Faren Miller reviews Kit Whitfield
Reviewing Kit Whitfield's first novel Benighted, I called her a promising newcomer, even if her introduction of lycanthropic activities as an important element in modern life (with a long history) didn't quite manage to convince me. But now she follows it with In Great Waters, a superb fantasy that substitutes merfolk for werewolves and employs both historic figures and her own variations on the mindsets of late-medieval England to great effect.
In his first five years, the merboy later known as Henry (it used to be "a sound best rendered by the word Whistle," reflecting a dolphin-like form of communication) is the runt of his tribe, a poor swimmer with his bifurcated tail and frequent need to surface for oxygen. Other youngsters mob him and call him "stranger," his mother has to rescue him from situations where the others would be safe, and eventually even she seems to tire of him — taking Whistle up to the shoreline and leaving him there to fend for himself.
Small and grayish but intelligent and possessed of an inhuman strength, this lad has some things in common with Pratchett's Nutt, and retaining his early memories only makes him more miserable. On land, he manages to survive for a couple of days by eating mollusks, but then he seeks human help. He gets more than he bargained for, passing into the hands of a man with long-range plans for using him as a political tool. England's royalty consists of "deepfolk"/"landfolk" hybrids and the latest dynasty seems weak, with an aging king, foreign queen, incompetent crown prince, and daughters regarded as no more than marriage fodder. There's room for someone new.
At first, Henry can only struggle in what seems like a wholly alien world. Early attempts to dress him lead to hysterics, and even after he's accepted the inevitable he doesn't like it, for "in the sea it was always cold, and his garments were a blindfold for his body. Shoes were even worse... flexible traps...." Despite these woes, he develops an interest in the true forms of landfolk: "Flat-chested men and swollen-chested women, as with the tribe, but the jellyfish-skirted women concealed under their clothes two plain legs like the men." He knows he's not one of them, but gradually (during a period of harsh training laced with a little covert sympathy) learns to cope and even finds one potential human friend of about his own age.
In Book Two the attention shifts to Anne, a princess. She's young herself, still trying to understand the ways of court, the differing natures of her remote parents, and what her role might come to be in a world dominated by wars fought mostly on land, amid a welter of treaties and betrayals. Crippled with the "flexible legs" that run in her family, and with the added weirdness of a slightly luminous blue face, she should feel more at home in the sea. But her first official encounter with the court of their kin out in the bay — "thirty, forty, a whole choir" — is unsettling:
(Her facial type is an adaptive trait, in the lower depths.)
Before their plot threads intersect, we follow Henry and Anne through several years where both struggle against circumstance but with very different views of the landsmen's religion. At first the whole story behind the image of Christ crucified confuses and disturbs Henry, particularly when it's linked to the notion of sin: "Having done his best not to be stupid for as long as he could remember, Henry could not see any reason why a dead landsman who looked nothing like him should be accusing him of doing bad things." He'll remain a skeptic. Born into a more troubled world, Anne swiftly takes to the concept of a Prince of Peace, and she finds personal joy in some aspects of the faith: "Christ had said to man, You are the salt of the earth, and Anne had listened. When she prayed, she could taste it: God, the flavour of every thread and scrap of the world."
While Whitfield's strong sense of character gives life and complexity even to the schemers, arrogant power-mongers, and borderline maniacs who collectively make life for Henry, Anne and other relative innocents more dangerous than any ocean current swarming with sharks, her two young protagonists stand at the heart of the book. Still it's not just their tale. She interweaves the story of their trials and maturation into a mixture of real and imagined political and cultural history (both English and in a larger European sphere) that manages to be thoroughly compelling, even without the drama of those later revolutions.
In his first five years, the merboy later known as Henry (it used to be "a sound best rendered by the word Whistle," reflecting a dolphin-like form of communication) is the runt of his tribe, a poor swimmer with his bifurcated tail and frequent need to surface for oxygen. Other youngsters mob him and call him "stranger," his mother has to rescue him from situations where the others would be safe, and eventually even she seems to tire of him — taking Whistle up to the shoreline and leaving him there to fend for himself.
Small and grayish but intelligent and possessed of an inhuman strength, this lad has some things in common with Pratchett's Nutt, and retaining his early memories only makes him more miserable. On land, he manages to survive for a couple of days by eating mollusks, but then he seeks human help. He gets more than he bargained for, passing into the hands of a man with long-range plans for using him as a political tool. England's royalty consists of "deepfolk"/"landfolk" hybrids and the latest dynasty seems weak, with an aging king, foreign queen, incompetent crown prince, and daughters regarded as no more than marriage fodder. There's room for someone new.
At first, Henry can only struggle in what seems like a wholly alien world. Early attempts to dress him lead to hysterics, and even after he's accepted the inevitable he doesn't like it, for "in the sea it was always cold, and his garments were a blindfold for his body. Shoes were even worse... flexible traps...." Despite these woes, he develops an interest in the true forms of landfolk: "Flat-chested men and swollen-chested women, as with the tribe, but the jellyfish-skirted women concealed under their clothes two plain legs like the men." He knows he's not one of them, but gradually (during a period of harsh training laced with a little covert sympathy) learns to cope and even finds one potential human friend of about his own age.
In Book Two the attention shifts to Anne, a princess. She's young herself, still trying to understand the ways of court, the differing natures of her remote parents, and what her role might come to be in a world dominated by wars fought mostly on land, amid a welter of treaties and betrayals. Crippled with the "flexible legs" that run in her family, and with the added weirdness of a slightly luminous blue face, she should feel more at home in the sea. But her first official encounter with the court of their kin out in the bay — "thirty, forty, a whole choir" — is unsettling:
They were massive, larger even than her father, and as they approached, one of them swam out of the dark and stared straight into her face. There were black eyes, tiny sharp teeth, a small, flattened nose, and Anne leaped in the water, too shocked to react.... Sharp-nailed fingers reached out, and she heard the deepsman cry out: Face, deep face.
(Her facial type is an adaptive trait, in the lower depths.)
Before their plot threads intersect, we follow Henry and Anne through several years where both struggle against circumstance but with very different views of the landsmen's religion. At first the whole story behind the image of Christ crucified confuses and disturbs Henry, particularly when it's linked to the notion of sin: "Having done his best not to be stupid for as long as he could remember, Henry could not see any reason why a dead landsman who looked nothing like him should be accusing him of doing bad things." He'll remain a skeptic. Born into a more troubled world, Anne swiftly takes to the concept of a Prince of Peace, and she finds personal joy in some aspects of the faith: "Christ had said to man, You are the salt of the earth, and Anne had listened. When she prayed, she could taste it: God, the flavour of every thread and scrap of the world."
While Whitfield's strong sense of character gives life and complexity even to the schemers, arrogant power-mongers, and borderline maniacs who collectively make life for Henry, Anne and other relative innocents more dangerous than any ocean current swarming with sharks, her two young protagonists stand at the heart of the book. Still it's not just their tale. She interweaves the story of their trials and maturation into a mixture of real and imagined political and cultural history (both English and in a larger European sphere) that manages to be thoroughly compelling, even without the drama of those later revolutions.
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