Explorers Of The New Century by
Magnus Mills (2005)
Recommended by Hamish
even
in hiding
the
full moon
teaches
us a lesson
Hamish is a poet.
The haiku I quote here are all taken from his 2009 book, Our Sweet Little Time, in which he charts a year, the year his
daughter was born. The haiku are beautiful, of course. Not only paeans to his
wife and daughter, and observations of the shifting rhythms of pregnancy, he speaks
of a sharpened sense of season. Things will change and everything takes on a
newer meaning.
winter
dusk-
the
sound of knives sharpening
from
a nearby tree
Re-reading Our Sweet Little Time in anticipation of
writing this post, I experienced Hamish’s words in a way I didn’t at my first
reading. No, I’m not pregnant, but yes, I do feel at a precipice. As if
something is swelling within me. I find myself turning over different situations
incessantly in my mind. Some are within my control, some are without, but this
inner churn has heightened my perception of nature, of both its constancy and
its changes. I’ve been up on Loxley Common a lot this year, sometimes to read
or to walk with friends, but often, simply, to be. I feel the bracken against
my legs and grab at the long grass. I went this morning. October is pinching,
and the visitors to the common are fewer. The young lovers who stole kisses
over the summer have returned to school, perhaps even split up; the preteens
playing with water pistols and frisbees probably won’t do so next year, for
they will feel too old for such uninhibited childish pursuits.
Hamish and I have now been
penpals for thirteen years – not prolific correspondents, either one of us, but
I value my connection with him immensely. We used to know one another in the
flesh, yet the decision to sustain our acquaintance by post was exactly the
right one. My relationship with him is now so pen-and-ink based it would
probably feel very strange to actually speak with him. We’ve followed each
other through several changes, not least geographical (the ‘I’ section in my
address book is entirely him, four-times crossed out, and one current. Counting
up my own house moves, I am but one behind him). I never expect to see him
again, but I never expect to lose touch, either.
sometimes
the leaf
you
think is a frog
is
a frog
So I love Our Sweet Little Time. But don’t take my
word for it…
‘Hamish
Ironside understands the art of writing.’
-
MAGNUS MILLS
On the evidence of Explorers Of The New Century, Magnus
Mills knows whereof he speaks. This book initially seems to have much in common
with The Ascent Of Rum Doodle – a
clever satirical adventure tale that depicts the Imperial-era Brits with their enormous
sense of entitlement writ large.
‘Very good. Now it’s far too cold to stand here making
speeches. I’ve no time for such flummery, so without further ado I think we’ll
make an immediate start.’
This is Johns speaking,
the wayfaring leader of one set of explorers. He’s ‘not in a race with’ (is in a
race with) another exploring party, led by the more austere Tostig.
Tostig raised his field glasses and continued to watch
as the distant, tiny figures inched across the scree. ‘Eleven men,’ he said.
‘And two dozen mules. Roughly two dozen. Far more than he needs, I would have
thought, unless he’s counting on heavy losses.’
In between moans about the
perishing weather and sleeping arrangements, Tostig and Johns
continue to snipe at each other – in the most gentlemanly way, of course – as the
journeys progress. But where are the parties going, and for what purpose? Early
on, we learn it is for some form of Scientific Enquiry, following the Transportation
Theory of one Professor Childish; as we press further, we understand that the
mules are nervous of the destination; and it is only when we are nearly there (at
‘the Agreed Furthest Point’) that we truly understand the full weight of the
expedition.
The reveal of the story is
so very very clever that I can’t possibly spoil it for you; hints along the
way, tiny asides where I thought, ‘oh, that’s a bit odd, why do they care about
that so much?’ all fell expertly into place. I steadfastly blundered down the
wrong track for page after page, believing the book to be using magical realist
strategies to make an obscure point about isolation, before I almost literally
slapped my forehead in recognition at what Mills was actually doing. The use of
language and manipulation of reader assumptions is extraordinary.
Although this structural
brilliance is an outstanding quality of Explorers
Of The New Century, what I found most intriguing was its portrayal of hope.
This wasn’t very hopeful.
Without further delay, the expedition continued
northward, gradually moving away from the river. Snaebjorn took the lead. The
day’s journey was unremarkable, save for a small incident around about noon.
During the brief twilight there was a whirr of wings high above them, as in the
flight of a passing bird, and a moment later a sprig of foliage fell in their
path. Snaebjorn saw it and picked it up. The sprig was withered and dry, but
nevertheless its discovery brought encouragement to the entire party. All
agreed that somewhere ahead the land must be green and fertile, and on this
assumption they pressed forth with renewed vigour.
But, unknown to them, the bird had lost its way.
Cutting to the quick of
any investigative pursuit, whether of the body, heart or mind, Explorers Of The New Century looks at
the psychological tricks we devise to sustain hope. For, without hope, how do
we know we’re on the right track, even if we get a sprig of foliage dropped in
our path? Is the alternative – capitulating to fear, and giving up hope – cowardly or realistic? At what point are we Macbeth, midway in our own river of
blood, when to retreat is as destructive as to forge on?
heart
skipping
a
beat, flipping
like
a landed fish
Contemplating metamorphosis and journey as I am, the danger of being a landed fish looms large. In the past, my own river has surged to reclaim me; I hope, hope, that it will ever be so.
