One from the archives (October 2016)
What – if
anything – happens after death? A fantasy world, no matter how beautifully
constructed, lacks something if there’s no thought given to what happens when
characters die, or at least to what beliefs they hold about what may happen. We
live not so much in the physical universe as in our mental construction of it.
People have always speculated about what, if anything, happens after death, so not unnaturally it is a recurrent theme in many of the fantasies I love best – The Lord of the Rings, the Narnia stories, Ursula K Le Guin’s
Earthsea books, Philip Pullman’s His Dark
Materials, and the Old Kingdom novels of Garth Nix.
To begin
with Tolkien: though mortal, Hobbits don’t seem to have a theory of the
afterlife. Innocent, rural, physical, they thoroughly enjoy this life’s
pleasures and die with a sense of fulfilment: a long life well lived. Can Bilbo
outlive the Old Took? He will if he can. We are told nothing of Hobbit funerals
except at the very end of The Return of
the King where the hobbits who fell at the Battle of Bywater are laid
together ‘in a grave on the hillside, where later a great stone was set up with
a garden around it.’ Their names live on in memory, but there’s no hint of any hobbit heaven, just practical disposal of the mortal remains – and an
equally practical interest in inheritance.
Dwarves are
mortal too. From the evidence of Balin’s tomb in Moria they build, as you’d
expect, good solid stone monuments to commorate their dead. Again there’s
little evidence of a dwarfish belief in an afterlife, but a mystical streak is
apparent in Gimli’s hints about their creator-ancestor Durin, a hero-king
asleep under the stone, who will one day awake – and who, according to Appendix
A, is occasionally reincarnated in a child of his line. Then there are the Ents. Though some, like
Treebeard, are immensely ancient, Ents are probably not immortal. Since they
have lost the Entwives there can be no more Entlings and their race will
dwindle. Some Ents become more and more like trees, and even the oldest tree
eventually dies, though perhaps a truly tree-ish Ent will hardly notice. The Elves are
immortal unless killed in battle, or unless like Lùthien and Arwen they choose
mortality – but the trees of Lothlorien are in eternal autumn, their springtime
long passed, and more and more of the Fair Folk are heading for the Grey
Havens.
The point
about Mortal Men in Middle-earth is
that they are mortal. The Riders of Rohan view death as a feasting-hall of the
brave, like the Norse Valhalla; their poetry is full of Anglo-Saxon melancholy,
laden as Legolas says, ‘with the sadness of Mortal Men’:
‘Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that
was blowing? Where is the helm and the
hauberk and the bright hair flowing? Where is the hand on the harpstring and
the red fire glowing?’
In
accordance with the Norse heroic code, Théoden on the Field of Pelennor dies
contented, knowing he leaves behind him a good name: ‘I go to my fathers. And
even in their mighty company I shall not now be ashamed. I felled the black
serpent.’ Sad though it is, his death makes sense as part of a fitting and
seamless succession which is emphasised by the stretcher-bearers’ response to
Prince Imrahil:
‘What burden do you bear, Men of Rohan?’ he cried.
‘Théoden King,’ they answered. ‘He is dead. But Éomer King
now rides in the battle: he with the white crest in the wind.’
When the Men
of Gondor die, or at least their kings and stewards, they are laid to rest in
tombs of stone in Rath Dínen, the Silent Street under Mount Mindolluin. It
seems from Denethor’s words that they think of death as a long, solitary sleep
rather than ancestral companionship in an eternal feasting hall – but this may
not always have been so:
‘No tomb for Denethor and Faramir! No tomb!
No long slow sleep of death embalmed.
We will burn like heathen kings before ever a ship sailed hither from
the West…’
One way or
another, Mortal Men must accept death. Clinging on to this world may lead to
the worst possible thing that can happen: they may become wraiths like the
Barrow-wights on the Barrow-Downs, or like the Ringwraiths.
Finally, for
the Ring-bearers Frodo and Bilbo (and possibly later for Sam) there’s the unusual
opportunity to go bodily into the West on an Elven ship. Unlike the film, in
which Gandalf comforts Pippin with a description of Eressëa, or possibly Valinor, the book makes
clear that this is a special privilege. As Frodo’s ship passes into the West,
… it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of
Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back,
and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift
sunrise.
But to Sam the evening deepened into darkness as he stood at
the Haven, and as he looked at the grey sea he saw only a shadow on the waters
that was soon lost in the West.
A vein
of nostalgic sadness runs through the heart of The Lord of the Rings. Except for Men, all of the different races
are doomed either to fade or pass from Middle-earth. And in the process of his
journey, Frodo leaves behind not only the comfortable rural beauty of the
Shire, but the very person he was. Suffering, and his immense struggle with the
Ring change him into someone different – nobler, wiser maybe, but maimed,
changed, sadder. We can only hope that the West will heal him. We will never
know.
The Narnia
books contain little of this nostalgia. C.S. Lewis is very clear about life
after death: it’s Aslan’s country, and several of his characters actually go
there in life – Jill and Eustace start out for Narnia from Aslan’s holy Eastern
mountain, for example, and the heroic Reepicheep sails there in his coracle.
Remarkably,
through the first six books of the Chronicles
this certainty does not negate the sorrow of mortality. Death, when it occurs, is given emotional
weight. Aslan’s death in The Lion, The
Witch and The Wardrobe is genuinely moving, partly because of the depth of
grief of Lucy and Susan, and so is Caspian’s death in The Silver Chair, witnessed from a distance by Jill and Eustace.
The very old King lifts his hand to bless his long-lost son, then falls back –
The Prince, kneeling by the the King’s bed, laid down his
head upon it, and wept. There were whisperings and goings to and fro. Then Jill
noticed that all who wore hats, bonnets, helmets or hoods were taking them off
– Eustace included. Then she heard a rustling and flapping noise up above the
castle; when she looked up she saw that the great banner with the golden Lion
on it was being brought down to half-mast. And after that, slowly, mercilessly,
with wailing strings and disconsolate blowings of horns, the music began again:
this time, a tune to break your heart.
Aslan blows
all these things away ‘like wreaths of smoke’ and the children find themselves
once more in Aslan’s country ‘among mighty trees and beside a fair, fresh
stream’. But the funeral music continues:
And there, on the golden gravel of the bed of the stream lay
King Caspian, dead, with the water flowing over him like liquid glass. His long
beard swayed in it like water weed. And all three stood and wept.
Their tears
are shed, it seems to me, as much for age and feebleness and the sorrows of
life, as they are for the fact of death. The deliberate parallel is with the
New Testament story of Jesus weeping over Lazarus’s tomb: even though he knows he is about to bring Lazarus back to life. So
too here. Caspian’s death is about to be reversed by a drop of Aslan’s blood.
For me, this works. It’s not a facile trick. To obtain the blood, Eustace must
drive a thorn ‘a foot long and as sharp as a rapier’ into the great pad of
Aslan’s paw: we feel the cost and the pain. But at the end of The Last Battle, where Narnia itself is
replaced by what we are meant to believe is a
greater and better Kingdom, Lewis’s attempt is an artistic failure. The
Christian agenda takes over; he tries to do too much: heaven isn’t Aslan’s holy
mountain any more, it’s Narnia and Archenland and Calormen and England
combined. It’s messy. I far prefer that numinous glimpse of mountains behind
the rising sun at the eastern rim of the world, in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.
Heaven, a
place of reward for a good life or of union with a good God, is not quite the
same thing as the ‘land of the dead’ – that twilight place where ever since
classical times the shades of the departed have swarmed in voiceless,
strengthess hordes, unable to speak unless given a drink of sacrificial blood.
(The notion that a blood sacrifice gives life to the dead must be one of the
most ancient of beliefs.) Visiting Persephone’s kingdom beyond the Stream of
Ocean, Odysseus attempts to embrace his mother’s shade, but she flutters out of
his arms like a shadow and ‘sorrow sharpened at the heart within me’. This is what
happens to everyone, his mother tells him, for once
‘the sinews no longer hold the flesh and the bones together,
and once the spirit has left the white bones, all the rest
of the body is made subject to the fire’s strong fury,
but the soul flitters out like a dream and flies away.’
The Odyssey, XI, 219-223, tr. Richmond Lattimore
Famous too
is the rebuke of the dead hero Achilles when Odysseus tries to console him by
telling him of the fame he has won among the living.
‘O shining Odysseus, never try to console me for dying.
I would rather follow the plough as thrall to another
man, one with no land allotted to him and not much to live on
than be a king of all the perished dead.’
The Odyssey, XI, 488-491, tr. Richmond Lattimore
 |
| Odysseus in the Underworld, Johannes Stradanus |
This type of
afterlife, a shadow-life devoid of human meaning, is found in Ursula K Le
Guin’s Earthsea books. In A Wizard of
Earthsea the young wizard Ged splits open the fabric of his world in
arrogant anger to summon the spirit of the beautiful Elfarran, a thousand years
dead. Through the gap he has made scrambles a ‘clot of black shadow’ which
leaps at him and rips his face. It hunts him from one side of the Archipelago
to the other, and not until Ged learns to confront his own darkness can he undo
his deed.
The Earthsea
books are deeply concerned with the interdependence of light and darkness, life
and death, and in the early titles the land of the dead is conceived as a
necessary counterweight to the world of the living. It’s a place of dust,
darkness and silence, divided from life by a low wall of stones ‘no higher than
a man’s knee’. The dead are passive, passionless:
No marks of illness were on them. They were whole, and
healed. They were healed of pain, and of life. They were not loathsome as Arren
had feared they would be, not frightening… Quiet were their faces, freed from
anger and desire, and there was in their shadowed eyes no hope.
Instead of fear, then, great pity rose up in Arren, and if
fear underlay it, it was not for himself, but for us all. For he saw the mother
and child who had died together, and they were in the dark land together; but
the child did not run, nor did it cry, and the mother did not hold it, nor even look at it. And those
who had died for love passed each other in the street.
The Farthest Shore
Terrible as
this is, it possesses a poignancy reminiscent of the Odyssey. In the three early Earthsea books you can’t have life
without death:
Only in dark the light, only in dying life:
bright the hawk’s flight on the empty sky.
The message
of The Farthest Shore is that death
is a natural and necessary end. The mage Cob is so terrified of dying that he
tries to put an end to it, ‘to find what you cowards could never find – the way
back from death.’ In doing so he threatens the balance of Earthsea and himself
becomes an eyeless, nameless sorceror who belongs to neither life nor
death. Mere continued existence, it
turns out, is a curse. ‘You cannot see the light of day, you cannot see the
dark,’ Ged tells him. ‘You sold the green earth and the sun and stars to save
yourself. But you have no self.’
In the two
later books, Tehanu and The Other Wind, Le Guin revisits
Earthsea and remakes some of what she
has done. Dragons and their relationship with humankind become important, and
the very nature of the land of death is re-examined. In The Other Wind Alder, a young sorceror whose wife has died, is
tormented by dreams in which she and others of the dead come to the wall of
stones and beg to be set free. He tells Ged,
I thought if I called her by her true name maybe I could free
her, bring her across the wall, and I said, ‘Come with me, Mevre!’ But she said, ‘That’s not my name, Hara,
that’s not my name any more.’ And she let go my hands, though I tried to hold
her. She cried, ‘Set me free, Hara!’ But
she was going down into the dark.
These dead
are neither passive nor passionless, and they recognise and commune with the
living man Alder. Instead of maintaining the mystical equilibrium of Earthsea,
the land of the dead is now seen to be upsetting it. Humankind and dragons were
once one race which divided the world between them. Humans chose to own and
make things; dragons chose freedom to fly ‘on the other wind’ in a timeless
realm beyond the west. However, ‘the ancient mages craved everlasting life’ and
used ‘true names to keep men from dying’. And – so the dragon Irian cries –
‘by the spells and wizardries of those oath-breakers, you
stole half our realm from us, walled it away from life and light, so that you
could live there forever. Thieves,
traitors!’
It now seems
the land of death is a dreadful compromise, an everlasting trap. It divorces
those in it from the universe, which is the only life. The solution is to pull
down the wall of stones and let the dead go free. Some rise up ‘flickering into
dragons’ on the wind, but most come ‘walking with unhurried certainty’ to step
across the ruined wall and vanish, ‘a wisp of dust, a breath that shone an
instant in the ever-brightening light.’ And where have they gone?
As Alder said, ‘It is not life they yearn for. It is death. To be one
with the earth again. To rejoin it.’
It’s lovely,
but I don’t think it quite works. It seems too complicated, too different from the
earlier books. It takes a lot to undo the quietly terrible beauty of the dead
land in A Wizard of Earthsea, its
inhabitants ‘healed of life’. The dying child whom Ged fails to heal in A Wizard of Earthsea runs ‘fast and far
away from him down a dark slope, the side of some vast hill’ – and that
eagerness feels right. In these early books, the dead are shadows with no
internal life. They feel no pain because they are already gone. It seems to me a mistake to reinvent this metaphor,
and the events of The Other Wind make
nonsense of the rebuke Ged delivers to Cob in The Farthest Shore.
The impulse
to harrow hell and bring out the souls is felt also by Philip Pullman in The Amber Spyglass, the final book in
the trilogy His Dark Materials. Like Lewis, Pullman has an agenda (Darwinian
and anti-religious) and like Le Guin he turns to what one might call the Wordsworthian
‘back to nature’ view of death – the dissolution of personality and the
blending of the body and its atoms with the physical universe.
No motion has she now, no force,
She neither hears nor sees,
Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
‘A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal’, William Wordsworth
The problem
is to convince the reader that this is an acceptable personal outcome. Does
that sound frivolous? My own belief, if you want it, is that Wordsworth and
Pullman and Darwin are right. I don’t think there’s a life after death. I don’t
find that scary, but neither does it give me joy. Only life can do that. In
fiction, paradoxically, it seems the best way to make the no-afterlife option appear positive is to contrast it with an afterlife, but an unpleasant one –
thus making the point via a sort of authorial sleight-of-hand. (‘You can have
an afterlife, but you won’t enjoy it.’)
 |
| Aeneas and the Sibyl in Hades |
Pullman’s
land of the dead is a considerably less attractive proposition even than Le
Guin’s. It is modelled on the Hades of Virgil’s Aeneid, rather than on Homer’s Odyssey.
In the Aeneid, after sacrificing to
Night, Earth, Proserpina and Hades, Aeneas ventures underground guided by the
Sibyl. He passes gates guarded by monsters and crosses the river Styx with the
ferryman Charon, who at first refuses to carry a living man over:
‘… This
is a realm of shadows, sleep and drowsy night.
The law forbids me to carry living bodies across
in my Stygian boat…’
The Aeneid, tr. Robert Fagles
In The Amber Spyglass, there are perhaps
rather too many stages to death. Lyra
and her friends begin their exodus from life via a farmhouse kitchen of the
recently slain, following their shocked ghosts into a grey and ever-darkening
landscape, ‘thousands of men and women and children … drifting over the plain’,
drawn onwards and down to shantytown suburbs of death on the shores of a
mist-bound lake. In my opinion the refugee metaphor gets away from Pullman and
over-complicates the narrative. Living officials – I’m not sure why they’re alive – demand to see
papers, and direct the travellers to ‘holding areas’ past ‘pools of sewage’.
Taking shelter in a shanty, Lyra learns that each ghost must wait until his or
her personified ‘death’ gives them leave to cross over the lake, so Lyra must
call up her own death before she can continue.
She does, but there is a further complexity. Returning to the classical
norm, the ferryman refuses to carry Lyra across the lake unless she leaves
behind her beloved daemon, spirit-self and other half, Pan:
‘It’s not a rule you can break. It’s a law like this one…’
[The ferryman] leaned over the side and cupped a handful of water, and then
tilted his hand so it ran out again. ‘The law that makes the water run back
into the lake, it’s a law like that.’
The Amber Spyglass
After this
anguished parting Lyra, Will and the dragonfly-borne Gallivespians cross the
river to land at a wharf and rampart. They pass through a great gate guarded by
screaming harpies and find beyond it a vast and dismal plain crowded with
listless, voiceless ghosts who, as ever, require blood.
They crammed forward, light and lifeless, to warm themselves
at the flowing blood and the strong-beating hearts of the two travellers…
Once they
can communicate, Lyra asks to be led to her friend Roger (for whose death she
feels responsible), but when she finds him ‘he passe[s] like cold smoke through
her arms’. Determining to release all
the dead from this Hades, Lyra consults the alethiometer and explains to the
ghosts what will happen to them:
‘… it’s true, perfectly true. When you go out of here, all
the particles that make you up will loosen and float apart, just like your
daemons did. … But your daemons en’t just nothing now; they’re part of
everything. … You’ll drift apart, it’s true, but you’ll be out in the open,
part of everything alive again.’
‘It’s true,
perfectly true’. Here Pullman himself speaks through Lyra, pleading and
passionate, promising no lies, no deceit. The science-based truth of this
account of death is indisputable. The body does indeed return to the earth that
gave it. The difficulty is that these ghosts’ bodies must – most of them –
already have disintegrated, yet here their spirits inhabit an afterlife in
which personality and personal memories survive
as some form of post-mortem energy. Accepting Lyra’s offer, one of the
ghosts says,
‘… the land of the dead isn’t a place of reward or a place of
punishment. It’s a place of nothing...’
But is this
true? Compared with Le Guin’s dark,
neutral world under the unchanging stars, Pullman’s land of the dead is a place of punishment. As Roger’s
ghost tells Lyra:
Them bird-things… You know what they do? They wait till
you’re resting – you can’t never sleep properly, you just sort of doze – and
they come up quiet beside you and they whisper all the bad things you ever did
when you was alive … They know how to make you feel horrible … But you can’t
get away from them.
The harpies
have been set by the Authority ‘to see the worst in everyone’ and to feed on
them. Lyra and her companions come up with a solution. From now on, instead of
lies, each person who dies must nourish the harpies with a truthful account of
all the things they’ve seen and heard, touched and learned. Experience of life,
in other words, trumps death. I like this, a lot: and Roger’s final release
into the physical universe, with a laugh of surprise and a ‘vivid little burst
of happiness’ is moving. Nevertheless the effect of this joyful annihilation
very much depends on Pullman’s depiction of the afterlife as distinctly the worse
option.
Garth Nix,
in his series of ‘Old Kingdom’ novels beginning with Sabriel, has so far as I can tell no particular religious or
scientific points to make, and his fantasy has a corresponding air of freshness
and freedom – even playfulness – all of its own. Life and Death are of
paramount interest, since the Old Kingdom is a magical land under continuous
threat of necromancy. It is divided by a Wall (perhaps suggested by Le Guin’s,
though this is not a Life/Death boundary) from the non-magical southern land of
Ancelstierre. I don’t know what happens to Ancelstierrans
when they die, but those who die in the Old Kingdom cross an unseen border into
the state of Death itself, a coldly flowing river without banks which sweeps
them away through a series of nine Gates.
In the stretches of river between these Gates – the Precincts – it’s
possible for some Dead to cling on or even retrace their steps:
It had been human once, or human-like at least, in the years
it had lived under the sun. That humanity had been lost in the centuries the
thing spent in the chill waters of Death, ferociously holding its own against
the current, demonstrating an incredible will to live again. ... Its chance
finally came when a mighty spirit erupted from beyond the Seventh Gate,
smashing through each of the Upper Gates in turn, till it went ravening into
Life. Hundreds of the Dead had followed and this particular spirit… had managed
to squirm triumphantly into Life.
Sabriel
The Lesser
Dead, such as this one, need to take over human or animal bodies for their use.
The Greater Dead who come from beyond the Fifth Gate are sufficiently powerful
to exist in Life without a physical body. (A further danger are Free Magic
Creatures, perilous elemental beings outside the ordered power of the Charter,
but these are not the Dead.)
The
returning Dead are uniformly malevolent, and it’s the job of the Abhorson –
Sabriel herself – to return them to Death and send them down the River and past
the Ninth Gate. This she does by means
of a set of seven enspelled bells, infused with beneficent Charter Magic
created – or perhaps discovered or formalised? – long ago by the immortal Seven
Bright Shiners, each one of which is represented by a named bell.
The idea of
a River of Death is hardly a new one; it goes back to ferryman Charon rowing
souls across the Styx, and further still to the boatman Ur-shanabi in the Epic of Gilgamesh – but what Garth Nix
has done with it is different: instead of a boundary which must be crossed, his
River of Death is a dynamic process – a progression, a vivid natural force
which grasps the dying soul and sweeps it away. As such there is a ‘rightness’
about consenting to its power and a corresponding ‘wrongness’ when the dead
struggle literally to swim against the stream. More than that, as a metaphor
for death a river is nothing like the static, dusty dead lands which so trouble
Ursula K Le Guin and Philip Pullman. A river is about motion, exhilaration and
strength. A river has a direction and a purpose.
Not until
the third book in the series, Abhorson,
do we really learn the geography of Death as Nix takes the reader all the way
down the River through every Gate with Lirael, the Abhorson-in-Waiting, along
with her inseparable companion the Disreputable Dog. Each Gate has its own character, each
Precinct its own perils, not only sneaking souls and monstrous foes but the
River itself:
The Second Gate was an enormous hole, into which the river
sank like sinkwater down a drain, creating a whirlpool of terrible strength.
Abhorson
While beyond
it in the Third Precinct –
The river there was only ankle deep, and little warmer. The
light was better too. Brighter and less fuzzy, though still a pallid grey. Even
the current wasn’t much more than a trickle around the ankles. All in all, it
was a much more attractive place than the First or Second Precincts. Somewhere
ill-trained or foolish necromancers might be tempted to tarry or rest.
If they did, it wouldn’t be for long – because the Third
Precinct had waves…
Lirael and
the Dog battle through mists, waterfalls, metamorphic waters, a ‘waterclimb’,
floating flames – and finally the Ninth Gate, where the River finally does what
rivers always do. It flows out into something greater than itself, ‘a great
flat stretch of sparkling water’ – along with the souls it carries. Overhead is
an immense sky ‘so thick with stars that they overlapped and merged to form one
unimaginably vast and luminous cloud.’
Lirael felt the stars call to her and a yearning rose in her
heart to answer. She sheathed bell and sword and stretched her arms out, up to
the brilliant sky. She felt herself lifted up, and her feet came out of the
river with a soft ripple and a sigh from the waters.
Dead rose too, she saw. Dead of all shapes and sizes, all
rising up to the sea of stars.
This at last
is the ‘final death from which there could be no return.’
For me, this
is inexpressibly moving. There’s no judgement. Whatever has happened before,
whatever the dead may have done during Life and after it, from this perspective
looks insignificant. The journey through Death may be full of terrors; a spirit
may go kicking and screaming all the way down the River, struggling to turn
around and go back to Life. But once beyond the Ninth Gate the sight of the
stars is revelatory and transformative. Letting go of Life at last, the dead
fall serenely upwards into a tranquil universe.
All the
classic fantasies I’ve looked at in this essay engage with the fact of death
and what happens after, and all attempt answers. Tolkien and Lewis were both
Christians, but their answers are very different. Tolkien’s Mortal Men have no
assurance of an afterlife, for the immortality of Middle-earth is in the Undying Lands,
and passage there is in the gift of the Elves.
Gondor’s dead pass to an eternal sleep; the Rohirrim feast with their
ancestors. For Narnians, there’s the happy certainty of Aslan’s country, a
place which Lewis wishes to assure us is not less but more real than life: the Platonic solid of which the mortal Narnia
is but a shadow. In Ursula K Le Guin’s
early Earthsea books, the land of the dead is the darkness which is the other
half of light: you can’t have one without the other. She rethought that in the
last book, turning the duality into a unity from which the spirits of the dead
evanesce into light. No more darkness.
For Philip Pullman, passionately concerned to do away with what he
considers to be the lies of heaven and hell, Lyra’s journey through the land of
the dead becomes a sort of allegorical exposition in which the afterlife is
shown to be a cruel and hollow sham and the truth of dissolution is the best
happiness. And in Garth Nix’s metaphor of the river – with all its adventures,
snags, gates, rapids and waterfalls – death is a natural force, to resist which
is to become unnatural. In the end,
the river will always win and sweep us on into vastness.
My final
thought: we cannot think about death without making pictures.
Picture credits:
Digory and the Tree of Life, from 'The Magician's Nephew', Pauline Baynes
Battle of the Pelennor Fields, Alan Lee
Night Falls on Narnia, from 'The Last Battle', Pauline Baynes
Odysseus in the Underworld, by Johannes Stradanus, 1523-1605
Charon, by Gustave Dore
Crossing the Styx, by Gustave Dore
