A
Disguised Moral Tale
by Guido Eekhaut
It is a remarkable fact that the books Ursula Le Guin writes for
‘children’ are as beautifully intricate and complex, and
stylistically perfect as the SF-fables she wrote for an adult
audience several decades ago. In fact, nothing about this book,
Gifts, tells the prospective buyer it’s a book for an adolescent
audience, and when I picked up a copy in Forbidden Planet in
London a couple of weeks ago it stood amongst the other SF and
fantasy (and rather close to the ‘adult’ section of garish graphic
novels). I guess that those of us who have grown up admiring the
literary craft of Le Guin don’t really care if her books are
marketed for ‘children’. Her stories and novels are and have always
been explorations of the human condition, whatever the world of
background her human characters grow up in.
SF and fantasy provide writers with an almost indefinite
freedom as to scientific, social or historical extrapolation, even
if – as is the case with fantasy – this extrapolation is negative,
when less sophisticated worlds are being described. This is the case
in Gifts: a semi-mediaeval world, without technology (except,
we may assume, the sort of industry that provides hand-made metal
tools and weapons), where psychic powers are being used by a limited
number of people.
These powers are genetically inherited, they are
– so to speak – in the bloodline. Those who possess them rule over a
tract of land, over a number of serf, as did feudal lords. Some of
these powers (the gifts of the title) are harmless, like
being able to call animals. Other however can be deadly and highly
destructive, and give the bearer more ‘political’ power. The one
that young Orrec received is the gift of undoing: he can destroy
animate and inanimate things alike. But he does not know how to
channel and control his gift. His fear is, that he will unjustly use
it, even inadvertently kill the people he loves. So he allows his
father to temporarily blind him, by wearing a blindfold. Even then
the world is dangerous, for neighbouring lords are all too willing
to enlarge their domain or steal cattle. Only the gifts keep a
fragile sort of peace between them, for they can be the most
dangerous of weapons.
We are clearly in the land that Le Guin had explored
before, more specifically in the Earthsea books. This land, and its
inhabitants, is harsh and fierce, and the people are prideful
because they must survive against brute forces of nature. The gifts
of their lords (or brantors, as they are called in the book) protect
the domains and their inhabitants against foreign invaders. All live
in a subtle and armed truce, occasionally upset by mostly poorly
managed raids.
The magic (which is never called as such) is
fully integrated in this society and in the lives of the characters.
It is an integral part of the plot, for Orrec is not only a
privileged human with power over others. On the contrary: he is the
victim of his gift and of its social but most of all its ethical
implications. As a young adolescent he cannot understand how to use
it, and his father cannot manage to learn him. But when, in a number
of incidents, Orrec accidentily uses his gift anyway, he is shocked
by the amount of death and destruction it brings on. His fear is
that he will use it indiscriminately against all, even against his
parents, maybe even against Gry, the daughter of the brantors of
Barre and Rodd, whom he loves.
Not only he fears his gift. Others are equally
fearsome of him, and even more after he is blinded. They wonder of
his gift is so powerful that even a simple glance of him can kill
and destroy. But Orrec wonders about the true intentions of his
father: “Am I to be a scarecrow?” he wonders, when he is lead into
the domain of a rivaling neighbour.
But there is more for Orrec to learn. He comes to
understand that the gifts may have been used wrongly: now only their
destructive side is known and used. But what if there is a positive
side to them, not one that destroys people, but makes them healthy,
cures them of diseases, unties – so to speak – their knots? It is
while being blind to the world, and with the help of Gry, that Orrec
comes to understand this hidden side of the gifts. And why would he
and Gry even continue to use their gifts, since they have more
mundane and ordinary capacities: he has learned to read and to
memorise stories, and she is trained in handling animals. They no
longer need magic to get along in the world.
The typical Le Guin story – and certainly the sort of
stories she writes for adult audiences – explores truly ‘alien’
societies where physical conditions determine interhuman
relationships (like was the case, most notably, with The Left
Hand of Darkness), even to such an extent that human biology can
be fundamentally different from ‘ours’. The world portrayed in
Gifts is much more simple than this. The gifts are of a limited
use, and much less spectacular than is usually the case in fantasy.
They account for a certain amount of power in its possessor, but
even then their impact is rather small. We are very far removed from
Tolkien, and happily so. Le Guin does not want her message obscured
by too much of the supernatural. For her, any sort of power has to
be limited, and used more than wisely. And if its use can be avoided
at all, so be it.
Do not let the simplicity of this tale and its plot fool
you. Le Guin is a master in disguising her moral propositions as
fantasy fables, which is – or should be – the way fantasy has to be
used. The exorbitant exotic worlds of dragons and magicians, where
heroes tend to go questing around in search of the same fateful
attributes all over again, is as far as possible removed from the
quiet, intriguing fables of Le Guin.
Ursula Le Guin: Gifts. Orion Publishing, London,
2004. Bound, 274 pg ISBN 1842551078, £ 10.99.
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