http://bactra.org/weblog/algae-2009-0... ( )

A chilly tale of historical horror... Simmons takes the question of the fate of the lost Franklin Expedition (seeking the northwest passage), and imagines that it was not merely the unforgiving arctic ice that did in the two ships and their crews, but a paranormal creature out of Eskimo lore. ( )

After the sun-lit world of Olympos, Simmons plunges his readers into his darkest material since perhaps Carrion Comfort. That in itself is not necessarily a problem, but there is an issue with the way the novel is being billed.

It is NOT a historical novel with a metaphorical element of horror. It is a HORROR novel that happens to have a historical setting.

Again, not in itself a problem. But Simmons himself seems to have difficulty deciding which kind of a novel he's writing, so the historical elements place constraints on the story that keep it from having a fully satisfying plot, while the horror elements introduce events that are historically ridiculous.

After Olympos, Terror's Hobbesian theme is stunningly bleak. But then, life WOULD be nasty, brutish, short, etc. if one were on an early 19th-century Arctic expedition whose captain made astonishingly bad decisions based on an irrational faith that God would see them through--or if one were an Inuit of that time. So the final Rousseau-like chapters romanticizing the "noble Inuit" are particularly strange. Simmons is inordinately impressed with the only two things the Inuit could do: build igloos, which really isn't that hard (I did it as a boy scout at age thirteen or so, though mine no doubt lacked the mathematical symmetry of those Simmons describes, though it's not as if the Inuit, lacking a system of writing, could actually have grasped the higher mathematics of what they were supposedly doing); and hunting seal, which, well, they'd pretty much HAVE to be good at. (None of this is meant to belittle or morally criticize the Inuit of the time, as given their circumstances, it would have been near impossible for them to advance much beyond that.)

Also, Simmons has already done the "what if their primitive mythology were true?" bit in Fires of Eden, with the much more entertaining Hawaiian mythology, and unhampered by pretensions to historicity.

Still, Simmons' style here is beautiful, and many of the characters are among the best he's created, so it's certainly worth a read, like everything else he's written. ( )

Full review: http://realmofryan.blogspot.com/2009/... ( )

The fate of Sir John Franklin's last expedition remains one of the great mysteries of Arctic exploration. What we know, more or less, is this: In the balmy days of May 1845, 129 officers and men aboard two ships -- Erebus and Terror -- departed from England for the Canadian Arctic in search of a Northwest Passage to the Pacific. They were never heard from again. Between 1847 and 1859, Franklin's wife pushed for and funded various relief missions, even as the expectation of finding survivors was replaced by the slim hope for answers.
It's a story perfectly suited for fiction, if only because we have so little else to go on. Dan Simmons's new novel, The Terror, dives headlong into the frozen waters of the Franklin mystery, mixing historical adventure with gothic horror -- a sort of Patrick O'Brian meets Edgar Allan Poe against the backdrop of a J.M.W. Turner icescape. Meticulously researched and brilliantly imagined, The Terror won't satisfy historians or even Franklin buffs, but as a literary hybrid, the novel presents a dramatic and mythic argument for how and why Franklin and his men met their demise.
The book opens well into the middle of things, at the onset of the ships' third winter beset in sea ice. Months after Franklin's own death, his second-in-command is now in charge. Gothic imagery pervades, as 'Captain Crozier comes up on deck to find his ship under attack by celestial ghosts.' This 'attack' turns out to be an artful description of the aurora borealis, though Simmons never tells us that directly. Indeed, the power of his metaphoric language comes from the archetypal superstitions of the crew, who, despite their anchor of Protestant Christianity, are a pagan lot deep down.
But the crew's belief in witches and magic may or may not explain their main fear: a 'Thing on the ice' that stalks, beheads, eviscerates and otherwise kills off crewmen one by one. For 200 pages or so, we aren't sure if this beast is a figment of their overactive imaginations, maybe a giant polar bear or a yeti of Northern lore, a monster suggesting the 'beastie' of Golding's Lord of the Flies -- the terror within -- or Beowulf's Grendel, not to say Grendel's mother -- a preternatural, evil intelligence bent on destruction.
Faced with mutinous threats, general starvation, intense cold and something wrong with their tinned food supply (scurvy and lead poisoning appear rampant), Crozier provides leadership without arrogance. As the novel's protagonist, he is a man of the people, a realist, unlucky in love. As an Irishman in the British Royal Navy, he has been largely ignored by the Admiralty despite his stoic competence.
By contrast, Franklin represents most of what was wrong in early British Arctic exploration. His prior expeditions had met with minimal success, making him best known in England as 'the man who ate his shoes,' though given all the other things men ate to stay alive on Arctic expeditions, it's unclear why shoe leather would be singled out for ignominy. Goaded by his very public failings, Franklin retained his penchant for arrogant idealism and wasteful ritual. He brought along fine china and monogrammed silverware, among other 'necessities.' In the end, his primary mistake is cultural: Out of xenophobia he refuses to adopt local methods of travel, shelter and hunting. Yet to say that Sir John gets his just deserts is unfair if only because 128 others suffer the same fate.
Crozier recognizes the captain's weaknesses, and therein lies the novel's poignant sense of loss. He dispenses shipboard justice out of practical necessity rather than lofty idealism. In their desperate hours, he preaches not from the Bible favored by Franklin but from the 'Book of Leviathan' -- his own recitations from Thomas Hobbes, which, among other things, explains the birth of superstition and religion: 'There was nothing which a Poet could introduce as a person in his Poem, which [man] did not make into either a God or a Divel.' As the novel descends toward its hellish climax, the 'Divel' chasing our crew -- that 'Thing on the ice' -- transcends its monstrous nature and becomes the manifestation of earthly retribution, wild payback for the hubris of Western civilization.
The vehicle of that transcendence is Lady Silence, a mute Inuit girl who lives on the ship and goes at her own whim, providing a portal to Eskimo mythology and shamanism. Northern spiritual philosophy gives the world -- and this novel -- its ultimate balance, predicting the coming of kabloona ('pale people'), whose arrival brings 'drunkenness and despair,' melts the sea ice, kills off the white bear and calls forth the 'End of Times.' While Franklin's men are unable to escape the realities of starvation, brutal cold and the violent urge, Crozier's instinct for survival pushes the novel to its ethereal end.
This mix of historical realism, gothic horror and ancient mythology is a difficult walk on fractured ice, and anyone without Simmons's mastery of narrative craft would have undoubtedly fallen through. Despite its Leviathan length, The Terror proves a compelling read, while making the average meal consumed by the average American seem a precious gift from warm-weather gods.