The Paradise War (59 page)

I determined that the story would move through all the stations of a traditional heroic myth tale and complete the cycle, because I wanted it to be a whole myth, not a broken one. This meant that certain constraints would be present and certain elements needed to be present. I studied the way mythic stories moved and the various component parts to be acquired or supplied—either by myself or lifted from one or another of the various Celtic tales, building up a ready working knowledge of not only the necessary shape of the story, but the characters, devices, and objects that populated Celtic myth and legend.

So The Song of Albion rests on a solid foundation of Celtic myth and is, in its construction, also a mythic story. A viewpoint character with whom we identify closely—the everyman, Lewis—creates resonance. And for the final factor, the language of the story touches the heart of the reader.

By language, I refer not to the modern language in which it may be read—English, French, Greek—or even the Gaelic words and names that are found sprinkled throughout the books. Rather, I refer to the means that the story uses to express itself, and that language is fantasy.

In fantasy, the author echoes the creation of this manifest world, in which we live, with the fashioning of a subcreated world, in which the story’s characters live. A common feature of such literature is a portal—C. S. Lewis’s wardrobe must surely be the most well-known— through which the reality-bound protagonist travels into a more stylized imaginary, yet somehow more
true
, world. Stripped of much of the clutter of the mundane world and its often trivial preoccupations, more important matters of life stand in higher relief—good and evil, loyalty and betrayal, hope and despair, love and hate—can be better appreciated as they are played out in the story and, consequently, better understood.

J. R. R. Tolkien, undisputedly a most fluent speaker of this language, was criticized in his day for indulging his juvenile whim of writing fantasy, which was then considered—as it still is in many quarters— an inferior form of literature and disdained as mere “escapism.”

“Of course it is escapist,” he cried. “That is its glory! When a soldier is a prisoner of war it is his duty to escape—and take as many with him as he can.” He went on to explain, “The moneylenders, the knownothings, the authoritarians have us all in prison; if we value the freedom of the mind and soul, if we’re partisans of liberty, then it’s our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as possible.”

It is a difficult thing—perhaps also a foolish thing—for an author to analyze his own work, attempting a rational explanation of what is essentially and necessarily intuitive and mysterious. If these words have diminished your sense of wonder in any way, I apologize. If they have helped you better appreciate what you have just read, I am glad.

All told, I am pleased to have written a book that has struck a cord with so many readers, and happily join those who have escaped into the world of Llew Silver Hand, Goewyn, Cynan, Tegid, Scatha, and all the rest, and gladly proclaim: “Albion Forever!”

I
NTERVIEW WITH THE
A
UTHOR

Publisher Allen Arnold read the Song of Albion books when they were first published fifteen years ago. He has re-read them a few times since, and recently was able to ask Stephen Lawhead some questions about this exceptional trilogy and the world of Albion.

Arnold: What was the catalyst for this epic trilogy? Do you remember a moment in time when the concept first crystallized for you?

Lawhead:
The Song of Albion was gestating throughout the time that I was writing my Arthurian series—
The Pendragon Cycle
. I had discovered the Celtic foundations of the King Arthur tales—which was new to me, and fascinating to me. This was in the 1980s. So, while I was researching and writing about Taliesin, Merlin, and Arthur—I kept encountering this rich, complex and, to me, exotic material— tales and legends of the ancient Celts which, although they didn’t have anything directly to do with Arthur, were nevertheless influencing the Arthurian tradition in a profound way.

I began scheming a way to use this wonderful material directly— in a story that reflected all the elements of Celtic myth, and that moved through the complete mythic cycle, beginning to end. The Song of Albion was the result.

A:
The Paradise War
uses a cairn as a gate to the Otherworld. Why is this?

L:
In Celtic legend, almost anything can be a gateway. I simply chose cairns because they are ubiquitous in the Celtic lands. They’re everywhere, these curious heaps of stones. Whether simple or elaborate, they all mark significant places--yet we usually don't know what that significance is.

Like most writers, I often ask myself, ‘What if . . . ?’ What if a particular cairn was raised to mark a gateway to the Otherworld? What if someone in the present day stumbled through?

A: Nettles is such an eclectic, memorable character. Who served as your inspiration for him?

L:
I live in Oxford, remember! These guys are all over the place. Professor Nettleton is my idea of the ideal and archetypal academic: agreeable, approachable, enthusiastic about his area of expertise, and formidably knowledgeable.

A: This trilogy works together so well as a whole—partially due to the intricate foreshadowing you plant in this first novel. Yet you have remarked that you allow each novel to flow organically as you write it. Can you describe how this balance works since it seems you have to have the end in mind—as well as a million connected details—from the start in order for the trilogy to build as it does.

L:
The story grew from the ideas carefully seeded throughout the book and, while it is true that I allowed it to grow as it would, its creation was not an open-ended process. I had a definite ending point in mind, a specific destination. As the story unfolded and moved through each section it always had to be checked against that final destination.

This is not the same thing as knowing the end of the story; I didn’t know how the story would end. I only discovered the ending as I wrote. The balance, then, lies in allowing the story to develop as it would while making sure that what developed was moving toward the final destination.

A: The spiritual quality of your books is distinctive, and something I resonate with very strongly. How does all that work?

L:
The way it works is, you write what you know.

The world I live in is a spiritual world. I have certain beliefs that include a creative God; a ‘manifest’ or temporal and broken world that is bracketed by an ‘otherworld’ which is eternal and perfect; the need for, and existence of, redemptive possibilities. Basically, I believe in the life and teachings of Jesus Christ.

Naturally, these beliefs inform my writing, just as a person with other beliefs—a naturalist, nihilist, humanist, or hedonist, for example—will write books that express his or her point of view . . . whether they intend to, or not! It’s unavoidable. And, the more subtle it is . . . the more compelling it is.

I suppose there’s a parallel here with the book, eh? In the world of Albion, what happens in the Otherworld effects what happens in the manifest world . . . and my contention is that what is going on in any author’s own belief system effects what happens in his or her books.

A: Each book in this series has thirty-nine chapters. Is that important?

L:
In Celtic numerology, thirty-nine is a highly symbolic number. To the ancient Celts, three was the sacred number, and what is nine but three times three—which is to say thrice sacred, which is three times more holy, and so on. Thus, in a series about divine kingship, I thought it might be interesting to keep each book to thirty-nine chapters as a way to reinforce this ancient holy concept.

ROBIN HOOD
The Legend Begins Anew

E
XCERPT FROM
H
OOD

T
he pig was young and wary, a yearling boar timidly testing the wind for strange scents as it ventured out into the honey-coloured light of a fast-fading day. Bran ap Brychan, Prince of Elfael, had spent the entire day stalking the greenwood for a suitable prize, and he meant to have this one.

Eight years old and the king’s sole heir, he knew well enough that he would never be allowed to go out into the forest alone. So rather than seek permission, he had simply taken his bow and four arrows early that morning and stolen from the caer unnoticed. This hunt, like the young boar, was dedicated to his mother, the queen. She loved the hunt and gloried in the wild beauty and visceral excitement of the chase. Even when she did not ride herself, she would ready a welcome for the hunters with a saddle cup and music, leading the women in song. “Don’t be afraid,” she told Bran when, as a toddling boy, he had been dazzled and a little frightened by the noise and revelry.

“We belong to the land. Look, Bran!” She lifted a slender hand toward the hills and the forest rising like a living rampart beyond. “All that you see is the work of our Lord’s hand. We rejoice in his provision.”

Stricken with a wasting fever, Queen Rhian had been sick most of the summer, and in his childish imaginings, Bran had determined that if he could present her with a stag or a boar that he had brought down all by himself, she would laugh and sing as she always did, and she would feel better. She would be well again.

All it would take was a little more patience and . . . Still as stone, he waited in the deepening shadow. The young boar stepped nearer, its small pointed ears erect and proud. It took another step and stopped to sample the tender shoots of a mallow plant. Bran, an arrow already nocked to the string, pressed the bow forward, feeling the tension in his shoulder and back just the way Iwan said he should. “Do not aim the arrow,” the older youth had instructed him. “Just
think
it to the mark. Send it on your thought, and if your thought is true, so, too, will fly the arrow.”

Pressing the bow to the limit of his strength, he took a steadying breath and released the string, feeling the sharp tingle on his fingertips. The arrow blazed across the distance, striking the young pig low in the chest behind the front legs. Startled, it flicked its tail rigid, and turned to bolt into the wood . . . but two steps later its legs tangled; it stumbled and went down. The stricken creature squealed once and tried to rise, then subsided, dead where it fell.