Tag Archives: Unicorn

Stardust Casts a Spell

Neil Gaiman describes his short novel, Stardust, as a “fairytale for grown-ups.” That’s apt but not helpful. All his novels are adult fairytales, and that’s a good thing. There’s something appealing about a writer who finds the world magical, and it makes Stardust an enjoyable read.

The story opens in the village of Wall in England when Queen Victoria was young. That’s vague but helpful because Queen Victoria was old far longer than she was young. As the name suggests, Wall is a solid fixture firmly set in our world, but the walled town borders Faerie, which is each “land that has been forced off the map by explorers and the brave going out and proving it wasn’t there.” As a result Faerie is fantastical and huge, and Wall is there to keep the two worlds separate. But as every fairytale reader knows, walls are useless against magic.

And magic is everywhere, because the Faerie Market, an event that happens once every nine years, has arrived just outside of town. All sorts of enchanted items are for sale. At one stall, Dunstan meets a beautiful faerie girl who’s been enslaved by a witch. And as every fairytale reader knows, faeries be horny. Dunstan and the faerie spend an aerobic night together. Nine months later a bundle arrives outside the wall, and it has Dunstan’s name on it. He names the boy Tristran.

We jump ahead 17 years, and Tristran is single and ready to mingle, particularly with a pretty village girl named Victoria, but she refuses to even kiss him. When they see a falling star land in Faerie, Victoria agrees to grant Tristran anything he desires if he brings her the star.

Quests are perfect plot devices, because they have a way of changing people and what they think they desire. Every fairytale must have a quest, so here we are. Tristran walks into Faerie “too ignorant to be scared, too young to be awed.” Faerie is beautiful and treacherous, and Tristran isn’t the only one searching for the star, who has transformed into a luminous young woman. Her name is Yvaine. A witch has deadly plans for Yvaine, and a Machiavellian nobleman needs the enchanted amulet in Yvaine’s possession. They’re prepared to kill anyone who interferes.

Tristran finds Yvaine first, but she was injured in the fall. How will he get her to Wall when two powerful adversaries are in quick pursuit? Perhaps that unicorn will help.

Gaiman knows how to cast a spell. He seems to believe life is a gift and the world, though it can be cruel and dangerous, is full of wonders. At one point, Tristran writes a note to his mother. “Have been unexpectedly detained by the world. Expect to see us when you see us.” Is this Gaiman speaking for himself or for all of us?

Gladiola Overdrive, Chief Editor

Down by the River: Not your Great-Granny’s Ireland

Edna O’Brien’s Down by the River opens ominously with a road in a verdant and decaying rural Ireland. “The road is silent, somnolent yet with a speech of its own, speaking back to them, father and child, through trappings of sun and fretted verdure, speaking of old mutinies and a fresh crime mounting in the blood.” Hey, wait one hot second, Gladiola! Yes, dear reader. This is all wrong. My great-grandmother was born in Ireland, and I went there last year on a golf trip. Where are the wee folk and the pints of Guinness? The songs about unicorns? My apologies, dear reader, but this is a story by Edna O’Brien. She’s Ireland’s William Faulkner. Or, perhaps better put, William Faulkner is America’s Edna O’Brien. She writes about Ireland in all its melancholy and sordidness, so fear and superstition appear on every page – song too, but no wee folk; no unicorns.

Mary (that’s a loaded name in a predominantly Catholic country) is 14 years old. Her father is James. He loves horses, but he’s a cruel man who believes in “might before right.” He’s been raping Mary for quite some time now, and she is desperate to get away from him. She and her sister, Elizabeth (another loaded name), visit a remote shrine and pray for their father to be cured of his “epilepsy”. They speak in code, because the truth is too awful to say, even to God.

There’s another truth too awful to say: birth can be a brutally violent act. Mary witnesses this when her father helps a mare give birth. “Mare and foal, though of the same flesh, are warring, two warring things, not like a mother and its young, each fighting the other, except that the foal is stronger, her energy and her thrusting prodigal now.” Soon after, Mary becomes pregnant. When James finds out, he attacks her with a broom stick trying to cause a miscarriage. He was kinder to the horse and foal.

This is Ireland in the 1990s. Abortion is illegal. Bishops control the medical profession, and society decries the “abortion holocaust” taking place in England. Mary concludes suicide is her only option. Betty, an older cousin, rescues Mary from the river and figures out her secret. She helps Mary get to England, but a neighbor discovers the plan and alerts the authorities. Betty and Mary are brought back to Ireland before the abortion occurs.

Now the bishops and lawyers get involved. Mary becomes public property, and the public presumes to know what is best for the born and unborn. But the public only knows Mary as the “Magdalene” so how could they know best.

Time is relentless, and a decision must be made. But who gets to make it. Everyone demands to be heard, but whose voice should be heard? It’s telling we don’t hear Mary’s voice until the end. It’s beautiful.

Gladiola Overdrive, Chief Editor