After four years of hounding, L. Frank Baum wrote the second Oz book for his many thousands of fans and it was published in 1904. By this time it was a stage play too, and the original artist, W.W. Denslow, was replaced by John R. Neill, my favourite Oz artist.
The Deep Range (Signet, 1974). Cover art uncredited
Here’s a relatively quick take on a 1950s novel I reread this past week — not as long or as polished as my other Black Gate reviews have been. (I’ll be resuming those in February.)
The Deep Range was the 8th of 11 novels of Clarke’s early period, which I’ll define as everything before 2001 in 1968. (The 11 counts both Against the Fall of Night and the revised version The City and the Stars, and includes his non-SF novel Glide Path.)
This is Clarke’s major novel of the ocean, set in a future that herds whales and farms plankton for consumption by humans. I think the theme of harvesting whales for their meat would make the novel awkward to reprint today, but I see there have been editions from Warner Aspect in 2001 and from Gollancz as recently as 2011. There are countries that still harvest whales, of course, but they do so to the condemnation of many other nations.
Clarke was of course an avid diver and had moved to Sri Lanka in 1956 (according to Science Fiction Encyclopedia), a year before this novel was published. So the descriptions here of diving, of exploring the coral reefs, are likely drawn from first-hand experience.
Space vampires!
Barbarian babes!
Psychedelic murder!
Dark Orbits is an animated science fiction series brimming with so many ideas that a rift had to be opened to another universe just to make room for them all. The only thing more amazing than the fact that this whole series is apparently produced by one person is the number of Youtube views it’s garnered. And by that I mean … way too few. Seriously, the first episode, Arrival, hasn’t even broken the 1,000 mark. The number of subscribers hasn’t even broken the 500 mark.
And this is absolutely the sort of show I’ve wanted to see for years. There are shades of Aeon Flux, Ralph Bakshi, and 1981’s Heavy Metal in every episode. What’s it about? Like Aeon Flux, the series is largely dialogue-free, leaving the viewer to work out exactly what’s going on. But basically, a rift in spacetime has been opened near an alien planet. Ships drawing too close to the rift encounter … strangeness. Meanwhile, inhabitants on the planet’s surface have to deal with all of these bizarre visitors.
Like Heavy Metal, there are several different stories and each episode focuses on either the spaceship crew sent to investigate the rift, the primitive pseudo-Amazon tribes on the planet’s surface, or what appear to be several different alien vampire cults vying for hosts. After ten episodes, there are hints of how the stories are connected, making it a series that rewards repeat viewing.
As for the animation, I have trouble believing that this series was done by one person, since the quality is consistently high. The animation style lends itself to action-focused storylines with bizarre alien creatures. Nothing is meant to look realistic and the plot, music, and animation come together to give the whole thing a dreamy, trippy vibe.
If you just want a taste, check out the promo trailer. The whole series (ten episodes at the time of this article) can be viewed back to back in less than an hour’s time. While it’s free on Youtube, you can also support the creator through Patreon. Check it out and let me know what you think.
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The Gentleman (The Penguin Press, hardcover, 2016). Artist unknown
The Gentleman appeared in 2016, and I completely failed to notice it. But recently my friend Hyson Concepcion recommended it to me in the context of SF or Fantasy set in Victorian (or Victorian-derived) times. She called it a “Neo-Victorian romp with the same commitment to historical accuracy as Black Adder.” Seems irresistible!
And it was! But in what ways will it appeal to Black Gate’s readers? I mean, from one angle this is a romance novel set in Victorian England. Which, mind you, is perfectly fine with me! But how about those readers who want some skiffy or fanty in their books? Well, then, what about a novel in which the literal Devil is a significant character? And one in which the protagonist spends much of the novel trying to find an entrance to Hell, in order to find the Devil and reclaim his wife? Surely that’s fantasy?
Oh, you say, I’d rather have some SF. Well, then, as long as steampunk works for you, how about a novel concerning a semi-secret society of British inventors, often suppressed by their government on the grounds that technological advances shouldn’t progress too quickly? (Plus – a flying machine!)
Well, sure! So it is Fantasy, right? With a smidgen of SF? Yes, but it’s also a true-blue love story. And it’s a madcap comedy featuring a Jeeves-like butler! And it contains an extended debate about the merits of free verse versus iambic pentameter!
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Cover by Matthew Jaffe
Children of the Fang and Other Genealogies
By John Langan
Word Horde (390 pages, $19.99 in trade paperback and $9.99 in digital formats, August 18, 2020)
Cover by Matthew Jaffe
Word Horde, Ross E. Lockhart’s small press, has produced some of the most interesting horror books of the past few years.
This is the fourth short story collection by horror writer John Langan (following Mr. Gaunt and Other Uneasy Encounters, The Wide, Carnivorous Sky and Other Monstrous Geographies, and Sefira and Other Betrayals). He’s also authored two successful novels, House of Windows and The Fisherman.
If you’re already familiar with Langan’s work, you know what to expect from his latest: a medley of themes, locations, narrative styles, atmospheres, sometimes overwhelming and totally compelling, sometimes downright weird and not always quite satisfactory. Whatever he writes, however, Langan is never banal. You may love the story he’s telling or you may hate it, but it will never leave you indifferent.
Thus, predictably, some of the featured tales left me spellbound and others just ill-humored. I will point the stories in the former group, and leave the latter to your judgement.
When Molly Grue yells at the unicorn, it expresses a little how I felt on reading Peter Beagle’s The Last Unicorn (1968) this past month for the very first time:
But Molly pushed him aside and went up to the unicorn, scolding her as though she were a strayed milk cow. “Where have you been?” Before the whiteness and the shining horn, Molly shrank to a shrilling beetle, but this time it was the unicorn’s old dark eyes that looked down.
“I am here now,” she said at last.
Molly laughed with her lips flat. “And what good is it to me that you’re here now? Where were you twenty years ago, ten years ago? How dare you, how dare you come to me now, when I am this?” With a flap of her hand she summed herself up: barren face, desert eyes, and yellowing heart. “I wish you had never come, why do you come now?” The tears began to slide down the sides of her nose.
Of course, what Molly learns is that she needn’t have waited for wonder and transcendence to find her, but should instead have sought them. Taking her lesson to heart for myself, I felt betrayed and angry for only a moment before yielding to chagrin that I hadn’t sooner sought this perfectly-cut gem of a story. The book sat on a shelf for twenty years, gathering dust and losing to the sun the richness of color of its wonderful Gervasio Gallardo artwork.
If The Last Unicorn was a lesser book, I could offhandedly describe it as an illustration of the universal need to undertake a quest, to find wonder — whether from beauty or love or something more ineffable. But Beagle has given us so much more. He’s tucked treasures inside prose that echoes with the sounds of hidden woodland glens and that is painted in the colors of lost and recovered dreams; he’s elucidated the value that can be gleaned from loss, sacrifice, regret. And further, he’s told a story about stories, and how they don’t reflect reality, except when they do. He’s played with the various elements of fantasy — the quest, the wizard, the princess, etc. — in a way that loves them as much as it punctures them.
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Worlds of Tomorrow, February 1967, containing “The Star Pit” by Samuel R. Delany. Cover by Morrow
This is the first of what I hope will be an extended series of essays taking a closer look at some stories I either consider to be particularly good, or interesting for other reasons. Of necessity, each of these essays will go into some detail as to the plot of the stories – in most case, in my opinion, this will not “spoil” the stories, but I know that I am less spoiler-phobic than many, so tread carefully.
I remember reading “The Star Pit” as a teen, probably in Robert Silverberg’s exceptional reprint anthology Alpha 5. It was a story I liked then, and loved on a reread a few years later. I remember it as one of the great underappreciated novellas in SF. But it’s been quite a few years since my last read.
In fact this is a story with a decent history of anthologization and recognition over the years, so my term “underappreciated” is off base. It first appeared in Worlds of Tomorrow for February of 1967 – and as Worlds of Tomorrow was widely considered the “third-string” magazine in Fred Pohl’s editorship, behind sister magazines Galaxy and If, that could be regarded as “underappreciation,” though more likely it reflected the difficulty of fitting novellas into magazines. (Interestingly, the magazine ceased publication after the next issue (May 1967) before a brief (three issue) revival in 1970 and 1971.)
“The Star Pit” was a finalist for the 1968 Hugo for Best Novella, which went in a tie to “Riders of the Purple Wage” by Philip Jose Farmer and “Weyr Search” by Anne McCaffrey. It was in Judith Merril’s SF 12, the very last outing for her seminal series. Robert Silverberg anthologized it twice – not just in Alpha 5 but in the Arbor House Treasury of Great Science Fiction Short Novels. Gardner Dozois put it in his anthology with a similar title (and ambition) to Silverberg’s: Modern Classic Short Novels of Science Fiction. And Richard Lupoff chose it for What If? Volume 3, the third entry in his series of books highlighting the stories that he felt should have won the Hugo each year. (Unfortunately, the What If? series was cancelled after the first two books, and Volume 3 only appeared decades later from a small press.)
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The Scarecrow and Other Stories
G Ranger Wormser
Edited by William P. Simmons
Shadow House Publishing (161 pages, October 26, 2020)
Originally published in 1918, this collection of short stories is the first installment of a Macabre Mistresses series aiming to unearth forgotten dark fiction, much to the joy of genre fans.
As William P. Simmons points out in his insightful Introduction, Wormser’s work has nothing to do with the horror genre in its more blatant expressions, but relies upon subtlety, introspection and psychological uneasiness.
The volume assembles twelve stories, some of which are particularly worth note.
The title story is a subtly disturbing piece in which a scarecrow made from the uniform of an old soldier comes to life to signal to his grandson what he has to do with his life.
A somehow similar concept is developed in “China-Ching,” in which a quiet dog kept restrained becomes the symbol of an unhappy marriage.
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Ever want to crack open the gateway into an Otherworld with a few friends? Perhaps you are ambitious and naively want to gain dominion of cosmic powers. Will you be comfortable with mutating forces transforming you into a tentacled mass? Start the madness by searching for the mystical Sphere buried in the ocean near the submerged Kadath Mining facility. Lucas Kane, a marine biologist, is one of your tour guides. Here he observes Kadath, a mining facility with organic qualities (excerpt):
Kadath lit up below them drew his attention and caught his breath. The facility sprawled across the seabed like a sunken metropolis from another world, its illuminated structures pushing defiantly upward into the inky abyss. The station’s domes and towers seemed like the last bastions of light and reason still standing in an endless Stygian wasteland. It was hypnotic, dreamlike, and yet somehow inexplicably solid. Lucas could make out the shuttle tubes running between the three main domes, as well as to the smaller, squarer outposts and middle structures. He could even see the primary enclosed drilling site not far off from the main facility, connected to Dome Three by long, spacious tubes.
This novel was inspired by Diemension Games’ Deep Madness, a cooperative sci-fi/horror board game. The novel serves as a stand-alone book as much as it does a gateway into the game narrative. Non-gamers will enjoy it all the same since the key protagonists (Lucas Kane and Connor Durham) are freshly introduced, plus the story is a prequel to the story presented in the game. At the end of this article, there is an embedded movie overviewing the board game.
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The Rampart Trilogy by M.R. Carey, all published by Orbit: The Book of Koli (April 2020),
The Trials of Koli (September 2020), and the forthcoming The Fall of Koli (March 2021). Cover designs by Lisa Marie Pompilio
Post-apocalyptic reading doesn’t seem the best thing for these times of global pandemic and a presidential term that’s seen the US move backward on almost every progressive climate policy. And yet as I explained in my review of The Book of Koli, M. R. Carey has managed to create an enjoyable post-apocalyptic quest through the voice of his flawed, compelling, imminently likeable narrator, Koli. The Trials of Koli, released in September, picks up right where Book 1 left off, with Koli and his companions traveling across an ecologically transformed England in the wake of civilization to find the source of a signal that might mean a semblance of technology and government remaining in London.
Of course, a quest is only as good as those you travel with, and in this Koli is fortunate. Besides the traveling medicine woman Ursula, who carries some of the country’s last viable medical technology, and the sentient Dreamsleeve Mono, an advanced music player that has become Koli’s closest friend, the character who shines in this volume is Cup, a vagabond picked up as captive after a tussle with a cannibalistic cult at the end of the first volume. Cup becomes an ally and companion in this second volume, and with her character Carey is able to explore what life might be like for “crossed,” or transgendered, individuals in this new world.
Besides navigating the spectrum of hatred to acceptance that Cup elicits as they travel through various villages, Cup’s identity provides a point of conflict within the company. Ursula, with her access to medical technology, must decide if it’s ethical to give Cup the hormone-blocking treatment she wants to postpone the onset of puberty, even though the therapy for full gender transition is no longer available. This conflict isn’t a major plot point, but it’s integral to the heroes’ journey and a nuanced depiction of a transgendered character. Of course, at the same time our heroes are navigating this they’re also figuring out how to deal with the coming seed-fall of a forest full of carnivorous trees.
