Susan Elizabeth Curnow's Blog, page 6
March 21, 2013
Extremely thought provoking blog post by the writer Myke Cole about what PTSD is, at least for him. 
March 20, 2013
WIP - Have a Read.
I probably won't post more than the first chapter, unless reader reactions scream at me for more. I will see. So, the first chapter of "Vicadia"Chapter One
In the days before humans even knew how to articulate a sensible word, another people evolved, grew, reached a peak, fell and rose again, their society not limited to a world but worlds. Time, to them, was fluid and bodies interchangeable. They crossed the Universe, they did what humans now want to do, but inevitably, they became bored.
A castle spins on a central axis as it gains power and momentum. From the world’s core it draws strength, seeking pathways across the Universe. When its operator finds what he wants, the castle slows and becomes what people have always thought, a tumbledown ruin of an eight-sided fortress.
Below, within a cavern, a seeker watches on a crystal screen. He needs two beings to play his game and to win the safety of the world he has created. One resides on Sele, the world he has carefully crafted, the other on Earth, a rival’s design.
On Sele, an island sinks beneath the waves, its people irrevocably changed. On Earth, a vehicle slides on ice before plunging through a frozen river. On Sele, thousands of souls transform so one can be manipulated. On Earth, a woman clings to existence by a mere thread in the weft of life.
Vicadia draws the threads parallel and for a nano-second they touch and connect.
The Mazda hit ice. Carter cursed, fought for control, lost it in kaleidoscope swirls, and the vehicle hurtled down a steep bank, jamming me against seat and headrest. Terror clutched at my heart, breath refused to come and let out my screams. Stillness as the car stopped, engine running, headlights shining on pristine snow. Relief caught laughter until I realized where we’d ended up. The Coldwater River. Confirming my fears, ice cracked loud as a pistol shot. Carter released his seat belt. The button on mine refused to work despite my frantic efforts. Carter opened his door, got out the car, then bent to peer back in.
“Goodbye Tori,” he said.
I flinched as the car door slammed and he disappeared into the night. Sick fear made my heart pound. Things hadn’t been going well, no, but…. Perhaps he went for help? The mountains stopped cell signals here often enough.
A crack echoed, then another. If I waited the car could crash through the ice and I had no idea how deep the water was here.
Carter had left.
And you are sitting here like a dumbass? Carter’s favorite name for me lately. Perhaps he was right. I yanked at the belt, depressing the button over and over. Carter had meant to take it in to a garage, get the thing fixed, but he never had. The car lurched, pointing its nose skyward, then plunged through ice into water. Too late the belt came free.
The door wouldn’t budge. I argued with the lock. Nothing. Needed something to
break the windscreen. In the dark, fumbled for the glove compartment, rooted around until I found the multi-tool, took it out, cutting fingers on knives and saws and God knew what else. Didn’t care. Smashed the tool against the screen. Too dark to see if it cracked. Smashed again. Tears. Of terror, of anger, of frustration. Once more I thumped the screen. Heard something give, leaned back and began kicking.
Water rushed in, terrifying, freezing. I took deep breaths before it could overwhelm me. Let them out, took one last one and swam free of the car. Clothes, coats, tried to snag on metal and mirrors, the car tried to drag me with it. I thrashed in darkness
not knowing up from down, pure panic almost made me release my breath, freezing
water turned me numb.
For several moments I sank. Why did I even try? In that silence, with only the blood rushing through my ears, I wondered why. I’d wanted out. Out of Carter’s life, too afraid to take that final step, and now someone gave me the chance. I could just let go.
Yes, give up, a small voice whispered. You know you want to. It was his voice. Carter’s. My husband. Who’d left me to drown.
Bastard.
A glimpse of light leant me hope. I stretched for it, lungs protesting. I fought terror rather than give in to that voice. No. No I won’t die to please you. To make it convenient for you.
I reached, broke the surface, and fought the hands trying to keep me down. Hit out, screaming. Pain blossomed across one cheek. Even numb with cold it shocked me.
“Bastard! Bastard, I won’t let you murder me.”
“Be calm.”
Hysteria rose in my throat as I twisted violently away from his grip, clawing at his arms, at the sodden hair blinding me so I could not see where to run.
It wasn’t Carter.
Astonishment held me immobile. “What?” I managed, still gasping for breath, for precious air. Nausea rose and I vomited forever until bile stung my throat. Sitting on my heels I stared with glazed eyes at the sand I tossed to cover the mess before I could heave again. Sand.
I twisted and stared up at my rescuer. No one I knew. Wet as me. Carter was dark-haired and eyed. This guy had white-blond hair to his waist and the most vivid blue eyes I’d ever seen. He wore black salt-stained leathers and had beads in his hair.
Yet it wasn’t him who held my attention but the ocean thrashing behind him and the brilliant sunshine pouring down.
It was that sight which held me when I should have run. I had to be dead. This was some kind of afterlife. This guy must be an angel. I breathed, just breathed for
several minutes, but when I looked up nothing changed. Gulls still cried, the sea washed back and forth. I wasn’t in Canada any more.
“Where?” I gasped.
The guy turned from his contemplation of the ocean and looked down at me. I met his vivid turquoise gaze for only a moment, and fell…
I saw—a life disappear in a giant whirlpool. No metaphorical lie but the truth; a great magic that had been beyond twenty thousand anai to prevent. I saw/felt/heard that dance upon the waves, the waves that had flung him free. He trod water looking for his people. Not even detritus joined his dance. Gulls cried overhead, which meant the shore was close. Currents pulled at his body. He let them take him, bewildered, angry, heartbroken. His mind refused to encompass the panic of a whole island spinning, of it sinking beneath giant walls of water. No mind could embrace such an act. Now he resonated with cries and the grinding groans of a dying land
.
Something, just a glimpse, but something bobbed in the waves as he did. Hope rushed in as he swam. Someone else had survived. Joy flooded him, until he reached her, saw her dark, dark hair and knew she was human. She fought him though she looked half-drowned; fought him all the way to a beach, screaming obscenities at him.
“Be calm,” he said, and finally she did, although angry lines of terror and hatred lined her face. Then she looked beyond him, sank to her knees and vomited in the
sand.
I vomited again, caught in someone else’s thoughts. His thoughts. The guy I’d thought an angel. I thought my own misery was justified until I saw that. What the hell was this place? He didn’t attempt to help me, his face pale as milk.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t…mean you to see that.”
Somehow I sat up and wrapped my arms around my knees. I needed to stop shaking. I needed to think without anyone else’s thoughts intruding into my mind.
“What the hell? What hell happened? What was that?” My throat raw from vomiting, it came out as a croak.
He stared back at the ocean again. “I don’t know,” he whispered.
I felt as he opened his mind. Heard the call he sent. Felt his hope as just for a moment a flicker of life shimmied through, but the feeling passed a quickly as it arrived, flitting away like a fish scale caught in a sunbeam. Deep within the ocean he sensed one of his people, an anai, before it disappeared.
Tears fled down my cheeks. “Please,” I wept. “Please stop that.”
“You shouldn’t be able to hear me,” he said. “You are human.”
Which meant he was not. Anai, it had come through the thoughts/images/intimacy blasted into my brain. Of course he wasn’t human, not if he could do that. I shook more, terrified of the idea of someone in my mind, as though I no longer had any control. Dizzy, disorientated I wished in some ways I had truly drowned.
“Do you?”
My stomach wanted to upend yet again. Somehow I swallowed, somehow I hung on and spoke. “What is this place?”
“This land is called Fresovay, I believe.”
“You believe?"
He lifted an arm, pointed out to the sea. “My island was called Amnaem and was owned by the anai. This place is human and I do not belong. I should not be here.”
But we are. Why? How could I go from drowning in a river in Canada in freezing conditions to this balmy seashore?
“Because someone wished us here. Do you feel it?”
All I felt was panic. I pushed the hysteria down as far as I could. What was I supposed to feel? That I’d gone insane? I deleted that thought because it was just too scary on top of everything else. I tried to breathe calmly, to stop the irrational feelings rushing through me. I was alive, at least I thought I was, and if I thought too deeply I would go mad.
Then I did feel it. Like a string attached to my middle, tugging. I opened the eyes I’d closed to shut out the insanity and in the distance I could see a mountain range.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“A castle,” I murmured. “Mountains, trees, a castle, and fire.”
“Fire?”
“Yes, deep within the castle, or perhaps below it.”
“Do you sense danger?”
I shivered. “Not danger. Need. It needs us as much as we need it. What am I saying?”
Vicadia watches on his screen. Phase one is completed. Two people from two different worlds are drawn together. Events have collided, actions begun and
numbers spinning. He sits back to wait.
On another world, another creation, another screen, Xihatl senses the bringing together of threads. She searches for knots in the weave and finds them and who causes them. For a moment her fingers hover, then a smile forms on her features. Numbers appear on the screen, random numbers. She watches for a long time and then blinks. The numbers stop.
We talked, because on that lonely shore there was just we two and the birds crying to one another like lost souls.
“What is your name?” he asked and while I wondered if he already knew, I said it out loud. “Tori Hughes.”
I already knew his. I’d been inside his mind as he’d been in mine. Sarain Kelistir. An exotic name for an exotic location. I told him where I came from and watched his eyes widen as I spoke of cars and planes and the Internet, and electricity, and then I listened as he spoke of magic.
Islands, even in a world with magic, do not spin. Falling through a crack in the ice should not bring a person out in another world, but both events happened. There was a tenuous link between us that somehow calmed me enough to function.
Magic, although he didn’t call it that. It was just how I interpreted it, because I had no other label to give it. But I didn’t truly understand, not then. I don’t think I was capable of absorbing anything at that moment. I worked on automatic; survival instinct, I guess, shutting out what I couldn’t handle for later.
As the surf thrashed the shore, kissing the sand and retreating like a shy maiden, I studied the man sitting opposite me in the sand. His tale of his island’s destruction made him seem quite human. He told me, and I am not sure why, that he’d lost his wife in a freak accident even before Amnaem’s sinking.
Tragedy ringed his eyes, sorrow laced his voice. While losing a husband in my case might be a blessing in disguise, ending up in this place made me wonder if Carter had been right all along and that there was something deeply utterly wrong with me.
Another world? Sarain had called it Sele. Nah, I’m not listening.
Because that was all too much. Part of me, should I choose to believe, should be screaming; the part that should have made me into a jelly-wreck curled up in a fetal heap on the sand. Instead, I took a deep breath, flipped my hair from my eyes, and tried to attack the problem at hand.
“I don’t see fire. I see power,” Sarain said. “Perhaps we should go to this castle?”
“What if it is a trap?”
He hesitated before answering, drawing weird interconnected spirals in the sand, and then he said, “Does it matter if it is? What do we have to lose?”
Point. Plus, hunger and thirst was a factor, and while the sea might offer up its bounties, there was no fresh water. If there had been hotels lining the beach, if I’d even heard a plane flying overhead, if I could have recognized anything, I would not
have gone with him. If I could have made any sense of this situation at all I would have run far and fast.
We began to walk across the sand. As the tide pulled back, so it left treasures in its wake. A fisherman’s glass float tangled in netting bobbed as waves receded and left it behind. Sarain hunkered down beside it. Caught in the same netting was a piece of stone. He lifted the stone and brushed damp sand from its blue and yellow chequered
surface.
“What is it?”
“A sisean board. As far as I know, humans don’t play the game.”
He looked around and climbed to his feet, movements lithe as a panther's. Here he found a carved piece of wood, there a child’s toy, and in another place, scraps of brilliantly hued cloth. He turned over pungent streamers of glistening, leather-brown seaweed to reveal the knotted pieces of a loom, where a rug hung half woven, the shuttle still stuck between the wefts. Pottery and broken glass gleamed like stars along the wave-formed sand, and a small chest banded in copper revealed a fortune in silver coins.
“From your island?” I asked. The sadness on his face brought tears to my eyes. What might have been a treasure trove of delight were only the sad remnants of a people.
“Yes.”
But a thought occurred to me. “No bodies.”
He turned, staring at me. “What?”
“There aren’t any bodies, Sarain. If they were all dead, surely there would be bodies?”
His eyes fathomless, he stared at the coins in his hand. “I have called but they do not answer. They may not be dead but they will never be the same. If they have become as the creatures of the sea to save themselves, it maybe they will never find their way back.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”
I hoped he didn’t mean to be hurtful so I said nothing as he absently pocketed some
silver.
We reached a border of dunes and slip-slided over their humps until we came to feathery wind-torn shrubs and beyond them to some fields. Sarain stopped to lean against a silvered fence rail.
“There is something in you I can sense but don’t understand. It isn’t magic as I
understand it. In your world, from what have told me, magic seems formed by
things rather than coming from the land.”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
“The anai are not human and humans on this world hate us for that.”
“Why?”
“Because we are beyond their control.”
I scragged back my hair and leaned an elbow on the fence. “Sounds pretty typical, actually. Why tell me now?”
“Beyond the hills I can sense a village. They will recognize me for what I am. I need to change.”
Without thinking, I said, “I’ll look the other way.”
A smile hovered on his lips, the first I’d seen. So far he’d been such a solemn, sad man. I guessed he wasn’t much older than me at twenty-five. That slight smile transformed him, but then he sighed and straightened away from the fence. “Anai are shapechangers. Do you understand what that is?”
I mouthed the word and stared, my heart tripping as images of werewolves and monsters conjured themselves into my mind. “Changing into what exactly?” I asked past the sudden fist blocking my throat.
“The most practical creature would a horse right now. Can you ride?”
A horse. He could change into a horse? I could ride, very well as happened, but that was hardly the point. He didn’t give me time to speculate. Where Sarain stood, the air began to ripple so that he wavered like a mirage. Undulating waves that made me feel ill. I couldn’t just see, I could feel a whole change in the air surrounding him, as
though he bent it to his will. Desperate to understand, I tried to watch, but before I could focus on anything solid, a horse appeared before me. A black horse with a white mane and tail. It had beads in its mane, just like Sarain had in his hair. His hide was salt stained.
I swallowed hard so I didn’t throw up again, while my mind ran on ten different levels, none of them normal. My legs refused to move. Why couldn’t I be dramatic and faint? I wanted to as blood rushed through my ears. Instead I sank to my knees.
You are stronger than that.
His voice in my mind. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”
Yes you can. Be brave, Tori. Your husband was a fool.
“No, he was right. I’m pathetic.”
Anger laced the words bouncing in my skull. You preface most of your thoughts with his name. Did he control you so well?
For two years, everything Carter wanted he’d got and the one time I’d refused he’d hit me. That didn’t give a stranger the right to judge me. My life may have been spent placating one man to avoid conflict, but it didn’t help to be told by some jumped up shapechanging monster what I already knew.
Tears I barely acknowledged falling dried and I sniffed, thinking about his island and the loss of his wife. “How can you go on?”
Because we need answers. You are not what your husband made you. A man who would hurt a woman is less than a coward, too afraid to face himself. It was his weakness, his fury at himself that he could not control.
He’d got that from two minutes inside my head? I didn’t like that at all. “How could
you know that? How could you know what I did or what he did, or that I am not as
pathetic as he said?”
Because anai see beyond the surface to the true heart of what lies beneath. You aren’t pathetic, Tori. You survived, didn’t you, and you will survive whatever faces us ahead. I know it. I can sense the strength within you. Now, you will ride me as though you were born to it.
Whatever the pep talk my knees shook as I climbed to my feet. My head ached from his intrusions. My situation couldn’t get more bizarre than this. I looked west, toward the mountains before I grasped a handful of mane and pulled myself onto his back. The tug I’d felt earlier returned. Maybe I was wrong; maybe it could get more bizarre. That castle felt alive.
March 19, 2013
Heinous Fu
Too tired to think of a post this morning, and I have to work - booo, just when the hindbrain is plotting the next book. Ah well, such is life. So a link which might amuse both writers and readers. Written by the inimitable Chuck Wendig so not safe for children. In between the 'ripe' language is some very good advice. I will be thinking about the princess and the moon horse for a while, not to mention the Arthur reference.http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2013/03/19/25-turns-pivots-and-twists-to-complicate-your-story/
Some trivia along with today's photo is the basis for my tattoo. For those who don't know, the raven represents Cornwall and 'curnow' means 'cornwall'. Plus, the day Rich disappeared a raven turned up and would not shut up. Obviously a messenger, so has some deeper significance for me. On my tattoo I had an 'R' drawn on the bird's wings in remembrance of Rich and for me, the celtic knotted tail are 3 loops for 3 sons. It is actually a kilt pin, which is extremely neat.
March 18, 2013
Musings
I guess a writer never stops writing, whether that is in their heads or actually putting the words down. Usually when I hit a stumbling block it is because I haven't thought the plot all the way through and my brain immediately says - meandering, not focused, so I stop and reassess. This time when I stumbled I sat down and wrote out most of the plot again and my block, if you like - I don't actually believe in writer's block - was the complexity of it and the usual writer's doubts and wails of 'I can't do this, it's too damned difficult'. Then one tends to have a psychotic conversation with oneself which tends to go - you thought up the damned thing, so of course you can write it. So on and so forth.But I did have a serious think about it last night and I realized, in my usual fashion, that it wasn't a case of can't but that I was rushing the thing. While 30k isn't even halfway, I probably should have written another 30k around that first 30k for it to make sense to a reader. Yes, it is first draft and doesn't 'matter' but in a way it does, because I am missing chunks that should, according to me, be in the story.
That's partly *because* I hadn't thought it all the way through. But then, the damned characters hadn't revealed themselves to me properly. So I'll blame them.
Now the vision I have to write out is of a completely different priest to the one I had. Because, of course, there is more than one. I know that makes sense only to me, but there you go. Writer's brain and all that.
I was talking to my BFF on Sunday and she said in her BFF fashion, so where did you get off being so damned smart. What the heck is a Fibonacci number anyway? To which I laughed and said, Google is my friend. Although I did know about Fibonacci because, well, I'd read about him a long time ago in another novel... Surprising what you learn when you don't even
mean to.
March 17, 2013
St. Paddy's Day Must Have an Irish Wolfhound
Had a wonderful afternoon yesterday during the Facebook launch of "The Voice of the Land". How can an author not enjoy talking about her own work? I think I may have handed out too much Malbec though, we did go off topic a few times. :)But, yes, questions about why a clone? The main protagonist of the story is Steven Carogan. So why did I choose to make him a clone? The answer is quite simple. I wanted a blank slate, although of course he wasn't. He had been indoctrinated since birth to obey his makers. Which left him innocent as to real life and somewhat bitter about what he was. The story opens with him contemplating a fellow clone's suicide and this is the catalyst for change. He sees himself, not least because Jon harvey is an exacty copy of him, but he'd never thought about death. Never truly questioned how he was used.
On the world of Cavan, it seems like the natives want to use him, too, but the difference here is that he is given a choice. Which way he turns and why is his story within "The Voice of the Land".
Today's photo - eleven year old Makoiyi, my hearthound.
ST. Paddy's Day Must Have an Irish Wolfhound
Had a wonderful afternoon yesterday during the Facebook launch of "The Voice of the Land". How can an author not enjoy talking about her own work? I think I may have handed out too much Malbec though, we did go off topic a few times. :)But, yes, questions about why a clone? The main protagonist of the story is Steven Carogan. So why did I choose to make him a clone? The answer is quite simple. I wanted a blank slate, although of course he wasn't. He had been indoctrinated since birth to obey his makers. Which left him innocent as to real life and somewhat bitter about what he was. The story opens with him contemplating a fellow clone's suicide and this is the catalyst for change. He sees himself, not least because Jon harvey is an exacty copy of him, but he'd never thought about death. Never truly questioned how he was used.
On the world of Cavan, it seems like the natives want to use him, too, but the difference here is that he is given a choice. Which way he turns and why is his story within "The Voice of the Land".
Today's photo - eleven year old Makoiyi, my hearthound.
March 15, 2013
So Much Goodness
Don't you think that bat skeleton is dancing to 'Saturday Night fever'? I am Sure it is.Okay, onto a round-up of goodies available and stuff going on.
Tomorrow is the Official launch of "The Voice of the Land" and is being held on Facebook. I've done this before and it can be a lot of fun. So come along and ask whatever you may about "Voice" or any other subject you've been dying to ask an author. Unlike some of my characters, I don't bite. https://www.facebook.com/events/425660444182984/
Then we have a Goodreads giveaway. 19 days left to enter for a chance to win a copy of "The Voice of the Land". http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17458687-the-voice-of-the-land
March isn't over and my March madness giveaway of "Games of Adversaries" still continues. You can get it at Smashwords for free!http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/260984
Or Amazon Kindle for 99c
http://www.amazon.com/Games-of-Adversaries-ebook/dp/B00AGO0UR8/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1363365569&sr=8-4&keywords=Susan+Elizabeth+Curnow
Please take advantage of this and give a new author a boost and let her know you are reading!
Thank You!
March 14, 2013
No Novel Writes Itself
When your first novel comes out and the editor asks, "And send me the acknowledgements" my first instinct was to ask - how long have you got? If I personally thanked everyone who helped in some shape or form, it would be longer than the novel.Seriously.
From the guy who (foolishly) first leant me his PC, to all those on the On line writing workshop for science fiction and fantasy, to the lady in the library who requested my book. That would be hundreds.
To those who listen and put up with all my panic attacks, to the people who read...
Today's picture is a few years old and shows just three of my 'men'. Tom is now six foot, Makoiyi the wolfhound is eleven years old and Rich is no longer with us. My eldest son now lives in Malaysia and for some reason my husband is always behind the camera, the horse it out in the field and the cat is--wherever. All guys. Because a question I am often asked is why I write from a male perspective. The answer is simple. I am surrounded by testosterone and if I didn't learn to think like a guy then I would have been insane before now. But it is because of them and their support that I am able to write. How many times has 'mother' had her back to everything, trusting in those guys to do things when I am otherwise occupied? How many husbands put up with a wife who is 'somewhere else' in her head and conducting relationships with strangers on paper?
So when I say a novel doesn't write itself, what I mean is, there is an army of people behind it. And no matter whether you are writing purely for yourself or for an audience, that army has to battle with you through every word.
Most people don't do it for acknowledgement, I know that. They don't need their names emblazoned in the front of a book, but the point is, I do want to acknowledge them. Without their brainstorming, their expertise, their friendship, their love, I would never have written a word.
March 13, 2013
It's a Numbers Game
I've been trying to chart my progress as a published writer. The ups and downs, the frustrations and the joys. A while back someone said that if you have more than one book out you can gradually build a fan base. That basically has been my goal. True, I only have two novels out at the moment, but don't worry, there is more! *G* And with each novel I hope I learn something new.The first learning curve was how to edit a heck of a lot better, along with really focusing down on what is important to the story. "Games' has a couple of flaws but at the time I didn't realise they were flaws. Not to say it isn't a good book--take a look at the reviews. I know people have truly enjoyed it.
What I have noticed, however, is that the numbers have jumped with the second book. By that I mean, both people buying and people taking interest. I am hoping that is because they did enjoy "Games" and want a look-see at "Voice of the Land". Whatever the reason it gives me a great deal of joy.
What I have been doing is quietly twittering, blogging (yes, prob too much but I was so excited by that review yesterday), and just being 'there'.
I am excited about our official launch on FB on sat at 3.pm. EST. There may not be a ton of people going but the ones who have already signed up are going to make it a lot of fun. Do come along; the more the merrier! Just look for my name and you'll find me. There is a Goodreads giveaway but I should think of something else as a prize just for coming. Any ideas?
Today's photo - On patrol in Afghanistan - Richard Curnow
March 12, 2013
Oh My Gosh
It is a spamming kind of day. For good reason.
I am not renowned for my patience. It is why I am a terrible shopper. I have an idea, I go buy it, end of story. I don't weigh the consequences or stand for half an hour making comparisons. I just buy (providing I can afford it).
So when it came to having a book published, I am not at all sure what I expected. Not 'instant fame' for sure. I am not enough of an egotist for that. But when you look through other books and see all the reviews and you see none or few on yours you start to wail like a child. "Where's mine!" Words like 'what am I doing wrong' 'Why does no one lovemeeeeeeeee" etc etc, you get the idea.
I whined a little bit, I admit it, while I seethed internally at the sheer amount of competition, and I hadn't a hope in hell of getting anywhere. Que hand against brow and cries of woe is me!
I should have had patience and that belief in myself that I talked about. Belief in myself and the words on the page. When I get reviews like this: (And yes I have posted it in full because I am So Damned Proud of my little book.)
Tali Spencer's review
Mar 12, 13
5 of 5 stars
Recommended for: Lovers of deep, complex books; readers who enjoy
culture clash
Read in March, 2013
I read some early chapters of this book a few years ago as a beta reader,
but never read the finished book until now. Those few chapters made a vivid
impression and I was happy to see my memory wasn't embellishing the story: Games
of Adversaries really is a vivid tale of harsh survival and lessons learned the
hard way.
Both main characters suffer for their arrogance. Yiahan truly believes he is
more evolved than the humans he meets after his spaceship crashes on an
isolated, primitive world already reeling from an unimaginable (to them) attack
from space. Yiahan is not directly involved in the conflict and does not, at
first, even know there has been one. All he knows is his beloved wife and child
are dead and he is in the hands of brutes. The second main character, Marcus,
was easier for me to relate to because he is so completely human, charged with
responsibilities and also suffering from the loss of his wife and child to the
alien attack.
Curnow tortures Yiahan in creative ways, and often, and the villain never
really came into focus for me, but what I came to love about this story is how
both main characters grow to understand, respect, and even love each other as
men and soldiers. This is a book about men and war. True, Yiahan needs a little
help in the soldier department--he has been a dancer and mystic all his life,
whereas Marcus is a warrior--but Marcus benefits just as much from Yiahan about
what's important in life and the differences between their cultures and beliefs.
Yiahan loves peace, but comes to understand that Marcus, for all his readiness
to engage in killing and death, does not love war, and that war is sometimes
necessary.
This is a clear-eyed book that does not flinch from a difficult subject and
it also has a large overarching plot with the fates of planets hanging on the
outcome. Marcus and Yiahan, especially, provide some wonderful character
moments, as do the mostly male supporting cast. But Games of Adversaries managed
to do what few books do: it satisfied my love of philosophical underpinnings.
Much as I sometimes love simple, fluffy books because I need the lightness, few
things make me as happy as a deep, complex book that gives me a few things to
think about. Five stars for that and for taking me on an exciting journey
between worlds.
