Recently Read: Beyond the Deepwoods

Edge Chronicles vol. 1: Beyond the Deepwoods - by Paul Stewart & Chris Riddell

There's something about the binding of certain books that leads one to judge a book by its cover. Something tactile in the unequally sized pages that - instead of shouting "sloppy, shoddy workmanship!" as one would if odds and ends of scrap material lined every ridge of a brand new automobile, one tends to rifle through the slightly mismatched pages for the sheer enjoyment of that feeling. Something of mystery, enigma, and power in the ragged edges of the page - as if one was uncovering a secret tome with deep wisdoms hidden within, and certainly not browsing through a commercial publication at a well-stocked bookshop.

Before a word has been read, you're already wandering into a fantasy land.

I could not imagine reading Lemony Snicket without just such a binding - the words would be the same and would still have their considerable charm, but the work would still seem diminished in a paperback format.

I actually think Beyond the Deepwoods would stand up to that challenge marginally better - but that's not a decision I would like to have to make.

I was absorbed in this work from the moment I first picked it up, caught and bound by the binding as it were, and no less ensnared by Chris Riddell's artwork. As everyone knows, it is not wise to judge a book by its cover, and so I skimmed through the book itself (the uneven pages demanded this, of course.) Line drawings abound, and really help bring you into the Edgelands. Certainly, when reading the actual words, the spell that has been cast thus far is not broken.

It is a simple work at its core - a boy on the verge of becoming a young man, in search of his parentage - but that does not detract. It is not that key plot that I focus on, it is the trappings and wonder of the world itself that is fascinating. I could visualize the flora and the fauna, and found myself enjoying the environment through which the aforementioned boy travelled more than anything else. Perhaps that could be explained by my own interest in things natural that surround me, but I tend to think a good part of that came from the style of writing itself. Like the binding itself, and like the light comic touch to the illustrators pen, the words helped to build the world and allow me to immerse myself in it.

And that, I believe, is the point of any work of art.

The Dreaming : A Dragon's Tale

The Dreaming : A Dragon's Tale
by Everett A Warren

an excerpt

On one cool evening in the Month of the Boar, I wandered the Market at Fayleigh, in the cool light of the three moons. Set within the heart of the city, bounded by walls higher than those that kept the storms from the Olephian Sea at bay and higher than those which guarded the landbound approaches to Fayleigh, the market was of such legendary status that I had first heard of it long before I knew in what realm the city might be found. It is said, in more realms than one and in realms more distant than this one, that if it is for sale, it can be found in the Market at Fayleigh. It was on my first visit there, as I strolled by stalls and stores, perusing their wares, that I first heard Thaumaturge tell a tale.

He was just gathering a crowd about him, and, through it all, his eyes caught mine alone, although I was far from him. Unsure of who or what he was, I approached the back of the audience and lost sight of him. As he began to speak, I manoeuvred for a better view, and found one atop a disused crate by a closed stall. He spoke of strange and wondrous things, and I was as enchanted as any who stood listening. It was mythic, in a way, but held something that rang true, as if he spoke not of the heroic events from ages past, but of the here and now, or perhaps the morrow and beyond.

A brave hero fought valiantly alongside a powerful archmaji, and between the two, a great evil loosed upon the world was brought to bay. A common theme, I'll admit readily enough, but it was far from common in the hands and voice of this speaker. I merely smiled at the end, whilst the rest applauded and tossed a gold coin or more onto the cloth he had spread out for such a collection. His tale was well worth such a steep fee – for I had seen how highly the Fayleighans prized their miserly ways, where parting with mere copper was a difficult enough task – yet I could not bring myself to step forward, for I was slightly unnerved at certain elements in his tale and at the way his eyes seemed to find me, and glimmer, when he spoke of the hero, and the way in which his odd medallion seemed to share in this flickering secret, finding my hand tight upon my sword-hilt at each such occurrence.

It was then, as the old tale-spinner gathered up his collection cloth, as the audience faded into passer-bys, as the torchlights flickered as surrogate for the last of the sunlight, and as I myself turned my back to him to walk out of the market and find an Inn, it was at that moment that the thief chose to strike. He moved swiftly, I am sure, although I did not see where he had hidden himself, certainly it was not anywhere in the direct vicinity. Scooping the cloth and treasure therein, pushing the old man backwards, clutching the medallion about the story-teller's neck, and then rushing with treasures in hand swiftly up a banner hung from a small shop, so passed the thief. My senses already heightened by the odd inferences in the telling, I had noted the near silent approach and even still, I barely turned fast enough. All that I saw was the departing thief bounding over rooftop and away.

With but a look to the old man, who sat up before the admirers rushed back, squealing and afraid, to assist him, I doffed my cape and bounded to the rooftops with all the grace of my feline form. Eschewing the two legged travel I preferred in more civilised regions, I ran on all fours, sure that nothing could elude me in the hunt. I tried not to think on my last two images of Thaumaturge, one being similar to the glittering glances given I during the story, the other, just before I disappeared across the roofs was equally unnerving, for one does not generally smile when they have recently been relieved of a small fortune.

Copyright (c) 1997, 1999 Everett A Warren

You can read the complete story in my collection, Cautionary Fables: Warts & All, available on Amazon.com or by order from your local bookseller.

Recently Read: Prime

Prime: A Novel - Poppy Z. Brite

I can think back to countless examples where a band would release a new album, and, having attempted something different, the fans become devided. Add a new singer or drummer in to the mix, and the sound changes, and what was old is new again. Even in genres that practically require innovation, this can prove a stumbling block for fans. Critics, meanwhile, always have a choice of options: they can pan a band for doing something different, or they can pan a band for sounding the same as they did last album. A lose-lose situation.

docbrite has received a lot of flak for leaving behind the world of vampires and blood sucking beasts and goth kids, especially from that latter segment, who want her to write another Drawing Blood or Lost Souls. Those books are great - I quickly devoured every single one of her books I could get my hands on. While I certainly enjoyed the sense of horror she built into the stories, more than vampires and vamping goths, I enjoyed her writing itself.

I don't want to say Prime is the same - it's not in so many ways - but there is still an undeniable voice, and, I believe, I would have been able to identify the author from nearly any snippet. There is something about her writing itself that I like. A recent discussion on prime_liquor was based on how some readers would like to hear about all the minute, mundane details she cut to build a good story. I'm sure I'd have to count myself in that camp - although at the same time I don't begrudge her for removing those pieces. I have a feeling Doc could write an instruction manual and I would simply have to read it, and in as few sittings as possible...

I'm sure that it doesn't hurt that her current subject matter - of chefs and the restaurant business - is of particular interest to me, with my backburnered dreams of starting my own restaurant. This book is much more palatable on a full stomach - or at a time and in proximity to the means to come to that state.

I tend to pick things up quick, and having been a member of the prime_liquor community for a few months, I have picked up bits and pieces as to what happens in these two books (and, to some minor degree, in the forthcoming books as well.) That said, I still managed to completely and quite obviously select the second book first, leaving Liquor: A Novel still on the shelf... a situation I will have to rectify as soon as I can. Although I made it through alive - and quite enjoyed the experience - I would probably advise reading the first book, well, first. It will help you not know things that are, I am sure, revealled deliberately at a certain point in Liquor. Even with the spoiler effect, I expect to thoroughly enjoy that book as well.

Oh, and one final note for those die-hard fans of Doc's early stuff: there are still plenty of blood suckers - they just don't have pointy teeth and drink blood, but they are lawyers, so that is - to me - even more horrifying!