hero to villain, like a cowboy changing hats. This prospective switch of moral allegiance is foreshadowed by his reaction to the hair-dye incident. Howl goes into a titanic adolescent sulk, during which he generates both copious quantities of green slime, as in the novel, and a host of shadow-monsters closely resembling the blob men. This extravagant reaction, with its echoes of the sinister sorcery of the Witch and Suliman, is rendered more disturbing by the fact that immediately before this scene we witnessed Howl in action for the first time against the invading air force; an experience he seems to take far more lightly than Sophie’s assault on his cosmetics.
Howl’s lightness, then – his excessive concern for his appearance and the pleasures of flirtation – represents the flip side of his increasingly frequent forays into the darkness of war. If boys are the perfect recruits for a nation’s armies, Howl’s insistence on retaining his adolescent traits – his filthy, toy-strewn bedroom, from which he bars the cleaner Sophie; the ‘secret garden’ of his childhood, where his cottage retreat is hidden; his love of fancy clothes – is what renders him vulnerable to Suliman’s efforts to draw him into her war games. The connection between his boyish lightness and his attraction to war is made most vividly when he shows Sophie the secret garden. At this point he looks much younger than he did earlier, gesturing towards flowers and mountains with the wide-eyed enthusiasm of childhood. But the appearance of a flying gunship prompts him to begin the change into a winged monster, smiling as he launches a magical attack on the gunship with one claw-like hand. The monster and the boy cohabit in Howl, both of them symptoms of his heartlessness – that is, his staunch defence of his emotional secrets, his carapace of bright insouciance, from external assault. If the literally light-hearted Calcifer guards Howl’s heart in the hearth of the Castle, safely hidden from intruders, it’s for Sophie to lend him the weight he needs to launch into a mature relationship.
Sophie, on the other hand, needs to achieve synchrony with Howl if she’s to escape the weight of self-inflicted reponsibility that binds her to an aged body. Their first meeting shows her what is missing from her life as a girl: the lightness Howl possesses in abundance. Wearing her trademark sober clothes and unflattering hat, she timidly skirts the carnival crowds as she crosses the city, dodging into shadowy back-streets to avoid the limelight. It’s in one of these alleys that Howl rescues her from the soldiers; and he later saves her from the blob men by launching them both into the air without the aid of wings, then walking with her, arm in arm, along an invisible pavement in the sky, visually acting out the light-heartedness of first love. After that, Sophie continues to see the airborne Howl as the carefree young man of this meeting, and works, as he grows darker and more monstrous, to align the chaotic interior of his Castle with the brightness of his first appearance. In the process she discovers lightness and colour in herself, which are reflected in the light and colour she brings to Howl’s shabby domicile – as well as in her increasingly frequent unconscious shifts from old age to youth. For a woman burdened with an overdeveloped sense of responsibility and wedded to the shadows, Sophie succeeds in bringing an abundance of brightness to the Castle’s gloomy interior. She smashes a hole in the wall with a flying kayak while escaping from Suliman’s troops, and inspires the wizard to shift the Castle to the many-windowed, sunlit hat-shop to keep his household safe. Her final transformation of the Castle, when she rebuilds it from scratch by removing Calcifer, with Howl’s heart, from the fortified hearth and carrying both outside, culminates in the reduction of the building to an open platform, its defences stripped away, its inhabitants exposed to the elements. And although this transformation begins at night, so that its implications are hidden by the mountain gloom that surrounds the platform, when the dawn comes it’s clear that Sophie’s housekeeping has finally exposed Howl and his remarkable family to the open scrutiny from which he has so sedulously been keeping them hidden.
The synchrony between Howl and Sophie reaches its culmination in the reconstructed Moving Castle of the final frames. Winging its way across an open sky, on flapping wings not so very dissimilar to the wings of the airborne gunships, the flying fortress is now dominated by cottages rather than gun-turrets, gardens rather than protective armour. It represents, then, Howl’s opening up of his childhood secret garden to a wider community, his entry into full socialization – an entry in which the rejuvenated Sophie fully participates. But the gun turrets still poke out of the castle roof, and though the flying gunships are heading home they have not been destroyed or dismantled. The difficulty of achieving synchrony in personal relationships – between generations of a family or different people in the same generation – is clearly equivalent here to the difficulty of achieving synchrony between rival nations: a harmonising of different interests to the mutual advantage of both parties.
Flight has been rendered joyful rather than threatening in the final frames of Howl’s Moving Castle. Howl and Sophie face forward into the future from the bows of the Castle with the self-assurance of young lovers, whose relationship has been literally tested in the fire. But the future towards which they are facing – whether it’s the twentieth century, when the film is set, or the beginning of the new millennium, when the film was made – will surely share the synchronies of their relationship: its darkness as well as its light, its war as well as its peace, the premature ageing brought on by anxiety as well as the exuberance of childhood prolonged into maturity. And the Moving Castle remains a poignantly rickety structure in which to confront such a future.
 For a full account of Diana Wynne Jones’s recurrent themes, see Farah Mendlesohn, Diana Wynne Jones: The Fantastic Tradition and Children’s Literature (New York: Routledge, 2006).
 See The Art of Howl’s Moving Castle (San Francisco: Viz, 2005), p. 12.
 For Robida, see The Art of Howl’s Moving Castle, p. 49.
 The term ‘blob men’ is used in The Art of Howl’s Moving Castle, p. 212 and elsewhere.
 The quotation is taken from the script of the film as translated by Jim Hubbert, The Art of Howl’s Moving Castle, p. 252.
 For an extended discussion of the concept of lightness (as against weight) in twentieth-century history, see Italo Calvino, Six Memos for the Next Millennium, trans. Patrick Creagh (London: Penguin, 2009), Lecture 1, ‘Lightness’, pp. 3-29.
 The term ‘secret garden’, with its invocation of Frances Hodgson Burnett’s novel, is used in Hubbert’s translation of Miyazaki’s script. See The Art of Howl’s Moving Castle, p. 240.
I should begin with an explanation. I’m interested in fantasy as a form of history, and I’m writing (very slowly) a book called The Fantastic History of the Twentieth Century. The question at the heart of it is: why did the twentieth century see so many writers turn to fantasy and the fantastic as their preferred response to an era of unprecedented social, political and technological change? By fantasy I mean here the literature of the impossible: writing that makes use of events or creatures that not only never existed but clearly could never exist, since their occurrence would break the rules by which our lives are governed: the rules of physics, biology, psychology, verisimilitude and so on. To read fantasy is to enter into a contract whereby writer and reader engage in the Coleridgean suspension of disbelief in its most extreme form, not merely accommodating coincidences and improbably elegant patterns in human affairs but such wonders as flight on broomsticks, fire-breathing dragons, the revival of corpses, and the spontaneous metamorphosis of an ordinary man into a giant cockroach. Fantasy is not science fiction, in that SF implies some sort of rational explanation for the impossible events it relates – though there’s no hard and fast line between the two genres. But to me the most important fact about fantasy and the fantastic is that we know full well it couldn’t happen – and yet we have persisted in seeking out such narratives of impossibility until the twentieth and (so far) the twenty-first century have seen a higher proportion of such narratives printed than any previous era. Why?
The Easter Rising is an interesting test case for this project because it saw the direct first-hand involvement of two major Irish fantasy writers, each of whom approached it from very different political viewpoints, and each of whom wrote a powerful account of their experiences – in one case while the Rising was going on, in the other over twenty years years later. The first of these writers was James Stephens, a committed nationalist, a regular contributor to Arthur Griffiths’s newspaper Sinn Féin, and a close friend of one of the leaders of the Rising, Thomas MacDonagh. Stephens’s novel The Crock of Gold (1912) became something of a household item in Ireland, and was influential on Flann O’Brien and C. S. Lewis. The second fantasy writer present at the Rising was Edward Plunkett, better known as Lord Dunsany, widely celebrated in fantasy circles as the author of short stories and novels of unrivalled brilliance which influenced such diverse fantasists as H. P. Lovecraft, J.R.R. Tolkien and Ursula K. Le Guin. Dunsany was a Unionist and a Captain in the British Army at the time of the Rising. But one of the things that emerges from the accounts each writer gives of the events of Easter 1916 and the fantasy texts they relate to is that drawing clear political lines in pre-Free State Ireland is to a great extent impossible – a form of impossibility, indeed, that the fiction of Stephens and Dunsany is concerned to resist.
The impossibility of drawing clear political lines makes itself particularly felt in the case of Dunsany. He was a Unionist, but his family name of Plunkett was intimately associated with the nationalist cause. His uncle, the agricultural reformer Sir Horace Plunkett, was a prominent advocate of Home Rule, while another of his close relatives, Joseph Plunkett, was one of the leaders of the Easter Rising. Dunsany’s friend the poet Francis Ledwidge was another nationalist, who wrote one of the most celebrated verse responses to the Rising, ‘Lament for the Poets’, which transforms the leaders – three of whom were poets like himself – into blackbirds whose songs have been extinguished for ever. Dunsany’s religious affiliations, too, were mixed. He was raised a Protestant, but many of his relatives were Catholic, including George Noble Plunkett, a Papal Count and the father of Joseph. A similar criss-crossing web of political and religious affiliations could be traced for Stephens, and it’s this socio-political complexity that is most startlingly foregrounded both in their fantasy narratives and their accounts of the Easter Rising.
Stephens’s The Insurrection in Dublin (1916) derives much of its power from its status as reportage. The text commentates day by day on the unfolding events of the week of turbulence, and opens and closes with more carefully-written sections composed in the week that followed. These final sections are interrupted from time to time by news of the executions of the leaders. The first chapter tells how on Easter Monday Dubliners woke up to find that armed conflict had broken out in their city, unannounced and unsuspected. They spent the rest of the week effectively cut off from the rest of the world, without news or fresh supplies of food, forced to turn to one another for the smallest titbit of information or unfounded rumour as to what was going on. The effect of these things – the irruption of the astounding into the everyday and the lack of information – is deeply surreal. At times, indeed, it borders on the fantastic, corresponding more or less to what Farah Mendlesohn defines in Rhetorics of Fantasy as ‘intrusion fantasy’, where the impossible manifests itself in ordinary surroundings, like the bug in Kafka’s Metamorphosis or the devil in Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margharita. Stephens was already a master of intrusion fantasy when he wrote his pamphlet: The Crock of Gold records the arrival in Ireland of the Greek god Pan, while The Demi-Gods (1914) tells of three angels who accompany some travellers on a road trip around the Irish countryside. Both novels involve expert transitions between moods: comic dialogue between a Philosopher and his wife, or between children and a bunch of Leprechauns, is interspersed with fine lyrical writing and occasional excursions into poignant moments of social realism. It’s not surprising, then, if he brings out the patchwork of incongruous moods and startling encounters that makes up the experience of that week in 1916, and punctuates his narrative with encounters with the wildly improbable – though nothing more so than the Rising itself.
Stephens planned to spend that Easter Monday teaching himself the notes of the scale in order to play the dulcimer: a percussion instrument most famously associated with Coleridge’s hallucinogenic masterpiece ‘Kubla Khan’. Instead he finds himself wandering the city streets, witnessing at first hand the attitudes of citizens of all classes to the strange conflict they are caught up in. The theme that emerges from these wanderings, and that returns again and again as the story unfolds, is the imagination. People imagine the causes and progress of the insurrection from many different perspectives. Stephens himself imagines what it might be like to be inside one of those houses under continuous fire by heavy machine guns and artillery. Visionary lunatics imagine nothing but defeat for the British army and victory for the Volunteers; in particular, Stephens twice encounters a ‘wild individual who spat rumour as though his mouth were a machine gun or a linotype machine’. In the final chapter Stephens even gives his own definition for the word ‘imagination’, with the quirky self-assurance of the old Philosopher in The Crock of Gold. ‘Imagination,’ he says, ‘is intelligent kindness’ – though that’s clearly what he thinks it ought to be rather than what it is, since he is the first to acknowledge the role in the Rising of other kinds of imaginings. Extremist bigotry in the North, for instance, has ‘imagined into our quiet air’ – the air of Ireland – ‘brigands and thugs and titans’, an illusion that brought about the formation of the Ulster Volunteers. It was imagined humiliation that drove the Irish Volunteers to insurrection, convinced that the British Army were about to deprive them of their weapons. Nevertheless, Stephens defines the imagination at its best as ‘intelligent kindness’, and it’s the lack of this quality that he sees as the single most important cause of the insurrection, the most disastrous failing of the British Government in its ongoing dialogue with the Irish people.
It’s the lack of political imagination, he tells us in the foreword of the book, that prevented English Statesmen from finding a solution to the question of how Ireland is to gain her independence – something the English are as keen as the Irish to bring about, or so he believes. ‘In their dealings with this country,’ he observes,
English Statesmen have seldom shown political imagination; sometimes they have been just, sometimes, and often, unjust. After a certain point I dislike and despise justice. It is an attribute of God, and is adequately managed by Him alone; but between man and man no other ethics save that of kindness can give results.
He explains what he means by ‘kindness’ a few sentences later. For him it’s a combination of generosity and the capacity to feel what another person feels by an emotional and intellectual effort; an effort that involves looking closely ‘through the smoke that is rolling from the North Sea to Switzerland’ and comparing what they see with what they would feel under similar circumstances. Stephens later seems to draw on the etymology of the word ‘kind’ by allying it with kinship or familial closeness:
Should the English Statesman decide that our friendship is worth having let him create a little of the political imagination already spoken of. Let him equip us […] for freedom, not in the manner of a miser who arranges for the chilly livelihood of a needy female relative; but the way a wealthy father would undertake the settlement of his son.
A better account of kindness – and of imagination as its instrument – is given in the narrative that follows. In it Stephens allows himself with startling generosity to inhabit the mindset both of opponents of the Rising and of its supporters – and of the many people who aren’t sure, or won’t reveal, what they think about it. All are his neighbours, many are his friends, and Stephens moves among them listening to their stories with the same curiosity and ready sympathy that the Philosopher shows as he walks the country roads in The Crock of Gold. Stephens’s class background made this easy for him – he was born poor and moved among the poor as well as the rich throughout his life. His novels made it easy too, since in them he seeks to represent the widest possible range of people and their stories in the interests of bringing Ireland together in a new kind of imaginative unity. It’s this kind of political imagination, it seems to me – the kind that enables men and women to see into each other’s souls, as he puts it in the introduction to the Insurrection – that he sought to instil in his readers as he wrote his pamphlet.
Much of Stephens’s best journalism was given over to brief character sketches of Dublin eccentrics; and he uses the same technique in the Insurrection. The sketches with which it’s filled bring out two things with equal skill: the rapidly changing mood of the Dubliners, and the city’s fragmentation. On the first day, for instance, Stephens watches as a man insists on moving his lorry from the barricades despite all the warning shouts of the insurgents, and afterwards walks towards their rifles ‘with one hand raised and one finger up as though he were going to make a speech’. The man is shot in the head at point blank range. ‘At that moment’, Stephens tells us, ‘the Volunteers were hated’; the sympathy of the bystanders is with the man, who refuses to be intimidated into losing the vehicle by which he makes his living. In the following chapter we hear about women who lob bricks and bottles at the Volunteers who are fighting a troop of lancers: ‘Would you be hurting the poor men?’ the women shout, and ‘Would you be hurting the poor horses?’ Here the sympathy is with the lancers because of the absurdity of deploying cavalry in a street fight: at this point they are the weaker side. Later Stephens tells of a Volunteer who ‘held a lady’s umbrella in his hand, and whenever some person became particularly annoying he would leap the barricade and chase his man half a street, hitting him over the head with the umbrella’. He sees a wounded Volunteer lying on a bench, raising his hand from time to time in an appeal for help. The man can’t be helped because his position is covered by snipers. Each of these sketches brings our sympathy back to the insurgents. And inevitably, as time goes by, the mood of Dublin fluctuates like the reader’s. At first the most voluble citizens are against the Rising – not too surprisingly, Stephens points out, given the huge number of their compatriots who were fighting at the time with the British army against the Germans. But as the Volunteers continue to hold out against all odds, a sense of pride in their achievement begins to take over, and with it an increasingly vocal sympathy for them. On the third day the sun was shining:
Almost everyone was smiling and attentive, and a democratic feeling was abroad, to which our City is very much a stranger; for while in private we are a sociable and talkative people we have no street manners or public ease whatever. Every person spoke to every other person, and men and women mixed and talked without constraint.
By this point urban reserve has broken down, a kind of forecast of what the insurrection will achieve in Stephens’s conclusion: a new consciousness among the Irish of their collective identity. The talk, however, is wary, and people are careful not to express opinions on one side or another. As a result, the exceptions stand out. Stephens meets a working class woman who swears incessantly at the men of Dublin for failing to rise in support of the insurgents, and who asks Stephens courteously for a light before returning to her swearing. He later speaks to a working class man who gives a detailed analysis of the role of the Labour movement in the insurrection. Later still he gives a moving sketch of a man called Skeffington, who took no part in the insurgency but was shot by the British army for expressing support of it:
He was the most absurdly courageous man I have ever met with or heard of. He has been in every trouble that has touched Ireland these ten years back, and he has always been in on the generous side, therefore, and naturally, on the side that was unpopular and weak. It would seem indeed that a cause had only to be weak to gain his sympathy, and his sympathy never stayed at home.
Skeffington was beaten up repeatedly by his fellow citizens for his outspokenness, and eventually suffered a brutal death at the hands of the British. By this stage in the account it’s hardly possible for any reader not to be siding with the insurgents – the outspoken ones, the ones who talk frankly about what everyone else knows well but doesn’t dare to express: the need for sympathy with the weak, the need to be rid of colonial masters who have no touch of Stephens’s ‘kindness’ about them. And it’s only a short step from this sympathy with individual victims of the British army to recognizing the enemies of that army as friends of the nation.
In the last few chapters, Stephens’s account undergoes another change in political emphasis. By Friday food was getting short, and he describes how he meets a girl whose family had eaten nothing for three days. When her father brought home two loaves of bread they rushed at him, she says, ‘and in a minute we were all ashamed for the loaves were gone to the last crumb, and we were all as hungry as we had been before he came in’. The father got nothing, and the girl concludes that the poor people of Dublin are against the Volunteers who have robbed them of food. On the following day Stephens meets a young boy who is cradling a large ham. ‘He had been trying for three days to convey his ham to a house near the Gresham Hotel where his sister lived. He had almost given up hope, and he hearkened intelligently to the idea that he should himself eat the ham and so get rid of it’. Hunger takes a grip as the insurrection draws to an end; it’s a familiar condition among the poor, and plays a central role in The Crock of Gold as well as his realist novel The Charwoman’s Daughter (1912). It’s an Irish problem, though not one of the two big Irish problems Stephens names in his final chapter, those of independence and religious conflict. And the sketch that closes Chapter Seven – devoted to Saturday, the penultimate day of the insurrection – announces the arrival of another form of business as usual. Stephens sees four policemen marching into the street, the first he’s seen all week. ‘Soon now’, he observes sardonically,
the military tale will finish, the police story will commence, the political story will recommence, and, perhaps, the weeks that follow this one will sow the seed of more hatred than so many centuries will be able to uproot again, for although Irish people do not greatly fear the military they fear the police, and they have very good reason to do so.
The oppressive presence of the Dublin constabulary breaks through the chaos of war both as a sign of the transition to peace and as a reminder of what caused the war in the first place.
After the generosity and ecumenism of Stephens’s previous sketches, his account of the marching policemen stands out for its unambiguous hostility, its refusal to sustain the tone of impartiality that governs the rest. And the pamphlet ends with another unambiguous statement: this time, of solidarity with the insurrectionists. In response to his eye witness account Stephens asks the Irish people to use their eyes; to examine themselves and the state of their country, instead of allowing themselves to be distracted by the smoke that lies beyond, on the battlefields of the Great War. ‘Our eyes,’ he says, ‘must be withdrawn from the ends of the earth and fixed on that which is around us and which we can touch […] I believe that all but local politics are unfruitful and soul-destroying’. Here in Ireland, he goes on, ‘is the world, and all that perplexes or delights the world is here’. ‘The Volunteers are dead,’ he concludes, ‘and the call is now for volunteers’. This conclusion takes the narrow focus of the pamphlet – Dublin with its closed borders, unable to get information about what’s going on beyond their limits, forced into close attention for seven days to the suffering of its own inhabitants – and turns it into a strength. Instead of ending, the story of the insurrection is here extended to include Stephens’s readers; instead of being restricted within a narrow compass of time and space, the Rising opens out to include a new generation of volunteers. The local is transformed into the national, and the fate of a little nation is made into a matter of international significance. And in the process Stephens reproduces in this pamphlet the intellectual, emotional and poetic trajectory of his most celebrated fantasy, The Crock of Gold.
The Crock begins as a local affair, when a quarrel breaks out between the farmer Meehawl MacMurrachu and a family of local Leprechauns whose special bird, the robin, has been killed by the farmer’s cat. The quarrel escalates when the Leprechauns steal the farmer’s washboard, and the farmer in response steals the Leprechauns’ crock of gold, on the advice of a local Philosopher. In reply the Leprechauns kidnap the Philosopher’s children and inveigle the farmer’s daughter out of his household and into the clutches of the Greek god Pan. Worst of all, they call in the police to arrest the Philosopher for the murder of his brother – who committed suicide in a fit of existential pique at the start of the novel. In the process they elevate the quarrel from a local matter to an affair of national and even international importance, since the Irish police are willing tools of the British Empire. The Philosopher’s arrest sparks off an insurrection, though it’s of a very different kind than the insurrection in Dublin.
The spatial trajectory of the Crock of Gold is one of expansion, moving from the Philosopher’s tiny cottage in a deep dark wood, where his children are surprised and delighted by the appearance of a single sunbeam, to the exhilaration of the open road, as the Philosopher marches to meet the goat god in an effort to liberate the farmer’s daughter from his beastly attentions. The emotional trajectory of the story, too, is an opening out. At the beginning the Philosopher and his wife are always at odds, the Thin Woman of Inis MacGrath expressing her displeasure with his obstinacy through the medium of lumps in his stirabout and rheumatic pain (as a member of the Shee she can manage both techniques of retaliation) while the Philosopher resorts to the maddening tactic of never hearing a word she says. Neighbours are always feuding, and Pan’s arrival in Ireland is an expression of a more widespread sense of loneliness and isolation, a loss of enchantment that is spreading across Europe. The Philosopher’s journey, by contrast, brings him in contact with a wider community of Irish men and women, who exchange pleasant conversation with proper ceremony, and are as liberal with their food as with their stories. His journey also extends his philosophy. He has always constructed his wisdom from the examples of birds and beasts, ants, goats, dogs and crows, and the journey puts him in contact with a wider bestiary than he could have encountered in his woodland cottage. Each fellow traveller he meets offers a new perspective on some particular problem – marriage, friendship, labour, childhood, poverty, hunger and old age. By the time he has found his way to the Irish deity, Angus Og, he is at one with the road and all the many different people he meets there. He is also, not incidentally, reconciled to his fairy wife. The resemblance to what happens to Dublin in Stephens’s Insurrection is fairly clear.
The difference is that Dublin begins in a far more fragmented state than the Philosopher’s world does. Its differences of opinion, its feuds, the perpetual hunger of its poorer citizens and the threat posed by the colonial authorities has left the Dubliners bereft of sympathy, forgetful of the time honoured customs of exchange and courtesy that rule the road. The world they inhabit is the world of the police; and it’s the intrusion of these same police into the Philosopher’s community that finally draws its attention away from feuding and petty differences and incites it to collective action. The police who arrest the Philosopher for his brother’s murder obey a different economy from the farmers, Leprechauns and women of the Shee who cohabit with him. The rural economy of fair exchange – whether of friendship or enmity – is replaced in the policemen’s minds by an economy of justice: the justice Stephens tells us in the Insurrection he dislikes and despises. It’s a justice that doesn’t much care who gets punished for a crime so long as punishment happens; which deems the only fitting form of punishment to be violence; and which leads its proponents into chains of logic that tend always to violence instead of wisdom or kindness – the precise reverse of the Philosopher’s genial form of inductive reasoning. Such justice gets meted out in the Insurrection to the martyr Skeffington, the leaders of the Rising, and the wounded Volunteers who are shot in the street, in obedience to the reasoning that drives Ulster extremists to plant brigands and thugs in the rest of Ireland. The narrowness of this reasoning is magnificently embodied in the squalid yard of the barracks where the Philosopher is incarcerated; and the dead ends to which it leads are summed up in the monologues he hears in the cell there, in which desolate urban voices tell of their loss of jobs, love, hope and kindness as a result of illness and old age.
The final chapter of The Crock of Gold, called ‘The Happy March’, enacts the same kind of generous opening out as happens in the final chapter of the Insurrection. A combined army of the ancient Shee, summoned by the Thin Woman and Angus Og, flood down from the hills in a weaponless dance that liberates men and women from the many restrictions of mind and body:
Down to the city they went dancing and singing; among the streets and the shops telling their sunny tale […] And they took the Philosopher from his prison, even the Intellect of Man they took from the hands of the doctors and lawyers, from the sly priests, from the professors whose mouths are gorged with sawdust, and the merchants who sell blades of grass […] and then they returned again, dancing and singing, to the country of the gods…
There’s an absurd optimism about this ending – a self-evident burst of myth-driven wish fulfilment. The end of the Insurrection is more measured in its optimism, but it’s driven by a similar urge to liberate those who’ve been imprisoned in body and mind. And the later work has the great advantage of having been written after Stephens had witnessed the effect of the Easter Rising on the Dublin citizens, who were forged into a democracy by it, for a while at least. For Stephens the aftermath of the Rising would be the Happy March of the Irish nation, the realisation of the closing vision of The Crock of Gold. And the Rising had given him hope that such a vision could be more than fantasy.
As I said earlier, Lord Dunsany was a Captain in the British Army when the Insurrection broke out, and since he was on leave at his home near Dublin at the time he thought it his duty to report for orders to GHQ. His journey to the unit he had been assigned took him directly into the path of the Volunteers, who started shooting at his car, wounding his chauffeur and hitting Dunsany in the face with a ricocheted bullet. The Volunteers took Dunsany prisoner, apologised for shooting him, and transported him to the hospital in Jervis Street. There he was nursed by nuns, who described the bullets flying past the window as ‘nasty little things’ and cooked him lamb chops sent through the barricades by a fellow Meath man, a nationalist, who felt the patient needed some protein at a time when food was running short.
Being stranded behind enemy lines, so to speak, seems to have had a profound effect on his imagination. The most direct reference to the experience comes in his quasi-realistic novel The Curse of the Wise Woman (1933), in which a young Catholic aristocrat very much like Dunsany, religion aside, is confronted by four men who wish to assassinate his father for political reasons. It’s never stated exactly what the men’s politics are, but one of them later rises to prominence in the Free State government. Despite their political differences with the boy’s father, the four men are soon on friendly terms with the boy himself, and before they leave the leader gives him some advice on shooting geese – and on shooting men. He tells him to aim a foot ahead of a walking man at one hundred yards. A few years later when he wrote his account of his injury in his autobiography, Patches of Sunlight (1938), Dunsany observed sardonically that none of the men who were shooting at him could have had this advice themselves, since their ‘neglect to aim three inches in front of my neck as I went across the street’ meant that all their bullets went ‘where I heard them, just behind it’. The advice given by one political faction to the child of another in Dunsany’s novel, here given back to his old enemies by Dunsany (though he adds that it would be ‘unsporting’ to take advantage of it), confirms the complexity of cultural connections I mentioned at the beginning. But there’s a far more persistent element of his Dublin experience that finds its way into his fantastic fiction, and that confirms this cultural complexity in a far more potent fashion.
Again and again in stories and novels he wrote afterwards he returns to the idea of one culture overrunning another like a flood overwhelming a plain. One occurrence of the metaphor comes in his short story collection Tales of War (1918). The first story, ‘The Prayer of the Men of Daleswood’, concerns a group of soldiers from a small Kent village whose army unit suddenly finds itself stranded behind enemy lines. In the brief period before their annihilation the men realise that if they all die there will be no memory left of the aspects of their village they consider important; so they decide to inscribe a memorial on a chunk of chalk, commemorating the things about it they love. As it turns out, however, they can’t agree on what to write: about the woods with the foxgloves in them, or the valleys full of mint and thyme, or the old houses with their ‘queer chimneys’; and in any case they have no belief that they can express what they want to say when they’ve agreed to say it. In the end they inscribe a short prayer: ‘Please, God, remember Daleswood just like it used to be’. A few hours later their unit is rescued, the chalk smashed to pieces, and the incident forgotten. Their time behind enemy lines recalls Dunsany’s in the hospital – Dunsany was a man of Kent as well as an Irishman, and had plenty of time to think about what would be left of his memories as he listened to the artillery pounding the street outside the hospital windows. From what he wrote in his own memoirs, much of what he considered important resembled the transient, seasonal things loved by the men of Daleswood; things beyond war and politics and history, like shooting geese on a marsh in spring.
Dunsany’s most celebrated fantasy novel, The King of Elfland’s Daughter (1924), takes up the theme of one culture overwhelming another in the form of a magical union of two nations. The tale tells of the men of Erl, a village named for Dunsany’s mother (one of whose family names was Erl or Ernle), and their yearning to be remembered, like the men of Daleswood. The elders of the village conclude that the shortest route to being commemorated in history is through magic, and therefore urge their lord to marry his son to Lirazel, the daughter of the King of Elfland. The upshot of this wish, after many years of negotiations with magical things from beyond the borders of the ‘fields we know’, is that the King of Elfland extends the boundaries of his country to include the village; in this way he ensures that he will not lose his daughter to a mortal husband and that she will not pine away with desire for the beauties of the mortal world. The analogy with the Union of Ireland and England is easy to draw, and many have drawn it; but the stranding of Erl alone in all the country behind magical borders makes it a better model for Dunsany’s personal situation. It recalls his experiences in the Rising, where he found himself among hostile strangers who were also his friends and relatives, and his lifelong cultural situation split between England and Ireland, united by his love of both and his desire to keep them together against all odds. The King of Elfland has a rune that confirms the union of Erl and Elfland for all eternity; Dunsany merely has the rune of his writing. The theme of isolation is in fact central to the novel, embodied in the young lord Alveric, who wins and loses the Elf Princess and then spends years in a Quixotic quest to recover her, wandering the fields we know with a motley band of lovers, poets and madmen, vainly searching for the borders of Elfland that are hidden from him till the final pages of the novel. The union of nations that occurs at the novel’s end is also a family reunion, bringing together Alveric, Lirazel and their son Orion, and thus enacting a happy if fantastic solution for the strange splits and rifts that had come between the different branches of the Plunkett dynasty.
The final occurrence of the metaphor of overwhelming comes in The Curse of the Wise Woman, when the old woman of the title summons occult forces to move the bog of Lisronagh to overwhelm the industrial peat-cutting machines of a syndicate, whose operations threaten to destroy the bog completely. The old woman, Mrs Marlin, is a visionary, who has dealings with the past in the form of the half forgotten Land of Youth, Tir-nan-Og, and whose visions of the future include an Irish Empire that dwarfs Britain’s: ‘And the ambassadors from foreign lands, coming to greet us, will pass up our rivers, and anchor under the walls of the Irish cities, and see their ships go dark from the shade of our towers and humble from the glow of our cities’ pride.’ Her powers when she exerts them against the syndicate prove to be formidable, and involve all the transient things that unite the Irish in spite of politics: among other things the land, the weather, a love of language, a delight in the past, a passion for the future. ‘I could not distinguish words or even what language she spoke in,’ the narrator tells us as he watches her curse slowly take effect:
And then the great lights appeared, the lights I had often read of but never seen, the will-o’-the-wisps over the deeps of the bog; and, strange as they looked out there on that desperate night, it was stranger to hear her crooning to them, welcoming them one by one, so far as I was able to make out from the tones of words that I could not hear.
Mrs Marlin disappears when the bog moves in response to her curses, drowning in a sea of peat along with the machinery. But she leaves behind two things: the memory of a wonderful past as recorded in songs and stories, and the hope of an extraordinary future, to be written in a strange new language the young narrator has not yet learned. Dunsany shared with Stephens a political imagination; and like those of Stephens his books are intended to return it to its source, the Irish people, as well as to extend their local knowledge to a worldwide audience. It’s time to do justice to the vast ambitions of these two fine writers.
Warm thanks to Kirsty Lusk for letting me read her brilliant MA dissertation on Dunsany, and for providing much additional information; and to Thomas Clancy for asking me to give this paper to the Centre for Scottish and Celtic Studies at the University of Glasgow.