The Romantic Armchair Traveller

Mongolia: Warrior by Zoë Archer

Although paranormal romance is a subgenre I tend to avoid, the Mongolian setting and review comparisons to films like the Indiana Jones franchise and The Mummy whetted my interest in Warrior, the first installment in a new adventure series called “The Blades Of The Rose” by Zoë Archer. Having read the book, I am in two minds about picking up the next. Ironically, I felt the romance got in the way of the plot, and ardently wished the entertaining elements of magic would inspire more frequent, suspenseful escapades. As it is written, despite a cover and title that seem to reach out beyond the romance reading community, Warrior is too overwhelmingly purple in its pushing of the romantic plot for me to believe in its crossover possibilities. That said, there is much that is excitingly fresh about Archer’s story.

 

1874. Nursery tales and legends are how most people think of magic, never dreaming it truly exists. The Blades Of The Rose are sworn to protect Sources, the objects that are repositories of this secret and mystical power, and prevent their exploitation by those who employ magic for destructive or selfish ends, such as the Heirs.

After being entrusted with a cryptic message and an unusual compass by a dying stranger, newly resigned Army Captain, Gabriel Huntley, travels to Mongolia to deliver them to another man he has never met. The news he brings causes great perturbation. The recipient is incapacitated by an injury, but his daughter, Thalia Burgess, assumes the responsibility of taking the action required. Although Gabriel insists on accompanying her on the dangerous journey she sets out on, she remains secretive about her mission even after attraction blazes up between them. Only when they are nearly killed by forces of nature about which nothing is natural does Gabriel learn of the unseen truths Thalia has known all her life.

Used to command, Gabriel also has to learn to work together with Thalia, whose ambition is to become a Blade like her father. But are they resourceful enough to defeat the Heirs, who will stop at nothing to wrest a long-lost Source from its hidden location and turn Mongolia into a nation of slaves?

 

The creatively integrated and studiously-researched setting of Warrior exceeded my hopes. Mongolia is not merely an exotic backdrop for a story that could take place anywhere. Its history and culture actively drive and enrich the plot. While natives play only subservient if prominent roles (is it really so impossible, in genre fiction, to write a native secondary character whose plot function includes being a leader or decision-maker or an otherwise positive, active role model in his or her own right?), this is still one of the best uses of setting I have read in any romance.

From the metallic wasps of the first chapter to the actual Source, the elements of magic Archer weaves in entertained me throughout the book. While some of the phenomena such as the thunderstorm and the raging river drew on overly familiar imagery (the sandstorm in The Mummy (1999) and the water creatures in The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship of The Ring (2001) and The Chronicles Of Narnia: Prince Caspian (2008)), as dramatic scenes they nevertheless crackled with energy and revealed the author's strongest talent: fantasy-based adventure writing.

If that vigorous storytelling had been sustained throughout the story, I would have devoured Warrior in one sitting. But this adventure-laced road romance is instead hampered by stop-and-go pacing that leaches the life out of scene after scene. Between brief bursts of action are long, sluggish segments which are so lacking in conflict that any tension evaporates. (The random attempts at humour fell flat for me: Gabriel is no Indiana Jones and Thalia no Evelyn.) These pacing problems are exacerbated by the handling of the romance, which mostly consists of incessant lusting that inserts itself into every situation, constantly interrupting the flow of scenes, including dialogue. I find, for example, that I have little patience with dialogue where a brief utterance is followed by half a page or more of internal monologue before the next sentence of dialogue follows, again to be slowed down by paragraph after paragraph of more internal commentary. This tedious pattern repeats itself throughout the book.

A problem I sometimes encounter in novels where magic plays a central role is the lack of intellectual effort on the part of the protagonists. When magic miraculously saves the protagonists or the antagonists from a tricky situation or the use of a magical device or power solves a puzzle or overcomes an obstacle, the characters sometimes begin to resemble marionettes whose moves are solely dictated by external causes. In Warrior, instead of busying themselves with strategizing or otherwise exploiting their intellectual abilities to further their goals, the hero and heroine spend their “thinking” time (I use the world very loosely) focussing on emotional reactions – either lust for sex or lust for revenge.

Some people are action-oriented rather than thinkers, and that certainly applies to Gabriel and Thalia. Unfortunately, the conspicuous lack of action for long periods at a time meant I was saddled with their one-track mental processes. In consequence, I often grew bored to the point of indifference. What kept me going were the tidbits about Mongolian life and the acknowledgement that, as much as the romantic interaction between Thalia and Gabriel failed to engage me, these are two mutually respectful and unfailingly supportive characters. I may have gritted my teeth as I read about Gabriel’s “golden eyes” for the twentieth time or was jarred by the fond use of “bloke” when all the characters – including Yorkeshireman and collier’s son Gabriel – speak as if born in the modern United States*, but I enjoyed that there were no silly misunderstandings or contrived quarrels between this couple: their romance is so conflict-free there is not even a “black moment”. While their relationship never develops beyond physical attraction and admiration for each other’s unconventionality, their devotion to each other's welfare and happiness is not in question.

The balance between fantasy and history in Warrior is firmly in the former’s favour. Gabriel and Thalia may live in a historical period but their modern sensibilities are not conducive to a particularly nineteenth-century atmosphere. Thalia’s Mongolian surroundings may have freed her from the manners that define – or confine – other British women, but although the story shows she is well versed in Mongolian customs this different cultural influence has apparently had exactly the same effect on her attitudes and outlook as a 21st century western upbringing would. Interestingly, the lead villain, evil-natured though he may be, comes equipped with convincing motivations that are perfectly suited to this empire-building period.

The final chapters of Warrior set up the future installments in the series, introducing, for example, the heroes of Scoundrel (a rake whose portrayal in Warrior makes him indistinguishable from a dozen other rake heroes) and Stranger (an inventor whose character offers potential for interesting complexity). The author devises a clever way of including these elements without diluting the finale, and I am glad to report she also closes the story without resorting to cliffhangers.

As stated earlier, I am not easily drawn to paranormals. Nor am I a fan of series since I tend to want closure, new settings, and unfamiliar characters. Paradoxically, within the romance genre the only series I have invested in actually happens to be paranormal historical: Shana Abé’s "Drakón" series. In other words, I can be won over. In Warrior, I appreciated the strong setting and the thoroughly entertaining combination of magic and adventure. On the downside, I had serious issues with the intrusively lust-focussed romance and found it difficult to remained absorbed in the story when the action slowed. Since the next book features a non-fake rake hero, even the enticing location - the Greek archipelago - is probably not enough inducement to persuade me to give it a chance. I still have my eye on the inventor’s story, though, because I do think Zoë Archer shows a great deal of promise.

 

*Other language-related irritants, for me, were the notion that Thalia’s English is tinged with a foreign accent (she has spoken it daily with her British father since infancy) and the speed (a couple of weeks) with which Gabriel acquires advanced conversational skills in Mongolian (the scenes with the bandits).

 

Excerpt

(Zebra Books paperback, 2010, pages 96-7)

"One moment, she had closed her eyes, the next, she was being gently awakened by Gabriel's hand on her arm, dawn light gilding his shoulders. She couldn't think of a better way to greet the morning.

'We should reach Karakorum today,' Thalia said after she had rinsed her mouth with water.

'Thank God,' Gabriel muttered. 'I've nearly pulled out half my teeth chewing on that dried mutton.'

As Thalia swung up in the saddle, she grinned. 'The Mongol horsemen used to soften borts by putting it underneath their saddles as they rode. We could try that to make it more palatable.'

Gabriel made a face. 'Dried mutton and horse sweat? Even enlisted men were fed better. It's grounds for mutiny.'

'I hope not,' Thalia answered. 'Flogging is so time consuming.'

By late afternoon, they had entered a broad valley, through which flowed the Orkhon River. Thalia had been to the Orkhon Valley before, but its beauty always filled her heart with lightness. Small stands of trees clustered on riverbanks bright with sun. Scattered throughout the valley were groups of gers, smoke rising from their chimneys into the sky. A shepherd on horseback tended his cattle, and the echoes of their lowing could be heard across the basin. A few monks from the monastery had left its walls and were taking their leisure by sitting in the sun on the grassy knolls, their robes spots of flaming color against the green.

'A lovely spot,' Gabriel said. 'But where's the city?'

'This is it,' Thalia answered. She gestured to the wide plain. 'Karakorum.'"

 

Agatha Christie Blog Carnival

The October edition of the Agatha Christie Blog Carnival has been posted. Hosted by Kerrie of Mysteries In Paradise, it offers a line-up of reviews and articles related to Agatha Christie. Among the forty contributions this month is my evaluation of They Came To Baghdad. Please scroll down Kerrie’s October 24th post for a detailed list of offerings as well as information about participating in the Carnival and/or the Agatha Christie Reading Challenge!

Rhodes: Seven Tears For Apollo by Phyllis A. Whitney

Seven Tears For Apollo is one of the earlier and less well known novels of contemporary romantic suspense that Phyllis A. Whitney wrote. It is also one of the few set outside the Americas, in this case a Greek island near the coast of Turkey. In a comparison with the Greek-set romantic suspense novels of Mary Stewart, written around the same time*, Seven Tears Of Apollo does not fare well, lacking, for example, the poetic energy and moral backbone that helped raise Stewart’s books into the classics they are today. The Rhodes of Whitney co-exists stiffly with the feeble plot, descriptions sometimes reading like primly conscientious notes from a travel journal (Whitney visited the island), and the principal character is so tangled up in anxieties that a cloud of depression greys the mood on nearly every page. Nevertheless, as a psychological portrait of an abused woman’s lonely struggle to regain self-confidence, Seven Tears For Apollo evoked strong emotions in me.

 

Fear and pain dominate American Dorcas Brandt’s memories of her deceased husband, Gino Nikkaris. “Seven times [you] must weep for Apollo, ” he told her the first time they met, in front of a museum statue of the god, “before [you] will shake free of the bonds that hold [you]”. The consequences of Gino’s criminal activities continue to haunt Dorcas after his death, and so, desperate to make a new start for herself and her daughter, she accompanies writer Fernanda Farrar on a research trip to Rhodes.

But small, threatening incidents soon shatter her hopes for peace. Confronted with disbelief on every side when she tries to explain that someone may mean her harm, she begins to doubt her own mind. Worse, Fernanda takes the attitude that her instability, as she calls it, is a bad influence on her little daughter. Then she discovers a long-lost letter with a cryptic message about Apollo in one of her daughter’s storybooks, and realises she is holding the clue to the mystery. But since even level-headed Johnny Orion, a teacher and fellow traveller whom she has started to like, refuses to take her concerns seriously, it looks as if she must find the strength to defeat her unknown enemies alone.

 

 

 

My main problem with the story concerns Dorcas's relationship with Fernanda Ferrar. The person closest to a parent in Gino’s life, Fernanda was like a foster-mother to him and reveres his memory. It is her firm conviction that Gino was a loving husband, and that Dorcas was simply too neurotic to see it. Fernanda oversees the welfare of Beth, Dorcas and Gino’s daughter, with the determination of a grandparent, making many decisions regarding her that should belong to Dorcas. On her part, Dorcas is grateful to Fernanda for the safe home she has tried to provide for Dorcas and Beth after Gino’s death, and strives to temper secret resentment with appreciation. She never reveals Gino's abusive side to Fernanda.

What this translates to throughout the book is a constant battle of wills invariably won by Fernanda because of Dorcas’s insecurities. No matter how many times Dorcas resolves to stand up for herself and decide what is best for herself and her daughter, she always ends up buckling under the patronising behaviour of others, be it Fernanda, Beth’s nanny, Johnny, or someone else. What made this theoretically understandable diffidence incredibly frustrating for me was that each time Dorcas succumbed to pressure she reasoned to herself that the other person had a good point and that she must not resent them. I found it a challenge to – how shall I put it tactfully – remain patient with a character who insists on telling herself that being a doormat is a sign of having a healthy perspective. With the exception below, I will make allowances for the strain she labours under and not go into the TSTL behavior she exhibited now and then, most notably in chapter fourteen; the poor woman suffers enough!

Another thing I questioned was the premise which demands Dorcas to believe Rhodes is a good place to get away from the problems caused in the USA by her husband's shady dealings in the art and antiques world. It is made clear in the first two chapters that her Greek-Italian husband had (supposedly severed) family ties with Rhodes and business ties with Greece. How on earth could Dorcas reasonably expect to escape his past on Rhodes of all places? Not once does she inquire into that past while she is on Rhodes, either, even when doing so seemed, to me, the obvious course of action in order to help clarify or verify certain concerns.

As I indicated in my post about Blue Fire, Phyllis A. Whitney’s male love interests are often overbearing at best and coldly domineering at worst. Johnny Orion (“O’Ryan via South America”) falls into the former category. He takes Fernanda’s word over Dorcas’s for most of the story, and even once he and Dorcas confess their romantic interest in each other his support tends to take the form of criticism. Dorcas learns to appreciate his viewpoint, but personally I several times thought his was a hard sort of love. His personality is not distant but Whitney’s characterisation of him is shallow and his role in the story keeps him on the sidelines for long periods at a time. He eventually comes to see Dorcas has been right all along (don’t expect an apology, though) but since even in the decisive final scenes and action sequences he somehow disappears into the background, he remains one of the less interesting characters in Seven Tears For Apollo.

By contrast, Xenia Katalonos, the wife of a prominent Greek sculptor, and Vanda Petrus, Beth’s Rhodian nanny are two strongly-defined secondary characters who stole the show whenever they appeared on the scene. Each charged the sometimes anemic writing and dispirited, repressed atmosphere of the story with her own, intriguing brand of passion and mystery, reminding me of where Seven Tears For Apollo takes place: amid the intense, sunbright colours of an ancient Mediterranean culture.

Seven Tears For Apollo may not be the best place to start if one has never read romantic suspense by Whitney before. The plot develops at a sluggish pace for the first half of the book, which seems mainly concerned with generating suspense through the fragile psychological state of the principal character. For an armchair traveller, plenty of historical scenery is provided - Kameiros, Mount Filerimos, Lindos, and the city of Rhodes - but usually in such an uninspiring style that one might as well be listening to a jaded tour guide. The romantic couple are short on romance, and taken as individuals, not very entertaining characters.

Yet Phyllis A. Whitney does a credible job of showing the tense despair of an emotionally battered character who can rely on no one but herself. Dorcas may be too easily subjugated to be an admirable heroine, but she never completely gives up and in the end she fights bravely for what is hers. While Seven Tears For Apollo would not be my first choice for a romantic fictional trip to Greece – I would recommend either My Brother Michael or This Rough Magic for that – I am not sorry to have spent a few leisurely hours brushing up on the history of such a fascinating place as Rhodes.

*My Brother Michael (1960), The Moonspinners (1963), and This Rough Magic (1964).

 

Excerpt

(Appleton Century Crofts hardcover, 1963, pages 68-9):

 

“Along the water a stone wall, low on the land side, dropped steeply to the rocky beach below. Scattered among stones and big boulders were curious stone balls, some of them as large as a man’s head, some of them smaller. All had been shaped and rounded by the hand of man.

‘What can they be?’ Fernanda puzzled. ‘They don’t look like cannon balls – they’re too big.’

Johnny knew the answer. ‘Rhodes was a city often besieged in the old days. Those balls were thrown by catapult when Turks and Saracens and pirates tried to breach the walls. I suppose the Knights of Saint John used them, too, in defense. You’ll see them everywhere around the town. Out there in the harbor a good many lie where they must have fallen and no one bothers about them.’

‘Fascinating,’ Fernanda said thoughtfully, tapping a tooth with the end of her silver pencil.

Johnny laughed and spoke over his shoulder to Dorcas. ‘We have to watch her when she sounds like that. It means she’s cooking something up . If we don’t watch her, she’ll try to take one of those balls home for a pocket piece.’

The stone catapult balls, perhaps more than anything else, Dorcas thought, gave a sense of the past as it hung over Rhodes. Down on the beach the stones shone in the sun, wet and brown and pock marked from long weathering, lying where they had fallen short of the wall they were intended to breach. She could almost hear an echo of the crashing and the tumult.

The car had reached two massively rounded towers with a deep, arched gateway between, offering entry into the walled town. Above the gate still hung the marble buckler of a knight. As they drove through with other traffic, the great masses of stone dwarfed the car.

Once inside, Johnny found an open square where they could park and they got out to walk over ancient cobblestones. Stone buildings two or three stories high closed around them, almost every window bearing the mark of a cross in wood strips that separated the panes. For all that the town within the walls offered shops to draw the tourists, it was a town in its own right. People lived here in houses that were not greatly different from what they had been in the days of the knights.

As they crossed the square, Dorcas was again reminded of Beth’s absence. There was no small hand tugging at her own, no demands made upon her attention. She hoped all was going well back at the hotel. She must not worry.”

Bermuda: The Gentleman Poet by Kathryn Johnson

Blending a historic shipwreck off the Bermudas and Shakespeare’s writing of The Tempest in an imaginary tale of new beginnings, The Gentleman Poet by Kathryn Johnson is historical fiction on a simple, human scale. The drama lies in the forging of relationships in the face of hardship and personal secrets. If anything, mystery and danger are too underplayed, yet sparkling writing makes even the ordinary interesting.

 

1609. On the way to aid the struggling new settlement of Jamestown in His Majesty King James I’s colony of Virginia, the flagship is separated from the rest of the fleet by a hurricane. The wreckage of the Sea Venture founders on a coral reef off the Bermudas.

Elizabeth Miranda Persons has already lost everyone she loves and everything she owns to the Crown’s persecution of Catholics and to the plague. Forced by necessity into servitude to an influential but querulous court lady, her workload further increases when she is assigned to help feed the survivors. With little to live for and less to hope for, she is surprised to discover cooking brings a freedom she never expected. But many eyes observe her as she wanders the island in search of herbs and other useful plants; and safety, which has long eluded her, comes at a price even in paradise.

 

The subtitle of The Gentleman Poet is A Novel of Love, Danger, and Shakespeare’s The Tempest. True to expectation, the novel opens dramatically with the storm that wrecked the real-life flagship of The Third Supply and led to the British colonisation of the Bermudas, at that time avoided by all mariners as "The Devil’s Islands". Whereas Shakespeare’s imagination may have been fired up by passenger Will Strachey’s account of the Sea Venture’s voyage, conjuring up a play filled with wizardry and magic, The Gentleman Poet in turn discards supernatural phenomena and instead playfully proposes that Will Strachey was William Shakespeare in disguise.

While I generally enjoyed The Gentleman Poet, I must say that the manner in which Will Strachey’s identity is treated in the story felt contrived to me. Shakespeare’s name stares at the reader from the cover, Will Strachey’s identity is made much of in the back cover blurb, and the story pushes one character’s constant scribbling (and pride in it) to the reader’s attention. Frankly I did not see the point of trying to build a mystery around him. When Elizabeth, the narrator of The Gentleman Poet, discovers his secret toward the end I could only shrug. The reason for his presence on the Sea Venture is neither exploited to create tension nor does it impact either the larger plot or any of the other characters. Any intrigue associated with him lies solely in Elizabeth trying to puzzle out whether he is friend or foe to her. It all raised expectations about a big plot twist but instead amounts to “much ado about nothing”.

As the novel’s counterpart to Prospero, however, the character of Strachey, ostensibly the expedition’s historian, succeeds far better. Instead of summoning supernatural powers to direct events he records things in his journal – what exactly, is something Elizabeth grows increasingly curious about – and conducts often moody, sometimes fatherly conversations with Elizabeth even as he is writing. It is amusing to note that as he nears the last pages of his journal, the story, too, is drawing to a close  – as though he, through his questions, suggestions, encouragements, unseen doings, and even his name (“Will”) has made everything happen, his pen a magic wand.

Still, it is Elizabeth (with the middle name Miranda) who is the principal character and subject of The Gentleman Poet. While one might assume that the “danger” mentioned to in the subtitle refers to larger events it more genuinely applies to her personal circumstances. A secret Catholic and an inconsequential maid amid men drunk on palm wine and eager to cast off discipline, her fears and vulnerability are driving factors in the story. Once the the survivors reach the islands in the fourth chapter, any larger threats are confined to the precariousness that arises out of the isolation of their situation. There is rumble of mutiny, but despite general concerns nothing very serious actually eventuates, and so the real source of suspense remains the matter of Elizabeth’s safety.

For a while, the Bermudas become a paradise. The bounty of the islands is taken as proof that God has not forsaken the survivors. Birds and animals exhibit friendly curiosity toward the human invaders, the air is fresh, and there is no disease. The shipwreck seems to have levelled distinctions of class and wealth as all share the same food, lack comforts, and sleep on the floor in makeshift huts. But human nature has not changed, and before long, the wildlife has learnt to fear and gallows, stocks, and ducking pool are put in place. Events show Elizabeth that it is not supernatural monsters one need fear on The Devil’s Islands, but the malevolence that hides inside mortal men and women. Life has taught her that men are especially wicked, and that love is something they use as an excuse to force their lusts on suffering women. Thus, when the ship’s official cook, Thomas Powell, begins to take an interest in her, she doubts whether it differs from that of the lawless Robert Waters, the novel’s vicious counterpart of the play’s Caliban.

Frankly, I did not blame Elizabeth for being sceptical regarding Thomas’s true intentions. Theirs is one of those love stories that essentially develop through a process of the female protagonist saying no and the male protagonist ignoring it and pressing kisses on her despite her protests, which eventually causes her to realise that, yes, she does want him after all. Elizabeth seems a person of ordinary intelligence but at a crucial point in her relationship with Thomas the author makes her behave according to jarringly melodramatic rather than tragic convention; as a result my incipient concern for her welfare turned into eyerolling. On the whole, however, The Gentleman Poet’s very gradual but insistent love story is kept from becoming too rosy-tinted too soon by Elizabeth’s modest yet blunt personality and Thomas’s graceless albeit well-intentioned suit. It also does pay to note that this novel is a work of historical fiction, not genre romance.

Since all able-bodied men aside from the cook are required for shipbuilding and construction work, Elizabeth, as one of only two female servants on the island, must divide her duties between the demands of her employer (Mistress Horton, a stockholder in the Virginia Company which is financing the expedition) and the needs of the survivors. Fire is a constant hazard in a community surviving in rough, wooden huts, and so all cooking must take place on the beach away from habitation. For the first time since she became a servant, Elizabeth finds a measure of freedom. On her own, she roams the island for ingredients to replace the supplies of flour, sugar, herbs (though if the information provided by the linked source is correct, at least one of the wild plants Elizabeth picks – fennel (foeniculum vulgare) – was not native but actually introduced by colonists in 1616), and flavourings that were lost in the ocean, and creates new recipes based on her mother’s teachings. (Several recipes are scattered through the book, although the author advises against using them because they have not been adapted for modern cooks.) Through her food, she gains confidence, an identity of her own, and goals for the future. In fact, the novel’s main theme explores the role of identity, but although the book is titled The Gentleman Poet it is Elizabeth’s rebirth as Miranda that stands at its heart. This story, in my opinion, is the best reason to read the book.

The question of identity leads me to one of the things I wondered about throughout the book. Where are the women and what are they doing all day long? As in The Tempest, they are few in number – ten out of 150 survivors* – and they play an inexplicably subordinate and mostly unflattering role in the plot. Only a handful are mentioned by name or indeed seen at all, as if none of the women aside from Elizabeth and her servant friend Sarah seek out each other’s company or rely on each other for support. Granted, a servant’s time is not her own, but Elizabeth seems to never think about the other women or even appreciate the idea of female friendship in a place where women are so vastly outnumbered by men. Neither her low opinion of men nor her fear of being exposed as a Catholic prevents her from striking up a rapport with some of the men she meets; but with the exception of Sarah, who does not seem a close friend (they share no confidences), she forms no positive bond with any of her fellow women.

I also feel ambivalent about the ending, which in a way is true to the tenor of Elizabeth’s life while also ripe with new possibility. There is an artificiality about it that bothered me, though: an artistic construct that feels a bit self-conscious, as if events are manipulated to elicit gasps, and strong sweetener added to make the twist palatable.

Something that gave me undiluted pleasure, on the other hand, was the simple richness of Kathryn Johnson’s prose. As I wrote of my initial impressions about The Gentleman Poet, the language is fresh and immediate, supporting the first person voice superbly as well as creating atmospheric period flavour. Elizabeth emerges as a strikingly real, flesh-and-blood character true to her time.

It felt good to read historical fiction that takes place far away from the ever-popular courts and castles and deals with the lives of average people caught in an extraordinary situation. Once I stripped away the expectations of mystery and suspense raised by marketing (the cover’s back blurb and subtitle), what emerged was a simpler story that is both imaginative and very attractive in its own right. I quite liked The Gentleman Poet.

 

*According to Kathryn Johnson’s Historical Note, the characters named in the novel are drawn from the list of people who sailed on the real-life Sea Venture. Little, if anything, is known about most of them. Not mentioned in Johnson’s novel (or Note)is a passenger named John Rolfe (see more about him below, under "A film of related interest"), whose wife and baby died on Bermuda: he later went on to marry Pocahontas. (None of these stories are told in The Gentleman Poet.)

 

Recipe from The Gentleman Poet

(Avon paperback, 2010, p. 245):

 

“To Make a Gooseberry Foole

(to cheer the soul)

Pricke two good handfuls of greene Gooseberries. Scalde these until soft then poure off water. Mash with forke to make small and sweeten with Rose water and sugar (or honey, if there bee none). To a quart of Creame add Mace and set this over fire to boyle then take out the Mace and poure Creame atop Gooseberries, stirring all about. Stand till cool. Eate.”

 

Seafood forms a staple in the diet of the shipwrecked islanders, and since Johnson advises against using the recipes included in the novel (I chose to showcase the one above because it seems straightforward), here is a modern version (Gourmet, October 2000) of a Bermudian classic whose origins date back to the first British colonists.

 

"Bermuda Fish Chowder

 

• 1 medium onion, chopped
• 1 green bell pepper, chopped
• 1 leek (white and pale green parts only), chopped
• 2 carrots, chopped
• 1 celery rib, chopped
• 1 medium tomato, peeled, seeded, and chopped
• 2 large garlic cloves, minced
• 3 tablespoons unsalted butter
• 3 cups fish stock or bottled clam juice
• 5 cups water
• 2 1/4 lb mixed white fish fillets such as cod, grouper, tilefish, and snapper, skin and bones removed
• 1/4 cup tomato paste
• 1 bay leaf
• 1 teaspoon whole allspice, tied in a cheesecloth bag
• 1/2 teaspoon dried thyme, crumbled
• 1 teaspoon hot pepper sauce, or to taste
• 3 tablespoons cornstarch stirred together with 3 tablespoons water
• 12 small hard-shell clams such as littlenecks, scrubbed
• 1 lb medium shrimp, shelled and deveined
• 2 to 3 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce
• 1/4 cup dark rum, or to taste
• 2 tablespoons Sherry pepper sauce [Outerbridge’s, for example]

 
Cook onion, bell pepper, leek, carrots, celery, chopped tomato, and garlic in butter in a 6-quart wide heavy pot over moderate heat, stirring frequently, until softened, about 10 minutes. Stir in stock and water and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer briskly, uncovered, 20 minutes.

Stir in fish, tomato paste, bay leaf, cheesecloth bag of allspice, thyme, hot pepper sauce, and salt and pepper to taste. Simmer 20 minutes (fish will break up), then re-stir cornstarch mixture and stir into chowder. Simmer, stirring occasionally, until thickened, about 2 minutes.

Stir in clams, shrimp, Worcestershire sauce, and rum and gently simmer 30 minutes. Remove from heat and let chowder stand, covered, 1 hour. Gently return to a simmer and stir in Sherry pepper sauce."

 

A film of related interest: The beautifully filmed The New World is partially set in Jamestown, Virginia, only a few years after the events in The Gentleman Poet, and features the characters of John Rolfe (played by Christian Bale), one of the passengers aboard the shipwrecked Sea Venture, and Christopher Newport (played by Christopher Plummer), the ship’s captain.

A play of related interest: Obviously, The Tempest. While I personally don’t like the play it is considered one of Shakespeare’s masterpieces. The Empire Writes back lists interesting resources for Caribbean responses to the play and its performances.

Kenya: Stalking Ivory by Suzanne Arruda

Stalking Ivory is the second entry in Suzanne Arruda’s African-set historical mystery series featuring American adventuress Jade del Cameron. The novel is most effective when dealing with the brutality of poaching for ivory and describing the wildlife of the northern borderlands of colonial British East Africa (now Kenya). As a mystery laced with the tentative beginnings of a romance, it was considerably less satisfying to me. Stalking Ivory is, in my opinion, not a standalone mystery. Its plot resolution left me feeling cheated and annoyed, all the more since I had stuck with the story despite its ungainly writing style and characters with whom I failed to connect.

 

1920. Travel writer Jade del Cameron is camping with friends in the remote area around Mount Marsabit to collect material for a photo assignment about elephants. But the peace is shattered by the murder of a patrolling soldier, and Jade’s trip is further disrupted by poachers and a German safari. Then the young Kikuyu boy in Jade’s care disappears. When she discovers a cache of weapons, Jade realises she and her friends have stumbled on a bigger conspiracy than illegal hunting raids.

 

In theory, Stalking Ivory has all the ingredients of a winning historical mystery: a dramatic setting, an outdoorsy adventuress for a heroine, and a plot that employs two high-profile topics: ivory poaching and slavery.

Unfortunately, many of the behind-the-scenes workings of Stalking Ivory are based on events and people only seen in the first book, Mark Of The Lion, which I had not read. Unfamiliarity with the plot of Mark Of The Lion affects every part of Stalking Ivory, including the solution to the mystery, which in consequence, in my opinion, leaves much to be desired. The subject of slave commerce in the end receives only tangential attention whereas the killing of elephants for their tusks is given a more central role in the story. However, in neither case are the economic, the social, or the historical influences that motivate these trades even briefly discussed; their inclusion is limited to unpleasant facts that occasion anger and fuel the mystery.

Stalking Ivory builds up slowly for the first eighty pages or so before the story livens up, but I never grew to particularly like any of the main characters, and remained more interested in the setting and the secondary characters. The tone strives to relieve intense scenes such as graphic descriptions of slaughtered elephants with moments of cheeky humour, but although the heroine usually laughs until she cries at her own jokes, the comedy seemed forced to me. As for the prose, long sections read like unpolished drafts, with characters repeatedly stating the obvious, clunky dialogue, artificial or overwrought chapter endings, and abrupt paragraph shifts.

Although slang, the Germans’ racial attitudes (there are few nuanced characterisations in Stalking Ivory), and multiple references to both the Great War and Edgar Rice Burroughs try to evoke a period style, the atmosphere felt more modern than 1920 to me, largely due to a heroine who does not seem to display any characteristics of a pre-WW II heroine.

Jade del Cameron (the Spanish ‘del’ paired with the Scottish surname Cameron is not explained) is a self-sufficient traveller whose green, challenging eyes can stare down anyone and who refuses to be emotionally or physically dependent on any man. An outsider in her capacity as an American in a British colony and a working woman in a dangerous environment claimed by male hunters and soldiers, her character comes with plenty of interesting potential. As handy with a rifle as she is with a camera, she is in her element in Africa. So far, so good. But her spirited, independent nature is often easily confused with obstinacy and foolhardy impulsiveness and leads her and others into unnecessary danger; her questionable survival instincts rely by turns on an old knee injury alerting her to jeopardy and on mystical interventions; her tracking ability owes much to a tame cheetah whose personality seems no different from a dog; and, being opinionated, she is quick to criticise, condemn, and ridicule others based on how she feels rather than on what they have or haven’t done. Instead of identifying with her or cheering for her I felt myself becoming a cool, distant observer. I recognise that it would be difficult to create a historical heroine whom modern readers can embrace if she were to display the prejudices of her era, but I do wish that the distinctions between the (enlightened) Americans and British versus the (boorish) Germans were less simplistic.

While natives only appear in supporting roles, invisible except in relation to the needs or actions of the Europeans and Americans, the characters of Boguli and Jelani nonetheless form an inextricable part of the plot. I thought these two were the most inspired creations in Stalking Ivory. The mysticism associated with the former blends in naturally despite the fantasy element and lends the intrigue a thoughtful quality not seen elsewhere in the story. The lively, sympathetic depiction of the child Jelani was a breath of fresh air among so many stale, stereotypical characters; of all the creatures, human or animal, in Stalking Ivory, he became the most real and interesting to me. I was disappointed to see him fade out of the story “off-screen” towards the end.

The romance in Stalking Ivory consists of a hint at what may follow as opposed to a full-blown love story. Two suitors who take an instant dislike to each other vie for Jade: Harry Hascombe, a British hunter who it seems also appeared in Mark Of The Lion; and fellow American Sam Featherstone, formerly a pilot, now a novice film-maker. The man who turns out to be the love interest has fallen for Jade through reading about her adventures, and every moment in her company confirms his infatuation. Jade is more ambivalent, pointing out that a few days of combining forces does not mean they now know each other. Some tingly moments do follow, but Arruda, like her female protagonist, seems more comfortable dealing with action sequences than tender emotion. For such a slight romance component the language is surprisingly retro-purplish.

Like Blood Moon Over Bengal, another romantic mystery set in the British colonies between the two World Wars, Stalking Ivory offers a captivating setting and a non-conformist heroine. Unfortunately, since not merely the series’ character relationships but the plot drew on events in a book I had not read, I felt I was served an incomplete mystery with missing actors. Still, the well-integrated, detailed research and glimpses of imaginative characterisation indicate that Suzanne Arruda has talents that are not yet fully developed in Stalking Ivory. Perhaps, in a while, I shall skip another few books ahead in the series and try a more recent installment. I do hope that mystery can stand on its own.

 

A book of related interest: Four Years In Paradise by American explorer Osa Johnson (referenced in Suzanne Arruda's Author Note) details the time she spent with her husband in Kenya in 1924 to 1927. As far as I can tell, Osa Johnson appears to be the real-life inspiration for Jade del Cameron.