I promised a full book report (reviews are for the critics to pen; & I am just a lowly Aesthetic) to the author by Yule's end: and by Paladine, I mean to give it to him.
For, you see, while I flatter myself now to call him a friend, Michael Williams has had a profound impact on my spirit, since about the age of twelve when I first discovered Dragons of Autumn Twilight in a little children's bookstore on Cape Cod on a summer vacation with my family. The waves, the sand, the girls in bikinis I noticed scarcely more than Raistlin would have, enthralled by the tale of a ragtag bunch of friends who end up saving the world, just as Mr. Majere was wrapped up in a blue-bound spellbook. After reading the Chronicles at least ten times, including once to my own children during the pandemic (not nearly as daunting a task as reading the Lord of the Rings out loud!) over the course of three decades I finally realized the impact Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman's collaborative fiction writing had on my soul, on the course of my life, and in philosophy, theology and religion.
However, while a mere grocery clerk by day trying to feed my family for the past twenty years, my unpaid vocation and inner calling has long been poetry. If anyone in so inclined, feel free to check out some of my poetry through the link at the bottom of this article. I always thought of my love of poetry as beginning in high school, when I discovered the Beat writers, Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, and through Jim Morrison's influence discovered Arthur Rimbaud and William Blake, along with the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche, who introduced me to more classical authors, poets and the pre-Platonic philosophers.
But not so long ago, as I read aloud the songs and poetry contained within the DragonLance novels, and in particular the Solamnic Death Chant commemorating the Hero of the Lance, Sturm Brightblade, while fighting back tears, it struck me: Michael Williams is the man who made me to fall in love with poetry; and after a long struggle with the craft, and no success at publication, ready to give up on it all, he rekindled my faith in the meaningfulness of the Word.
Fittingly, as it was written by one of the great American poets of the late 20th century, this is a book about the power of words: the way they're put together; the ways in which we interpret them, whether in wishful thinking and self-aggrandizement, in circular reasonings by which we repeat the same patterns (and mistakes) of the past, or in a spirit of openness whence we penetrate the obscure with childlike simplicity and break the spell of learned letters to speak the truth heart-to-heart; and the ways in which words themselves create the past, present and future, in every poem or prayer, book or song, every lively conservation and each silent meditation.
This is a book about youth: the thrill of adventure longed for amidst the dull routine of neglected duty and resented lessons from quaint old fools who know not the first thing about what stirs our eager hearts to leave the sheep to stray and follow caprice with the goats. About generations entangled in sordid stories of love and woe, revenge and jealousy: yes, this is a book about jealousy and above all, a book about brothers, coming of age, hurting each other, coveting each other in envy that fails to see how we all possess a unique gift, something that makes us special and, indeed, worthy of the other's admiration and envy in turn, as the grass is always greener: from which may we arise and lay the curse aside.
Leaving such high-minded assessments behind, this book was truly a pleasure to read: finding out that Michael Williams had contributed a full novel to the DragonLance literary universe, by happenstance during a busy December when I hadn't the time to come up with anything to ask my wife to get me for Christmas, unwrapping the modest little paperback under the tree while our three sons opened their gifts as well...if not the luck of the weasel, I call it the good fortune of the lion that this book came to me precisely when it did. No matter if Gileandos would dismiss this earlier work of the Bard; Father, ever the good host, may be found "listening even to the most ridiculous parts of the story" with rapt attention, betwixt the wine and the lager and the Scotch and the brandy, intent upon this story of three brothers and a brave knight of the legendary Brightblade family (oh, and I may have even come upon an old manuscript of Quivalen Sath's unpublished Dark of Solinari.)
Indeed it was truly the gift of a wise man, to be able to connect to this time in the past when the book was written, when I was a young child myself, years before my parents divorced and longer still before I discovered DragonLance; when the heavy metal I would later listen to in high school was still fresh in the air, when my parents were still making merry with their own childless friends from this same generation that created DragonLance: Tracy Hickman and his wife Lauralanthalasa; Margaret Weis, keeper of the Great Library of Palanthas; Michael Williams aka Quivalen Sath; Larry Elmore who was commissioned by the Kingpriest to decorate the "Sistine Chapel" of the Temple of Paladine, which now lies buried beneath the Blood Sea of Istar, her treasures lost forever to the sea elves and the mages who love them; Roger E. Moore, Master of the Dungeon & Editor, with whom I enjoyed digitally sharing the Holy Ghost of Chanukkah Past several years ago, before the Cataclysm...and others of whom I may or may not have heard tale.
This is a story of three brothers, Alfric, Brithelm, and Galen (or "The Weasel" as his name means and as he is unflatteringly called by his eldest brother, Alfric) who vaguely reflect the same division of human character as the Brothers Karamazov: Alfric represents physical strength (which he uses primarily to pound his youngest brother for real or perceived offenses) and, aspirationally at least, courage, or at least ambition, to someday become a Solamnic knight and a hero like his father, if only he can find another knight willing to take his sorry hide on as squire. Brithelm, the middle brother, reminds me of Alyosha Karamazov in his spiritual purity, although his red robes can't help but make us think of Raistlin Majere; and if you read this book you may even get to see him do a few magic tricks of his own. Of course, the Weasel is the unlikely hero of this tale, and he takes his time burrowing into our hearts, through twisting tunnels, offending decency with his cowardice, dishonesty and resentment, but at least making the reader laugh out loud (over the noise of the Yuletide merriment round about) as he cleverly uses his wits (and his words) to outsmart his older brothers, representing the 'mind' so to speak, as they represent the body and the spirit.
The adventure, the plot, the drama all take their time to develop as the outset of the book establishes, not only the characters themselves (which also include a washed-up schoolmaster turned tutor to the spoiled children of the castle, as well as a knight from the Brightblade family---perhaps you've heard of them?) but also the environment, the landscape and geography (I found myself flipping back to the map at the beginning of the book more than I do with most tales of Krynn) and most of all the mood and feel. And this book feels, and it feels different.
To readers familiar with the DragonLance novels, undead warriors whose spectral breath chills the soul, dragons spewing flame and acid that melts flesh and stone, and oaken groves capable of frightening the bravest Kender this side of the Abyss, beyond which lies a tower inhabited by oozing shapeless things of dubious life and the evil mage who is their Master, along with the dark elf that serves him, are nothing new. And yet there is something sinister and malevolent in reading this book that I have rarely come across in fantasy literature which, as a genre, is essentially Christian, whatever you might think. This book is darker in a way hard to define, but the darkness is not so much there on the page as crawling between the lines, flying ahead and behind to remind you of your own past, present, future...or maybe it's just me, maybe I've been dwelling too much on family history over the Holidays, maybe I should turn the heat up, yes I'm sure that's all it is, that's what caused the chill in my blood...but then I heard a murder of crows cawing outside the window and I had to put the book down.
Michael Williams displays a broad and deep familiarity with bardic lore, with midieval history, and with trees: clearly he has done his homework and familiarized himself with the Historical Grammar of Poetic Myth set out by Robert Graves in The White Goddess (I would know, having read the book three times in the bathtub.) A recurring theme as the story progresses is the struggle between philosophy and morality---again we are reminded of Raistlin, and of William Blake's adage, "The weak in courage is strong in cunning."
DragonLance has always been about unlikely, even reluctant heroes: flawed, human, transgressing, doubting...characters straight out of the Bible, or the Welsh and Irish tales...
The problem was that the world couldn't take a pure best.
"Don't look at things directly, little brother, for insight dwells in the corner of the eye"
There is a conflict between law and grace that is reflected in Sturm Brightblade's struggle between the Oath and the Measure in Dragons of Winter Night, the darkest, most sorrowful DragonLance novel I had read prior to Weasel's Luck. If you were only to read one DragonLance novel, this should be it---which is not to say that it's the best or even, by any means, my favorite: I would tell you to start with Dragons of Autumn Twilight---but how could you stop there? You would become an Aesthetic for life. I for one will never forget I was sitting in a green chair beside a green lampshade on a summer evening reading by the light when I first came upon a wizened old dwarf whittling a piece of wood as he leaned against a rock...the rest is Qualinesti lore. But if you were to dip your feet into the waters of the Blood Sea for just one week and only visit the land of Ansalon once, never to return, and go back to Dickens and Hesse and Stendhal, they would be in good company were you to choose this Estwilder jewel of a book by Michael Williams.
Some things are stronger than death.
Above all, this is a book about redemption. Redemption from the past that haunts us in endless remorse and resentment. Redemption from the loneliness and isolation that harden our hearts to callousness and, in preserving us from the biting cold of a winter with no fire, prevent us from feeling the warmth of the sunrise when the chirping of birds heralds spring's return, as it must. Redemption, for this reader at least, from a rigid Seeking after the ways of the Measure and readiness to sacrifice all for the Oath, redemption in laughter that dissolves all such notions in a most unSolamnic smile, saved by the luck of the weasel or, as it were, the rat.
May Paladine guide our actions,
Mishakal heal all wounds,
and Gilean reveal to us the meaning of life: one page at a time.
Read some of my poetry on my blog:
& also check out my review of
Dragons of Deceit by Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman
