bho chionn greis dh’fhaighnich an sgoilear fantasachd Dimitra Fimi air twitter >cò iad an triùir sgrìobhadairean fantasachd as fheàrr, a bharrachd air Tolkien? b’ i Patricia A. McKillip tè dhe na molaidhean agamsa (airson fios, b’ iad Diana Wynne Jones agus Sofia Samatar an dithis eile). chanainnsa gu bheil na leabhraichean aice nam prìomh-eisimpleirean na h-àrd-fhantasachd. gun a bhith generic idir, idir, mhothaich mi bho chionn cuid de bhliadhnaichean gur ann orrasan a smaoinicheas mi nuair a thig am facal “àrd-fhantasachd” gu mo cheann. chan ann gun adhbhar a tha a’ chiad chaibideil dhen tràchdas agam a’ sgrùdadh cuid dhe na leabhraichean aice, The Book of Atrix Wolfe (1995) agus trì-leabhar an Riddle-Master (1976-1979): The Riddle-Master of Hed, Heir of Sea and Fire, agus Harpist in the Wind. (gu mì-fhortanach, chan eil an trì-leabhar ri fhaighinn a-nis ach ann an cruth omnibus, fon tiotal Riddle-Master: The Complete Trilogy.)
bha na leabhraichean seo air a bhith air na sgeilpichean san t-seòmar-choimpiutair againn aig an taigh fad mo bheatha, ach cha do leugh mi an trì-leabhar airson a’ chiad turais ach aig deireadh na h-àrd-sgoile, as t-earrach ann an 2010. chòrd an sgeulachd rium gu mòr, agus às dèidh sin dh’fhàs mi glè mheasail air obair MhcKillip san fharsaingeachd. ach ’s ann dha na leabhraichean seo, gu sònraichte, a bhios mi an-còmhnaidh a’ tilleadh.
tha an sgeulachd gu math doirbh a mhìneachadh gun a bhith a’ toirt seachad spoilers, ach nì mi mo dhìcheall. tha an trì-leabhar a’ leantainn dàna-thuras a’ phrionnsa Morgon à Hed, eilean beag is “iomallach” ri taobh mòr-thìre a tha ga dhìon le neach dìomhaireach ris an canar “the High One”. rugadh Morgon le trì reultan air a mhala, agus tharraing an rùn-dìomhair ud gu Colaiste nam Maighstir-aincheist, air tìr-mhòr, e, far an do dh’ionnsaich e riaghailtean nan aincheist, agus eachdraidh dhùthchannan an High One.
ged a dh’ainmicheas McKillip fhèin Tolkien mar bhuaidh shònraichte air an trì-leabhar, tha structar agus cleachdadh nan aincheist aice gu math eadar-dhealaichte bho rud sam bith eile air a bheil mise eòlach ann an raon farsaing na fantasachd. mar eisimpleir:
“Who was Sol of Isig and why did he die?”
Morgon turned his face away. “Sol was the son of Danan Isig. He was pursued through the mines of Isig mountain one day by traders who wanted to steal from him a priceless jewel. He came to the stone door at the bottom of Isig, beyond which lay dread and sorrow older even than Isig. He could not bring himself to open that door, which no man had ever opened, for fear of what might lie in the darkness beyond it. So his enemies found him in his indecision, and there he died.”
“And the stricture?”
“Turn forward into the unknown, rather than backward toward death.”
tro bhith a’ leantainn aincheist a bheatha fhèin — dè as ciall dha na reultan a tha a’ comharrachadh aodainn? — thèid Morgon do gach ceàrn dhen dùthaich, a’ coinneachadh ri rìghrean (beòtha agus marbha), clàrsairean, cruth-atharraichean, buidsearan, agus cumhachdan neònach gun ainmean a tha a’ bagairt air an t-saoghal aige air fad.
aig ìre na sgeulachd fhèin, tha na leabhraichean glè thaitneach, le dìomhairean tarraingeach agus saoghal-chruthachadh domhain: sin buaidh àraid a th’ aig na h-aincheistean, a nochdas gu tric air feadh an trì-leabhair — bheir iad doimhneachd agus eachdraidh do shaoghal nan leabhar, agus fàsaidh sinn tro bhith gan leughadh eòlach air caractaran is tachartasan bho mhìle bhliadhnaichean air ais, no barrachd. ’s i an eachdraidh tè dhe na prìomh-thèamaichean no prìomh-dhùbhlanan teòiridheil ann an obair MhcKillip air fad: na ceanglaichean eadar eachdraidh (nach tig idir gu crìoch deireannach), miotas (nach eil an-còmhnaidh a cheart cho miotasach ’s a b’ urrainn dhuinn iarraidh), agus an latha an-diugh, far a bheil eachdraidh agus miotas fhathast, fiù ’s gun fhiosta dhuinn, a’ toirt cruth air ar saoghal.
prìomh-dhùbhlan teòiridheil eile aice, ’s i an fhìrinn, ceist a nochdas air gach duilleig, cha mhòr, dhen trì-leabhar:
“You do not promise hope.”
“No. Truth. If I can find it.”
’s tric a tha caractaran — agus leabhraichean — McKillip an tòir, ann an dòigh neo-thròcaireach, air an fhìrinn, agus ’s e a th’ ann, gu math tric, aig deireadh nan leabhar aice ach, gu ìre bheag no mhòr, seòrsa taisbeanaidh. cha tig gin dhe na caractaran — no, dhomhsa dheth, co-dhiù, an leughadair — a-mach às an sgeulachd gun atharrachadh.
a bharrachd air an sgeulachd, ge-tà, tha cuid de rudan sònraichte mun trì-leabhar seo — agus gu ìre mhòr mun sgrìobhadh aig McKillip san fharsaingeachd — a thug buaidh mhòr ormsa nuair a leugh mi e airson a’ chiad turais, agus a tha a’ tarraing mo smuaintean air ais dha, agus ’s iad an dòigh sam bith McKillip a’ sgrìobhadh charactaran agus chòmhraidhean agus eastataig na buidseachd.
tha gibht aig McKillip a thaobh còmhraidh, agus tha seo a’ toirt dhuinn faireachdainn làidir air na caractaran aice. tòisichidh The Riddle-Master of Hed le argamaid eadar Morgon agus a bhàthair, Eliard, is a phiuthar, Tristan, air beulaibh talla mòr taigh nam prionnsachan ann an Hed:
“It’s a crown,” Tristan said. “I saw one in a picture in a book of Morgon’s. Kings wear them.”
“I know what a crown is.” [Eliard] looked at Morgon, awed. “What on earth did you trade for that? Half of Hed?”
“I never knew you wanted a crown,” Cannon Master said wonderingly. “Your father never had one. Your grandfather never had one. Your—”
“Cannon,” Morgon said. He raised his hands, dropped the heels of them over his eyes. The blood was high in his face. “Kern had one.”
“Who?”
“Kern of Hed. He would be our great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. No. One more great. It was made of silver, with a green jewel in it shaped like a cabbage. He traded it one day for twenty barrels of Herun wine, thereby instigating—”
“Don’t change the subject,” Eliard said sharply. “Where did you get it? Did you trade for it? Or did you…” He stopped. Morgon lifted his hands from his eyes.
“Did I what?”
“Nothing. Stop looking at me like that. You’re trying to change the subject again. You traded for it, or you stole it, or you murdered someone for it—”
“Now, then—” Grim Oakland, Morgon’s portly overseer, said placatingly.
“Or you just found it laying in the corncrib one day, like a dead rat. Which?”
“I did not murder anyone!” Morgon shouted.
ged a tha iad a’ bruidhinn air crùn, tha an stoidhle-chòmhraidh a’ faireachdainn cho nàdarra dhomhsa, mar fhìor argamaid-teaghlaich, leis an dubh-choimeasg ag èirigh gus, mu dheireadh thall, an tòisich Eliard is Morgon a’ sabaid, ged a chuireas Tristan crìoch air an strì gu math luath le bhith a’ tilgeil bainne goirt air an dithis aca. tha sgrìobhadh MhcKillip an-còmhnaidh a’ gluasad, ann an dòigh fhurasta agus, gu math tric, èibhinn, eadar an dà mhodh seo: àbhachas agus nàdarrachd, air an dàrna làimh, agus àrd-fhantasachd — rìghrean marbha is aincheistean àrsaidh is mar sin air adhart — air an làimh eile. tha an gluasad seo a’ toirt aotromachd dhan sgeulachd agus, mar sin, ga cumail air a’ ghrunnd, mar gum b’ eadh, gus nach fhàs i cho àrd ’s nach bi buaidh fhaireachail aig na tachartasan air an leughadair.
nì mi gàire gach turas a leughas mi an trì-leabhar, agus nì mi, cuideachd, gal.
a thaobh na fantasachd, cuideachd, tha an dòigh sam bi McKillip ga sgrìobhadh gam tharraing — mar gum b’ eadh — às mo chraiceann, no a’ toirt orm fhaireachdainn gum b’ urrainn dhomh mo chraiceann a sheachnadh nam b’ urrainn dhomh dìreach faighinn a-mach ciamar. thuirt caraid agam uaireigin gu bheil a’ bhuidseachd ann an obair McKillip a’ faireachdainn ann an dòigh mar bhruadar, ach ’s ann a theirinnsa gu bheil i a’ faireachainn mar rudeigin nas fhìrinniche na a’ bheatha far a bheil sinn. ’s dòcha gur e seo a bha Ursula K. Le Guin a’ ciallachadh nuair a bhruidhinn i air fìrinn na fantasachd san aiste aice “Why are Americans Afraid of Dragons”.
Something in her voice opened then, like a flick of light in the deep of Isig opening a vein of unexpected richness to view, and she stopped. She reached down, touched the white fire with one hand, drew it softly into a glistening spider’s web, a polished bone, a scattering of stars, a moon-white chambered shell, shape weaving into shape, falling from her hand, a handful of blazing flowers, a net knotted and glinting as with seawater, a harp with thin, glistening strings. Raederle, watching, felt a hunger stir in her, a longing to possess the knowledge of the fire, the fire itself. The woman’s face had grown oblivious of her, intent on her work; it seemed touched with wonder itself at each fiery, beautiful shape. She let the fire fall at last like drops of water or tears back into the bed. “I take my power, as you take yours, from the heart of things, in a recognition of each thing. From the inward curve of a grass blade, from the pearl troubling as a secret deed in the oyster shell, from the scent of trees. Is that so unfamiliar to you?”
chan e seo an t-eisimpleir as fheàrr (ged a dh’aithnicheas mise, co-dhiù, an t-acras air Raederle), ach tha e doirbh fear fhaighinn gun a bhith a’ toirt spoilers. co-dhiù, a bharrachd air teòiridh na h-eachdraidh, cha chreid mi nach b’ urrainn dhut feallsanachd-bhithe fharsaing a chruthachadh leis na leabhraichean seo mar bhun-stèidh.
cuiridh mi crìoch air an lèirmheas seo an seo, oir tha fhios agam nach eil mi idir a’ moladh an trì-leabhair mar bu mhath leam (’s ann a dh’fheumainn, mar a chanas iad, spiorad rannaigheachd seann-fhilidhean na Fèinne). aig a’ cheann thall, chan urrainn dhomh moladh nas fheàrr a thoirt air na leabhraichean seo na bhith ag ràdh gur iad seo cuid dhe na leabhraichean as fheàrr leam. ma tha ùidh agad ann am fantasachd, bu chòir dhut an leughadh.
(air ais: prìomh-dhuilleag · lèirmheasan a rèir ùghdair · lèirmheasan a rèir dùthcha · lèirmheasan eile o Èirinn)