Dagger Key and Other Stories

  That is the key. The signs are there: Shepard’s dialogue; his descriptions of landscape; his focus on human motivations; his political savvy. He is a naturalist (in a particularly American tradition). All the dragons, zombies, ghosts or otherworldly spirit-harvesters do not alter that a jot. What he’s not is a lumpen naturalist—the reality he depicts contains more things than are dreamt of in our philosophy. But it’s still real, still natural. It is a naturalism invigorated but never overwhelmed by the uncanny.

  The most brilliant expression of this comes in “Liar’s House”, the recounting of one of the dragon Griaule’s opaque schemes. There is one throwaway clause, early on, which provides a startling insight into Shepard’s project. Describing his sculptures of the great Griaule, the protagonist Hota sees them as “objects that—like their model—appeared to be natural formations that bore a striking resemblance to dragons.”

  Run though that implicit description of Griaule. What does a miles-long, vastly recumbent dragon look like? It looks like a mountain range that looks like a dragon.

  Here is an answer to the conundrum, faced whether they acknowledge it or not by all writers of the fantastic, of how to describe the magically indescribable. All we have for reference is the everyday.

  With this extraordinary sentence—which must surely go down as one of the most incisive, radical and rigorou s examinations of the fantastic in fantasy—Shepard achieves something remarkable. On the one hand, he undercuts the self-big-up of magic. We cast about for similes, but the magic is, and can be, “like” nothing other than the mental furniture we have to hand, that very unmagic stuff all around us.

  At the same time, Shepard honours that everyday too often denigrated. What, the analogy asks, can be more extraordinary than a mountain? After all, they are what dragons look like! Dragons, in this radical grammar, aren’t their own end; they are referents to help us visualise rocks. What an astonishing thing to do to the fantastic.

  But it is astonishing because we know that dragons are astonishing. And we know that, and Shepard knows it, and the analogy knows it too, though it pretends not to.

  So this is no crude rebuke or simplistic reversal of priorities: it is a fractal blossoming of reference and counter-reference, a giddying out- and infolding. Shepard does not invert the mawkish privileging of “magic”: he undercuts the unequal binary itself. We’re too enamoured of hierarchical dyads to give them up tout court. Instead, in that elegant and extraordinary comparison, Shepard makes the distinction self-cannibalising, destabilising.

  And he points out that we’ve all been doing this all along. The passage is a canny reversal of one of the most clichéd analogies known to poets of geography: what, after all, does a certain type of mountain range look like but a sleeping dragon? It’s a commonplace for us to so “uncover” the never-very-covered-up-anyway magic under the skin of the natural; here is fantasy that lays bare the natural below the magic.

  Lucius Shepard has a name for what he does. In the story notes to “Abimagique”, he memorably describes one of his strengths as a writer as “bungling naturalism”. Read him and you read a naturalist who bungles, repeatedly and almost seemingly inadvertently straying into the unnatural, the supernatural. Fantasy here is a kind of systemic, fecund and felicitous writerly mistake, one that vastly invigorates the naturalism Shepard seemed to be angling for.

  “Bungling Naturalism” may the best term for serious non-realist literature ever arrived at. It is a great boon to fiction that Shepard strives for the kind of naturalism he does; and it is a great boon to fantasy that he so brilliantly bungles.

  China Miéville 

  STARS SEEN THROUGH STONE