Black Gate

In Ireland in 1895, a woman named Bridget Cleary was burned following accusations that she was a changeling. Her horrific demise serves as the inspiration for The Hidden People by Alison Littlewood, a book of arresting power and unbearable sadness. I can understand why. Try to think of something more tragic than being executed for a crime you’re powerless to understand.

Albie Mirralls, the novel’s protagonist, faces a similar dilemma. When he learns that his sweet-natured cousin, Lizzie, was murdered by her husband after he became convinced she was one of the fae, he travels to her home in Yorkshire. There he uncovers the sordid tale of her death in the shelter of her cottage, all the while succumbing to an exquisite madness. When his wife, Helena, travels from London to join him, the situation becomes perilous. But compared to a shocking revelation concerning a supposed friend, it pales.

Littlewood’s writing routinely takes your breath away with its astonishing beauty. She wields a tremendous command of language, bordering on peerless in the way she describes the ethereal nature of the surroundings. I visualized the sickening idyll of Halfoak, the bucolic village nestled in the heart of Yorkshire, so clearly that I could have closed my eyes and awoken in the novel. In a novel that places tremendous importance on the endless summer of the village, Littlewood’s descriptions resonate powerfully. They add a definite sense of unease to the plot.

Among the additional effective qualities of the book were the bleak plot points and suffering characters. No one has an easy time of it. Even some of the most famous tragedies, like Romeo and Juliet, have nuggets of humor, but not so with Littlewood’s tale. Chapter after chapter, Albie suffers agonizing emotional and physical ordeals, never once receiving the much-needed comfort of comic relief. It’s possible Littlewood could have included nuggets of dark humor about the superstition surrounding the fae. But the novel offers not a moment to laugh with yourself.

Nor do the characters have any reason to feel joyful. Least of all Essie Aikin, the mother of a baby who is stolen from her home. I felt a stronger amount of pity for her than for Albie, whom I admit I had no strong feelings for until the end.

Another character I cared for was Albie’s wife, Helena, who tries to support Albie through the visit. The dissolution of love for devastating reasons will twist your heart.

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Peter S. Beagle has, by dint of his enduring classic The Last Unicorn, become the patron saint of these creatures among fantasy authors. But more than this, Beagle has become to fantasy writing a sort of patron saint of the longing that unicorns (when exhumed from the candied, polychromatic encrustations of the popular imagination) have come to embody. Beagle has resurrected the unicorn as a symbol to be reverenced, whether in his early novel or, as I have argued recently in another review, in the person of Lioness in his recent Summerlong. Unicorns represent the quiet desperation for a touch of otherworldliness, of the desire for something beyond or above or even just beside to press up against our daily lives. It is this longing for visitation that runs through his latest work, the short book In Calabria, and plays out on the confines of a rustic farm and in the life of a single isolated farmer.

Claudio Bianchi is an old man. He lives alone on a hillside farm in Calabria, the region of Italy forming the mountainous toes of the country’s famous boot outline. Calabria is scenic and slow, off the beaten path. Beagle plays into the timelessness of the place. His protagonist is timeless and isolated as well: solitary, cranky, and proud of the tiny, half-ruined farm he cultivates in the same manner his ancestors did a hundred years before. Beagle, who has had his share of trouble lately and perhaps longs for the sort of escape Bianchi’s life represents, sets a stage of idyllic isolation in rustic Mediterranean splendor. “The universe and Claudio Bianchi had agreed long ago to leave one another alone,” we are told early on in the story. “And if he had any complaints, he made sure that neither the universe nor he himself ever knew of them.”

It is not, however, this isolation and timelessness alone that draws a unicorn to Bianchi’s farm to give birth. Rather, Beagle leads the reader to understand it is Bianchi’s crusty humility and his compassion for and amiable companionship with the animals that share his land. It may also be because Bianchi is a poet. His reputation as such among his neighbors is something of a puzzle, as he never shares his poems or publishes them. He simply takes pleasure in fitting words together, in working them the way he works the soil, and leaves them hidden in the drawers of his desk. For perhaps all these reasons, a unicorn appears in Calabria and chooses a hollow in view of Bianchi’s back window to give birth to her young. “I am past visitations,” Bianchi asks the pregnant unicorn when it first arrives. “What do you want with me?”

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