This is a light-hearted sci-fi/fantasy novel. It mixes the shock of finding out that extra-terrestrials exist with an emotional journey in which the narrator, a hapless prophet called Rintoul, faces the anxieties of his youth. His story has a messianic quality because, reluctantly, he must come to terms with his mortality to save his people. The main characters live on a planet called Themis, where life is much like pre-industrial Earth in many ways.
Rintoul's calling is to provide essential forecasting services for a lost tribe of people living the island life deep in Oceana Incognita. He has a rare talent for a good hunch, but his gift doesn't make him immune to the consequences of his naivety. As a result, he has unwittingly fallen in love with an alien. When a vision shows his home beset by cataclysmic forces, he begins to understand not all is as rustic and innocent as it seems.
As Rintoul's journey unfolds, he is faced with a whirlwind of discoveries. Each layer of confusion he peels back leads him deeper into a strange world where space-voyaging 'life coaches' must act to protect his community from the nefarious interests of the Tfolk from planet Tetlis.
This is a light-hearted sci-fi/fantasy novel. It mixes the shock of finding out that extra-terrestrials exist with an emotional journey in which the narrator, a hapless prophet called Rintoul, faces the anxieties of his youth. His story has a messianic quality because, reluctantly, he must come to terms with his mortality to save his people. The main characters live on a planet called Themis, where life is much like pre-industrial Earth in many ways.
Rintoul's calling is to provide essential forecasting services for a lost tribe of people living the island life deep in Oceana Incognita. He has a rare talent for a good hunch, but his gift doesn't make him immune to the consequences of his naivety. As a result, he has unwittingly fallen in love with an alien. When a vision shows his home beset by cataclysmic forces, he begins to understand not all is as rustic and innocent as it seems.
As Rintoul's journey unfolds, he is faced with a whirlwind of discoveries. Each layer of confusion he peels back leads him deeper into a strange world where space-voyaging 'life coaches' must act to protect his community from the nefarious interests of the Tfolk from planet Tetlis.
Iâm not a deep enough thinker to be troubled by existential conundrums. Weâre all made of the same stuff, right? At least, thatâs how we start. Where we end up is the product of life experiences which, in defiance of popular belief, we have little power to influence. Despite this, taking possession of your destiny remains a modern exhortation, said to elevate, empower and energise the cluttered mind. Unfortunately, true success in this usually requires an holistic understanding of circumstances and a quantum computer, or a great deal of luck. Sadly, both of these are unreasonable expectations for Joe Average. Thus, the notion of choosing your doom in anything other than the short term is illusory. For me, the path of fate was also mysteriously unimaginable.
My story began in an ordinary sort of way for a middle-of-the-road guy growing up in a pre-industrial society. Unenlightened is a word that springs to mind when describing both my early self and my broader community. But thereâs comfort in ignorance, and even now, with luck, most people I grew up with remain immersed in it. The narrative intrigue I lay before you concerns what happened when we crossed paths with a motley array of non-indigenous life forms, making my continued naivety an impossible luxury.
Let me begin with a reassurance; encounters such as these are infrequent. Rules exist to protect the innocent. Whether they were initially communicated as engravings on bits of old rock or interpreted from the incidence of dangerous natural phenomena is moot. That they were authored by the entity occupying the ethereal apex of the cosmic social order is a common but unprovable belief. Inconveniently, the existence of a single, authoritative supreme being has been the subject of heated debate ever since the invention of scepticism. Consequently, behavioural injunctions are observed more as a matter of good neighbourliness than holy writ. Punishment for transgression is haphazard, depending on the wagging finger of deeply flawed peers or the coincidental occurrence of an inexplicable calamity. In this story, it was the latter.
Notwithstanding the yin and yang of celestial crime and punishment, a managed level of rule-breaking is essential for the universeâs diversity and, hence, its sustainability. Disorder also generates entertainment because, to misquote the Leeds and Yorkshire Mercury from the 4th of September 1907, âwhere thereâs murk thereâs brass!â And where thereâs brass you will often find people whose competence lags their acquisitiveness, which is normally a condition leading to events replete with black humour. It is not a coincidence that proficiency deficits are prevalent among shady types. As you can well imagine, diversion is vital for staving off frustration among the omniscient. Reliance on Netflix just wonât cut it if your name begins with a capital G and your first seven days were quite busy.
The pursuit of âbrassâ is often fertile ground for unwelcome surprises, and so it was for me. I was in precisely the wrong place at the right time when great wealth was at stake to experience what happens when rules are broken. I consider this a stroke of luck, as life wouldnât have been half as interesting without the fun-filled frolic that followed. Moreover, it gave me a priceless opportunity for a career change.
As your narrator, the first thing to do is introduce myself. Iâm Rintoul, son of Starveall. I used to live on a planet like yours, one of countless other water worlds dotted across the firmament. Privacy considerations dictate I use a fictitious name for it and some of the entities you will encounter. Iâve chosen familiar ones to make it easier to follow the story.
In your culture, an early civilisation once chose the appellation âThemisâ for the god assumed to be in charge of the justice system. She was a beacon of wise counsel among the Titans of long ago. The concept of equity is universal, so Themis is often adopted as an inspirational, if unattainable, name for a home planet. In this story, the scales of justice swing alarmingly, making the moniker doubly appropriate for where most of the silly antics took place.
I enjoyed living on Themis. Goldilocks wasnât a recognisable character in our folklore, but the metaphorical porridge was just right for me. Sadly, I had to leave for reasons that will become apparent in due course. Nevertheless, Iâm comforted that it remains a haven for the profoundly ignorant, often rude, and sometimes violent but utterly charming humans who evolved there. Long may they stay ignorant about the fundamental nature of existence.
A confession is an excellent way to start the narrative because getting things off oneâs chest early is always cathartic. To understand me, you must know that I had an outstanding talent for underachievement when I was young. You see, I was a bit of a late developer. Though happy enough in my own mind and in the domain of my frequent daydreams, the natural world was different. I was shy to the point of paralysis. Frankly, in those days, I was frightened of my own skin.
Such weakness is the cruel plaything of more confident children, and my peers baited me ceaselessly. Adults smiled, saying, âHeâs just a bit sensitive. Give him time.â They were right, but it took longer than it should have, no thanks to my father.
He and I could not have been less alike. Shepherding was his reluctant trade, but he was more of a rough layabout by choice. My mother passed away before I had many memories of her, leaving me at the mercy of his impulses. His parents named him Starfall, though this was corrupted to Starveall for the repeated sin of leading his flock astray.
What changed my fate was being born with a gift, or so I thought. It took a few years to manifest itself and didnât last long into adulthood, but played an important role in this story. Some people refer to it as second sight; others just say, âThat fella, heâs got the luck of the [insert here the name of an oppressed societal group or race that, in defiance of logic, remains deluded about their ability to pick a winner]â.
I now know something about the theory of evolution. As such, it seems that among the spray of genetic mutations affecting the development of the human species, being prone to daydreaming doesnât carry much of an advantage. What does, is the ability to avoid being caught. So, itâs distinctly possible I owe the emergence of my second sight to the arrival of the back of my fatherâs hand. In retrospect, therefore, maybe I should be grateful towards him.
Over time, my premonitions began to alert me of impending events outside the hovel of my home. Mostly, I stood by helpless while disaster unfolded, too frightened to find my voice. When I tried to warn people, I was usually ignored because what passed in my head for shouting was a constricted squeak more akin to the mating call of a barn owl. That changed one sunny afternoon after I turned seven when happenstance introduced me to a travelling medicine man who, later, became something of a personal bĂȘte noire.
A quirk of coincidence placed me in the right spot to receive an array of subtle environmental signals that provoked a bout of subliminal processing in my immature brain. The result was a vision of catastrophic doom hitched up and heading straight for the healer. The vision was strong enough to soften my usual reticence, and I alerted the man in time to save him and his clients from serious harm.
I was happy about having achieved something worthwhile for once. Little did I know it would lead to being wrenched from the parlous circumstances of my home life and carted up to a frigid place in the mountains called Highstand, the mysterious and remote preserve of the priestly members of the Order of the Black Robe. Here, I would be inducted and schooled for later fame.
The medicine man had seen potential in my moment of prescience that fitted well with the talent requirements for performing a high-profile societal role the Order had jealously guarded as its own since time out of mind. This was by way of providing an augury for interpreting signs sent by our Great Spirit. The healerâs name was Teallach. He was senior even then but would later be the paramount leader of the Black Robes. Bird-like in manner, he was less tolerant of me than he had been with his paying clients. Nonetheless, he and his often awkward and starchy brethren made a welcome substitute for the father nature foisted upon me.
Although incidental to this tale, you might be gratified to learn that my father was offered monetary compensation for giving up the benefit of my labour. He accepted it without question, drank most of it in a week and died of alcohol poisoning.
Thus, I grew up apart from any close family. But the nurturing I received in the Order of the Black Robe was a success - at least in the eyes of the brethren. Inside my head, it was more involved. Though I matured into adulthood and prospered, this was through shielding the world from my insecurities. Going with the flow became second nature. It was easier and less painful than taking a stand.
My experience was, by and large, positive until the events in this story, particularly after meeting and falling in love with the person who seemed to complement my every weakness with her strengths. Elaine was and remains a beguiling presence with almost magical powers to steer me away from the consequences of my ineptitude. I first met her in the most unusual circumstances after being appointed to the honoured position of Truth-seeker, the pinnacle of achievement in terms of professional development for a prophet. But Iâll come on to that later.
Now Iâve covered the bare essentials of my early existence, we should get on with the story. To do this, I would like you to cast yourself back in time and imagine being on the summit of a towering peak, standing like a soldier guarding a gateway between two lands. The atmosphere around you is brittle and cold. Particles of ice tumble past like a coruscating cloud. The winter sun has only just risen, and it appears like a flattened orb of pale gold. Shafts of brilliant light slant across the landscape to cast the snow-encrusted massif into sharp contrast. Behind you, jagged peaks cluster close, allowing only glimpses of even higher summits in ranks of white and grey towards the western horizon.
Turn your gaze north and look down to a ledge chiselled from the heart of a shear cliff. The step provides a peerless vantage over the spectacular vista. Deep stands of pine trees lap the foot of the scarp and roll across to a neat tree line on the opposite side of a hanging valley. A lively stream threads along the valley floor through a patchwork of undulations. The watercourse merges with the outflow from one of natureâs masterpieces, a place that drew my people to this remote location long ago. Like lily pads made from white rock, terraces glisten with a sheen of hot water flowing across their surface. The formation drops from a gash in the ground on a rise below the cliff and tumbles down the hillside, ending close to my village. On a still winterâs day, plumes of steam blanket the valley. The only sour note is the smell of sulphur that fluxes from the ground, but who could complain about that as the price for luxuriating in warmth year round.Â
We referred to the ledge as the Eyrie, and itâs where I did some of my best work. The place had a near-tangible sense of potency. To the ill-informed, of which there were many, a silent and invisible energy suffused the site, drawing vibrancy from the glittering landscape. We believed the ledge supported an invisible bridge to the unseen world where our pantheon of benign and caring gods dwelt. The cynics among you will scoff, but we were almost right. Crucially, it was the benign and caring bit that was missing.
When this was my familiar domain, you would have seen a pillar of rock standing before a recess at the back of the Eyrie. The substantial monolith sported a smooth and symmetrical hole in its centre, just big enough to stand in. The opening was at head height and had been blessed by early visitors with incised graffiti in the shape of an exaggerated eye. To prove their credentials as thoughtful artists, there were some other symbols of a less high-brow nature. As you examine the scene, the sunâs rays penetrate the opening to illuminate a large, rather drab spherical object, hovering in the centre of the orifice as if controlled by a magicianâs hand.
The recess at the back of the ledge penetrates the mountain through the protection of a set of weathered doors that stand ajar. In the semi-darkness beyond, guttering flames from torches lick the air, casting yellow light to pick out a mess of engraved reliefs that portray the obedience, hopes and faith of generations of delightfully misguided people. Now, come back outside and observe a lonely figure on the ledge.
Yes, that was me moments before my life was changed irrevocably. I was kneeling on a colourful, oblong mat woven from dyed wool. Typically, it was oriented towards the rising sun. My appearance was unremarkable. I was approaching middle age but still grimly hanging onto the physique of my youth. Like most of my people, I had pale blue eyes. They were framed by crowâs feet at the corners caused by squinting and laughter in equal measure. Intense sunlight had seasoned the skin of my face, and my nose was flattened and bent, no thanks to my father.
I had on my ceremonial black robe. Tight-woven and warm, it was cinched at the waist and trimmed with fur at the collar and hem. The neat orthodoxy of my regulation dress pleased me. It was how I sought to project unimpeachable professionalism despite having a whimsical streak of non-conformity beneath the veneer.
My life partner, Elaine, knew who I really was and had presented me with a gift I was never without. It was a unique personal adornment, a precious metal circlet that fitted snugly around my right ear. Though small, it balanced my compliance with an understated but rather raffish look. I would never have had the gall to thumb my nose at convention, but I was putty in her hands and secretly delighted. Sheâd chosen the intricate metalwork design to match a finger ring she wore. I hadnât met the jeweller, but his craft was peerless. Heâd even made a nightstand for the circlet with a mysterious, winking light on its base that was endlessly fascinating.
What was I doing there? Well, back then, the Eyrie was where I came to commune with the spirits and receive wisdom, in theory, to guide our people. My duties required me to ascend three or four times a year. But the winter solstice was the most important occasion, coinciding with a gathering of my brethren and a slap-up traditional feast.
Receiving the word, as we used to say, was a bit of a sneaky pleasure. I enjoyed communing with the infinite; it was a license to exercise my passion for daydreaming. The thoughts that came to me were always loose and malleable to interpretation, so there was no significant risk of disappointment. Iâd become used to framing them in a way that pleased most, which also made me happy. The job had status, although to a sceptic, it verged on being a sinecure. All the same, I couldnât think of anything else Iâd rather do. Whatâs more, my fellow members of the Order seemed very happy for me to be doing it. Perhaps they were lazy or thought the responsibility of receiving the word too great to be laid at their door. Who knows? I was okay with it regardless of what they thought, and my life had been way better than it would have been had I stayed with my father.
There was a lot of initial flummery in the ceremony. But it was second nature to me and of little interest to you or, indeed, effect. Anyone listening would have heard me begin an ancient mantra. The moisture in my breath condensed in the cold air and was pulled away as if by an invisible hand. I repeated the mantra over and over and over.
With each repetition, my mind drew deeper into the bliss of a meditative state. Ah! The slide into trance was a delight, aided by the influence of a sip of sticky, sweet syrup. The liquid was precious, dark red, and contained in an ornate flask on the mat.
My visions, if thatâs an appropriate description, sometimes came quickly. On this occasion, time passed without much reward. I remember thinking that the gods, with their perspicacious and free-to-air guidance, must have been having a lie-in.
Just as I was about to sneak another slug of the red stuff to encourage some action, I noticed a passing shadow touch the face of the rock above the ledge. In my memory, events moved rapidly after that.
The fleeting shade could only have been caused by one of our indigenous and rather impressive crowned eagles. I saw them from time to time away in the distance, but they were infrequent visitors up here. The raptor glided close, beady eyes conveying primal hunger. A raucous screech escaped its beak, penetrating my loosening trance. The sound suggested that taking cover might have been a prudent thing to do. But before I could move, a sense of creeping dread infected me. Something was happening over by the monolith.
You know that feeling of apprehension when you think youâre being watched but canât determine who or what is causing it. Take that and magnify it almost to the point of hysteria, and you will get close to what hit me. Thankfully, the dire presentiment was short-lived. It worked up to a crescendo and was displaced in too brief a time for me to comprehend. The next thing I knew, I was flying through the air but, to my relief, not falling.
The experience of dislocation had no rational cause. Still, it wasnât inconsistent with some of my childhood premonitions, so I didnât panic. Many years had passed since the last one, so, in a way, I was almost relieved to have my ability reconfirmed. My brain began to work very fast without waiting for my permission. It conjured up a cosy cloud of incandescent energy to explain why I could fly without wings and fired me out from the ledge into the void.
I soared past the feathered fury, which fortunately seemed frozen in time. As the ledge dwindled, I saw my homeland spread like a map before me. The perspective was spectacular, and despite stomach-curling vertigo, I began to relax. I passed over Highstand, catching sight of my cottage, and rocketed on towards the coast. Such was my delight at the excursion it didnât occur to me that having a premonition wasnât an excuse for a joy ride. A sharp reminder put a crimp in my entertainment.
The vision began to shift in an unreal but very impressive way. The sky darkened, and immense clouds roiled, torn by winds that screeched with a theatrical moan. Lightning flashed in the darkness. Time strapped on its roller skates and accelerated, revealing a myriad of flick-book images that tumbled so fast I could make no sense of them. I tried to shut my mindâs eye but was powerless, caught like a leaf in a storm. Then, as I reeled from the sight of some percussive explosions, I had the impression of being pulled away.
I heard a distant voice saying, âOops! That wasnât part of the plan. Try not to do it again, but you get ten out of ten for originality.â It chuckled mischievously, and I began to fly back towards the Eyrie. I returned to reality at breakneck speed, slowing at the last minute. The cloud of supporting energy dissipated, and I alighted, almost but not entirely in control. I put a hand down to steady myself.
At this point, time resumed its normal pace. The raptor shook its head and retreated towards the pastures below, presumably after figuring out there was only a small chance of encouraging me to fall off the ledge. Curiously, as it tucked into a dive, it trailed what appeared, for all the world, like a whiff of smoke.
Eloquence eluded me. âOddâs bodkins!â I exclaimed, looking at my shaking hands. Bit by bit, I gathered my wits.
Becoming aware of the chill, I stood, stiff limbs reluctant to obey my command. I smacked my face, shook my head, and recalled my urge to sip twice from the elixir flask. Had I been reckless? Surely not. I picked up the ornate bottle. The level had not changed. I sniffed at it. Was it contaminated? No, that was impossible. The flask stayed up here, and no one except my young adept accompanied me. Besides, the drowsy mental meanderings, supposed to be the product of a Truth-seekerâs ability to reach out to the Great Spirit, had nothing in common with what Iâd experienced.
I shrugged my garments close to keep out the cold and walked towards the precipice. The memory of my wild ride was disconcerting. The odd mini-tornado, periodic but benign tremors and a minor attack of pestilence aside, nothing untoward from natureâs hand had ever affected this island. The portents were troubling.
The view from the Eyrie was unchanged, and relief arrived like a cool breeze on a muggy day. Nothing was unusual as far as I could see - and that was a mighty long way over to the enclosing range beyond the rural heart of Inisbigun, the name of my island home. Languid rivers and folds in the landscape were picked out in the morning sun. Iâd never known another place but did not doubt this was the most perfect paradise imaginable. I couldnât bear the thought of the destruction glimpsed in my premonition.
I calmed myself down some more by breathing slowly and deeply. A hint of smoke lingered in the otherwise fresh air, which was odd given that the home fires of Highstand were far below and whatever the eagle had trailed was long gone. I rubbed my face and smoothed my hair. The side of my head felt a bit crispy, and the skin around my ear was raw. I gave no thought to this oddity because now was no time to worry about personal appearance. Besides, another more urgent matter drew my attention. Something was singeing the lining of my pocket.
I stuck my hand in to investigate and quickly reversed course after burning my fingers. My panicked response was to grab a handful of snow to shove into the recess of my robe. Warm water began to trickle down my leg, which is never a good sensation regardless of circumstance. Fortunately, the snow did the trick. After the hissing abated, I was able to withdraw the iron fire striker I always carried on trips to the ledge. The metal tool was still hot, so I dropped it onto the ground and watched it melt more snow. When it had cooled, I looked at it, stupidly thinking I might see a clue as to what had caused the curious turn of events. I remained mystified, so I stuck it back in my soggy pocket.
Before turning away from the edge, I glimpsed a wagon far below. Heavily loaded, it was approaching along the road from Fairhaven, which was still the only port town on the island despite our centuries of occupation. Here, my ancestors had braved the breaking seas to cross a shallow bar and enter the sanctuary of a wide lagoon after being blown out of the north by a mighty storm.
The founding event of Inisbigun had been improbable. What had been even more unlikely was the discovery of a fertile, uninhabited land. People had lived here long ago, but none remained to greet the celebrated survivors of our first fleet. We referred to them as the Old Ones. Some of us believed they were a race of people, descended from the gods, who had passed back into the realm of the deities. Others, with a less ethereal outlook, thought perhaps they had all died in a plague or been carried off as slaves â although by whom it was disturbing to think. We only knew that they were far more advanced than us.
Essential roads aside, what was left from the time of the Old Ones was an assortment of buildings of awe-inspiring craftsmanship and oversized proportions. Those that were accessible had been adopted for various purposes, including the ones standing on a flat area cut into the foot of the cliffs beside the source of the hot springs. These had become our temple, a place of reserve for study and spiritual leadership. It was to here I had to return with my poor tidings.
The idea of what awaited was unsettling. If my premonition bore any relationship to the future, trouble was coming regardless of how peaceful the scene looked. I thought about delivering my account and began to feel exposed. Expectant eyes would soon focus on me, and every word would be subject to speculation and interpretation. I felt again the paralysing anxiety of my youth. Should I be honest? How could I be? What if I was wrong?
The story begins with a great first line: âIâm not a deep enough thinker to be troubled by existential conundrumsâ followed by many paragraphs of existential conundrumânarrator Rintoul son of Starveall explaining how came to leave his home planet and became a Black Robe Truth-seeker. Itâs not always the most exciting place to start, with a bunch of backstory, but this first chapter sets the tone, letting us know that we are in for a humorous ride.
After reciting prayers, âa series of sounds without meaningâ, and imbibing a dark red narcotic substance made from leather-bark fruit, Rintoul has a mystical visionâa prophecy?
He wears a magical ear circlet âcommunicatorâ given to him by his wife Elaine as a wedding gift. Their love story is romantic. He rescues her from shipwreck; she has some kind of magical power.
Bird emulates Adamsâ humorous, self-deprecating Voice, not funny ha-ha or jokey, but rather sardonic and witty. The world is vaguely mediaeval, vaguely Celtic, yet the narrative style is modern and colloquial. Rintoul exclaims âGodâs b****xâ, after his vision. His apprentice is âfreakedâ.
Often, this makes for anachronism, but in a sci-fi fantasy makes for a light, comic narrative style. Some lovely metaphors are timelessâ'the thread of my thoughts whiffled into thin airâ. Some lovely mash-ups: âin for a ring, in for a torcâ; âa few cucumbers short of a jar of pickleâ. A cute nod to Mae West: âIs that you, or just me thinking itâs you?â
I loved: 'I was gradually becoming used to the idea of scary technology from other worldsâ. I suspect a lot of the computer analogies were Ă propos, but being a self-professed technophobe, they washed over me. More savvy readers would find them funny.
To world-build without info-dumping, Bird uses the effective and entertaining device of having the narrator commenting on things to âyou Earthlingsâ. His wife Elaine and her uncle are outsiders, hinting at a reason for their strange abilities, so they present a world upon which Rintoulâs is the external viewpoint. They reveal their strange abilities and their extra-Themis-estrial origin to Rintoul bit by bit, in the midst of end-of-the-world ticking time bomb suspense, which reminded me of the wacky manic science of a Doctor Who episode. Itâs all the more suspenseful as the ETs themselves donât quite understand whatâs going on.
I would have appreciated more action and plot before the story of the vision, which is mostly internal monologue, to give us more time to suspend disbelief and get hooked into the world and the Protagonist. His quest or goalâsaving Themis from his prophecy coming true?âcould have been clearer, yet he wasnât clear on it himself. First, we have to figure out what âthe stone sphereâ is all aboutâbut maybe that is a feature of the Adams-esque genreâwacky stuff happens out of the blue to people in space, and we have to work out why from comedic comments based on the (real Earth) human condition.
In the end, the conclusion is the same as in Hitchhikerâs. Life goes on, much as before, often hilariously, with or without the presence of aliens.
This review was written for Reedsy Discovery.