‘I Cheerfully Refuse,’ by Leif Enger

The horizon was dirty and the waves were back to horses. Sometimes a gust knocked one’s mane clean off and scattered it abroad. The wind remembered ice.

You may recall that I’m a big fan of Leif Enger, who not only writes like an angel but is a fellow Minnesotan. So I was happy to see (how did I miss it?) that he had a new novel out – I Cheerfully Refuse.

I’m sorry to say I was disappointed by this book. This wasn’t the sort of thing I looked for from the author of Peace Like a River. However, since it’s beyond dispute that Enger is both smarter than I and a better writer, I may have simply misunderstood him.

I Cheerfully Refuse is a postapocalyptic story – but not the usual kind with zombies or Mad Max societal ferality. The America of this book, about a generation in the future, I guess, is controlled by sinister powers known as the “astronauts,” who dominate business and politics from the east coast. But before that there was apparently a takeover by “hard-shell patriots” who burned books in “fundie bonfires.” Now life goes on in America, but the roads are bad, the electricity sporadic, the air and water polluted, and many communities exercise vigilante law.

Rainy (short for Rainier), our hero and narrator, is a house painter and part-time gig musician (electric bass) in the community of Icebridge (not far from Greenstone, the setting of Enger’s novel, Virgil Wander) on the shore of Lake Superior. His beloved wife (or partner, I wasn’t sure) is Lark, who runs a used book shop. Theirs is a happy life, and they get on well with their neighbors.

Then Kellan arrives. Kellan is a starving wanderer. It’s soon clear that he’s an escapee from one of the “medical ships” where human experimentation is done. Harboring such a fugitive is illegal, but Rainy and Lark take him in. He has something to trade for their hospitality – a rare copy of a book Lark has been searching for all her life.

But the authorities come for them, and before long Rainy’s world has been shattered. He flees in a sailboat, with no plan except a vague idea of returning to the Slate Islands, where he and Lark had a happy interlude years before. But he’s a hunted man now. In time he will acquire a companion, a nine-year-old girl he rescues from an abusive home. But it’s a cold world on the great lake with the law on your trail.

I Cheerfully Refuse is as well-written as you’d expect from an author of Enger’s genius. But his previous books have carried a gentle but pervasive odor of Christianity – sometimes even explicitly Christian. There’s a sort of Christianity here, too, but it’s the sentimental kind – a Rousseauean conception that people are basically good and only do wrong because society is out of skew. That all legal punishment is evil, and everyone should just be forgiven and set free.

I perceived (perhaps I’m paranoid) a political tone here that I’ve never seen in Enger before. As if he’s one of those panicked by the rise of our current president, who believes all the stereotypes about American conservatives, especially religious ones, as cultural troglodytes: “There was a sinuous distrust of text and its defenders.”

I might point out that it is not the conservative schools that are turning out illiterate graduates. It’s not the conservatives who try to purge the classics from curricula. It’s not the conservatives who design ugly, brutalist buildings and tape bananas to walls and call it art.

As I said, maybe I misunderstood. Maybe there’s a rich Christian subtext here that passed over my head. After all, big Pharma is a major villain, and there is a plot line in there arguing against assisted suicide.

All I can say is that I Cheerfully Refuse is a well-written book that disappointed this fan.

‘Mr. Mulliner Speaking,’ by P. G. Wodehouse

People who enjoyed a merely superficial acquaintance with my nephew Archibald (said Mr. Mulliner) were accustomed to set him down as just an ordinary pinheaded young man. It was only when they came to know him better that they discovered their mistake. Then they realized that his pin-headedness, so far from being ordinary, was exceptional.

Most P. G. Wodehouse readers are familiar with the Jeeves stories, and usually with the Blandings Castle stories too. But there is another substantial series of short stories that sometimes gets overlooked. These are the Mr. Mulliner stories, in which the venerable Mr. Mulliner sits with his drink in the bar parlor of a pub called The Angler’s Rest, regaling his audience with stories of the adventures of his innumerable relations. Often these stories involve a feckless young man of the usual Wodehouse type, who overcomes some obstacle to his marriage to the girl he loves. Usually the solution to the problem is purely nonsensical, based on some character’s unexpected personal quirks. The quality of the mirth varies from story to story, but some of Wodehouse’s best flights of fancy can be found in this category.

About half the stories in this volume, Mr. Mulliner Speaking, however, exhibit a different formula. This is because (and I was not aware of this, having not read these particular stories before) one of Mr. Mulliner’s relatives turns out to be a certain Miss Roberta Wickham. “Bobbie” Wickham is a character who pops up from time to time in the Jeeves/Wooster stories, and may have shown up at Blandings Castle too (I can’t recall). But whenever Bobbie appears, a different pattern is called for. Because marriage to Bobbie Wickham is always regarded as a fate to be dreaded, rather like running afoul of one of Bertie Wooster’s aunts.

For the red-haired Bobbie, in spite her extreme beauty, is a sort of benevolent sociopath. She never means to hurt anyone, but she has absolutely no self-control or sense of responsibility, and she generally drops her suitors into some kind of a nightmare situation, like being mistaken for a burglar by a butler with a shotgun, perhaps, or being forced to climb out of a high window with the aid of knotted-together bed sheets. If you find public humiliation hilarious, these are the stories for you.

Mr. Mulliner Speaking is a very funny book. I recommend it. My e-book version featured a number of OCR spelling errors that should have been caught and corrected.

Now available in paper!

The wizardry was done over the weekend, and now you can have your own personal copy of The Baldur Game, the final book in the Saga of Erling Skjalgsson, in palpable paperback, to display on your shelves to the admiration of all.

Sunday Singing: The Sands of Time Are Sinking

Audrey Assad performs “The Sands of Time are Sinking”

Today’s hymn is by the Scottish poet Anne Ross Cousin (1824-1906). She wrote it while reflecting on Covenanter Samuel Rutherford’s (1600–1661) notes on Revelation 22. Cousin also composed a poem around the dying words of Scottish Reformer John Knox.

“No longer will there be anything accursed, but the throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it, and his servants will worship him. They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. And night will be no more. They will need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever” (Rev. 22:3-5 ESV).

1 The sands of time are sinking,
The dawn of heaven breaks,
The summer morn I’ve sighed for,
The fair sweet morn awakes;
Dark, dark hath been the midnight,
But day-spring is at hand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Emmanuel’s land.

2 The King there in his beauty
Without a veil is seen;
It were a well-spent journey
Though sev’n deaths lay between:
The Lamb with his fair army
Doth on Mount Zion stand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Emmanuel’s land.

3 O Christ, he is the fountain,
The deep sweet well of love!
The streams on earth I’ve tasted
More deep I’ll drink above:
There to an ocean fulness
His mercy doth expand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Emmanuel’s land.

4 The bride eyes not her garment,
But her dear bridegroom’s face;
I will not gaze at glory,
But on my King of grace;
Not at the crown he gifteth,
But on his pierced hand:
The Lamb is all the glory
Of Emmanuel’s land.

‘The Baldur Game’: the series ends

I’d like to think this is a significant day in literary history. It’s certainly significant in my literary history. The Baldur Game, the final volume in my Saga of Erling Skjalgsson, has gone live on Amazon today.

It’s only the ebook at this point — the paperback is ready to go, but I hit a small glitch in getting the cover together. I hope that’ll be straightened out very soon.

An era in my life is finished. These are the books I dreamed of writing as a boy. Whatever I accomplish or fail to accomplish in my little life, I’ll be able to say that I fulfilled that dream. I set my books before the world; let it judge them as it will .

I hope you enjoy it.

Gunmetal: “I don’t think it means what you think it means…”

This is sort of the kind of weather I was thinking of, but the fields should be brighter. Photo credit: Raychel Sanner. Unsplash license.

There’s a word (probably there are several, but this is the one I’m aware of at the moment) with which I’ve had a lifelong relationship. A dysfunctional relationship. (But pretty much all my relationships are like that.)

The word is “gunmetal.” And to understand what it means to me, I have to take you back (kicking and screaming, probably) to my childhood (which was an extremely tedious one during the periods when it wasn’t extremely horrific).

I spent a lot of time in my head. I was thinking like a writer, I think, even though I wasn’t actually doing much writing. But I was thinking about words, as well as the things that mattered to me.

One thing that happened in my emotional world was that I fell in love with a certain kind of weather. It’s a summer day, and the sun has been shining brightly. And then a storm blows up on the horizon. So there’s bright sunlight where I am, but a dark, dark backdrop of clouds is looming in the distance. And all of nature – the grass, the golden fields, the trees, are shining with the full brightness of summer in contrast to that dark wall of approaching storm. Like an army of dark trolls advancing on a city of treasure.

Such days filled me with longing and aspiration. They were a promise that life could be bigger, richer, more transcendent. Ordinary life might be tedious and gray and repetitious, but beauty did exist. There it was, right before my eyes, no charge for admission. Even I could dream of higher things.

And when I thought about how I’d write a description of such a day, I hit on the word “Gunmetal.”

Yeah, that was it! Gray like a gun barrel, in contrast to the gold and green of the earth.

Then I looked up the word in a dictionary.

“Gunmetal” does not mean steel gray.

Gunmetal is a type of bronze – an alloy of copper, tin and zinc. It’s gold in color. Sometimes it’s also called “red brass.” They call it gunmetal because naval cannons used to be made of it.

Nothing gray about it at all, except, I suppose, for the smoke.

Well, that made me feel ignorant.

But imagine my amusement when, more than once over my years of reading, I’ve come across a page where some novelist describes a sky as “gunmetal gray.”

So I suppose I could get away with it too, if I wanted to.

But by now it’s kind of a cliché.

If you’re gonna have a cliché, it seems to me it ought to be accurate, at least.

According to Hoyt

Sarah A. Hoyt, who blogs at According to Hoyt and who frequents the juggernaut that is Instapundit, was kind enough to include my novel The Year of the Warrior in her final post in her Liberty Book Promo, promoting authors who support freedom. Here’s the link. There are other books there that might interest you too.

‘The Treasure of Tundavala Gap,’ by Jeffrey K. Schmoll

Author Jeffrey K. Schmoll is a recent acquaintance of mine on X, and I bought his book out of curiosity. The Treasure of Tundavala Gap is not exactly in my usual line, being a story about twenty-somethings and adventure in Africa. Nevertheless, I was increasingly drawn in as I read.

Mateus de Silva is a brilliant physics student working on his doctorate in Texas. He is also the orphaned son of a Cuban exile, and grandson of a well-known Cuban general who was lost fighting in Angola. He has a cocaine habit as well, one which he tells himself he has under control. He also suffers from crippling shyness. His two best friends are his gaming buddies, wealthy Tay and female computer whiz Munie.

When Mateus gets a call to go to Cuba, he’s reluctant to go. He’s informed that his great-grandmother is dying, and she wishes to speak to him. But why should he go? She considers him a bastard and has rebuffed all his previous attempts to make contact.

But she is his only family, so he makes the trip. The woman is fading fast, but makes sure a certain cigar box is placed in his hands. Examining it at home, he is intrigued by a poem included among his grandfather’s letters from Angola to his grandmother. He and his friends put their heads (and computers) together to analyze it, finally realizing it’s a clue to the location of a great treasure.

Soon Mateus and Tay are off to Africa, where they will face crime and corruption, betrayal, romance, and sacrifice. Mateus will discover qualities in himself he never guessed at – and he’ll need them.

The Treasure of Tundavala Gap wasn’t a flawless novel. The author’s prose is adequate – quite good compared to a lot of stuff I’ve read recently – but not memorable. Occasionally he misplaces modifiers, but not too often.

The action is sometimes improbable, but that’s a commonplace in contemporary thrillers. Film tropes show up – the classic bullet wound in the shoulder that’s not all that incapacitating, and when the treasure is found, they feel compelled to examine it by pouring it all out in a visually compelling way rather than just dipping into the sack. But those are small things.

The story was exciting, and filled with twists and turns. The villains were particularly well-done, three-dimensional, and that’s a hard trick for a writer. I was worried for a while that the Cuban Communists looked too romantic, but the author fixed that. I was troubled by the hero’s use of cocaine, even if it diminished as he grew in character. But sequels are promised; perhaps that’s a victory reserved for a future story.

All in all, I recommend The Treasure of Tundavala Gap. A very impressive and exciting first novel.

‘The Hero at the End of His Rope,’ by Jason P. Hunt

I don’t generally read space opera, but I picked up this book on a whim, out of Sarah Hoyt’s regular book plugs. The Hero at the End of His Rope is actually a novella. Author Jason P. Hunt wrote it, he explains in his Introduction, according to a plan to make each chapter precisely 800 words long.

Richard Thorpe is our hero, a sort of a Han Solo character. As the story opens, we learn that he’s wanted by the authorities. Apparently he has blown up a planet. The reasons for this extreme action are revealed gradually as the story goes on, as are his motives for wanting revenge against a powerful space gangster, his former employer.

As he flees in his spacecraft, he is assisted by an alien friend and his redheaded girlfriend, who proves to have a secret of her own. One feels the influences of Star Wars and Star Trek in the faster-than-light speed chases and the banter among the characters here.

The Hero at the End of His Rope is light entertainment, and succeeds at that purpose. I personally was not happy with the format – each chapter precisely the same length. Such strictures prevent an author making the best use of his words – I have often quoted Lincoln, who said that a man’s legs should be long enough to reach the ground. Likewise, a chapter ought to be precisely long enough to do its narrative job, no more nor less.

But overall my response is favorable. Worth the price.

‘Embers of the Hands,’ by Eleanor Barraclough

I like to think I keep relatively up to date on Viking studies, both for my writing and for my second life as a Viking reenactor. But as Dunning and Kruger have taught us, the more you know, the more you know you don’t know – and I think I’ve learned to settle for being better informed than most people, to keep up with the state of the art as stuff gets published for popular consumption.

So I bought Embers of the Hands by Eleanor Barraclough, which was recommended to me by a couple friends. And I have to say it’s an impressive book within the limits of its intended purpose.

Embers of the Hands pairs well with Kat Jarman’s River Kings, which I reviewed a while back. Like that book, it considers the Viking world through examination and analysis of archaeological artifacts. But Jarman’s book centered on one artifact (a bead), while Barraclough uses a number of artifacts to elucidate various aspects of the Viking world.

The emphasis here is on ordinary life – the way the people who weren’t famous lived. The clues given us by the things they used and left behind , that enable us – to some extent – to look at their world through their eyes. Author Barraclough possesses a happy gift for description and empathetic thought.

And that gift is needed, because I feel I must admit that I found the book rather dull in stretches. Most of us were lured into Viking studies by way of romantic dreams, of adventure and heroism. Embers of the Hands is pretty relentlessly unromantic. This approach is an excellent corrective for people like me – writers and reenactors. I think it will have more trouble holding the casual reader, who may be looking for bigger and more colorful stories.

Still, it’s a well-researched and well-written book, and ought to be read and pondered by its intended audience.

I might mention that the author seems not much interested in the contentious issue of shield maidens, and I was very grateful to her for that.