We said goodbye to our mothers. They’d been around all our lives, but we’d never properly seen them. They’d been bent over washing tubs or cooking pots, their faces red and swollen from heat and steam, holding everything together while our fathers were away at sea, and nodding off every night in the kitchen chair, with a darning needle in hand. It was their endurance and exhaustion we knew, rather than them. And we never asked them for anything because we didn’t want to bother them.

That was how we showed our love. With silence.

…Our mother sticks a knife in our heart when we say goodbye on the wharf. And we stick a knife in hers when we go. And that’s how we’re connected: through the hurt we inflict on one another.

I really didn’t have much choice about buying Danish author Carsten Jensen’s We, the Drowned. I’ve been telling you how much I like sea stories, and this is a sea epic. One quarter of my ancestors were Danes, and this is the story of a small maritime village on a Danish island, not all that far from where my people came from (though mine were farmers, as far as I know. My sailing ancestors were Norwegian. Close enough).

We, the Drowned is a long book, and strange. It starts out in an almost whimsical faction, telling us of Lauritz Madsen of the town of Marstal, who started a war with Germany singlehanded, and was blown up over the mainsail, saw St. Peter’s backside, and landed on his feet back on deck to tell the tale.

But that’s pretty much the end of the whimsy. Author Jensen quickly falls into the fatalistic tone so common in Scandinavian literature. Things get grim, and they stay grim by and large. There are fantastical, magical realism elements to the book, but they mostly follow sailors’ superstitions—visions and omens and objects carrying bad luck. Continue reading We, the Drowned, by Carsten Jensen →

There are many stories of American artists, in various disciplines, who have not achieved the public acclaim they deserve. Chief among them, of course, is me. But another is Stan Lynde, best known for a long-running western comic strip called Rick O’Shay. I was vaguely aware of Rick O’Shay when I was a kid, but I had the opportunity to follow it closely toward the end of Lynde’s run with it, when he was turning it away from what the syndicate had asked him for—a gag-a-day strip—to what he’d always wanted it to be—a serious adventure strip with continuing stories. The strip gained new depth (at least in my view) when Lynde experienced a Christian conversion and started working in religious themes.

But he quarreled with the syndicate, and quit (the strip went on for a while without him) to draw another—a post-Civil War adventure strip called Latigo. Sadly, those were not the times for westerns, and Latigo languished and died.

Today, Stan Lynde writes western novels. As a fan of his comic work I bought one to see how it was, and I’m happy to report it’s very good indeed.

Marshal of Medicine Lodge is one of a continuing series starring Merlin Fanshaw, a Montana deputy US Marshal in the 1880s. He’s a lot like Rick O’Shay—a decent fellow whose instincts are good, though he’s young enough to still need some seasoning. He gets the chance to grow up a lot in this story. Continue reading Marshal of Medicine Lodge, by Stan Lynde →

Full disclosure: I received a free copy of The Cross and the Cosmos Anthology: Year One, from Frank Luke, a friend of this blog who is also an editor and contributor to the volume.

The Cross and the Cosmos: Year One is a collection of Christian science fiction and fantasy stories from the Cross and the Cosmos e-zine. As you would expect from such a publication, the quality of the stories varies considerably.

I was most impressed by a couple time travel stories by Kersley Fitzgerald. The stories, both about a single family, deal in very fresh ways with the old problems of temporal transport. The first story, “Saving Grase,” in particular, combined time travel conundrums with the kinds of mundane frustrations any mother who has tried to manage small children on an airline flight must be familiar with.

I also liked a couple supernatural westerns by Cathrine Bonham, “Souls Are Wild” and “Black Hat Magic.” They were pretty effective evangelical takes, I thought, on the old “he sold his soul to the devil” theme.

Frank Luke contributed three very good fantasies, set in a universe that seems part Norse and part Tolkien, but in which the Christian religion is practiced pretty much as it is in our world (how that works isn’t explained). Frank needs to tighten up his stories a little and watch for neologisms like “quite the woman,” but I got caught up in the narrative and wanted to know what else happened to the characters.

The bulk of the stories, I have to say, aren’t quite as good. Some of them were frankly preachy and simplistic, and most were weak on wordsmithing. One story seems to have been published before the author was done with it, because she inserted “[RUSSIAN PHRASE]” in the dialogue a couple time, apparently planning to look the phrases up but never getting around to it (unless that was a glitch in my electronic version).

I must confess I found it irritating that every single fantasy that involved warriors included female warriors as a given, as if ours is the only world in the universe where men’s greater strength leads societies, in general, to reserve the role of fighter for them. I suppose egalitarianism is so ingrained in our younger generation of Christians that they can’t conceive of anything else.

There’s some good stuff in The Cross and the Cosmos: One, and some disappointing stuff. Suitable for teens and up.

Years ago, I discovered a few mystery novels set in the yacht sailing world, written by Bernard Cornwell. Kind of like Dick Francis books with salt water. I scarfed them up, because I love a good sailing tale for some reason (maybe it’s genetic; heaven knows I haven’t had much experience in the field). Cornwell stopped writing them and turned to a more lucrative career in historical novels, and I’ve found very few books of the sort since.

So I was intrigued to discover Timothy Frost’s Final Passage, which turns out to be a well-written, well-plotted story of danger and deception, which pleased me much and only irritated me here and there.

Martin Lancaster, the hero and narrator, is the hard driving, upwardly mobile owner of an advertising agency in London. He’s also a bit of an idiot, or so it appears at the beginning. Because it turns out he’s badly overextended, and the loss of his major client sends him to the verge of bankruptcy. He also has a rash habit of making heavy bets on his own races, and losing them. A timely acquisition by an American firm saves his bacon, and also permits him and his brother to continue their plans to participate in a transatlantic yacht race they’ve been planning on. Continue reading Final Passage, by Timothy Frost →