Merlin's Dragon

Chapter 1: A Living Bridge

   Spring rains drenched Fincayra's western hills.

And so begins the latest novel by T.A. Barron, Merlin's Dragon. Faithful readers will recall the train wreck of writing that was the opening chapter to The Great Tree of Avalon. It showcased some of Barron's favorite devices, such as the Dash of Suspense, used to end a paragraph midsentence so that the reader knows something truly stunning is happening. No doubt we're all looking forward to seeing its return here.

Well, sorry to disappoint, but this chapter has no dashes of excitement. None at all. That's because Barron has put behind him his unpolished style and has instead produced a novel of staggering—

No, it's not. It's because there's no action to interrupt. Nothing happens in this chapter. And there's none of that stilted, dialect-laced dialogue that suggests that Barron has never had a conversation in his life, because there aren't any characters, either. Well, there's an otter, a bird, and of course our protagonist, who's an egg. Not a magical talking egg with a rich inner life and conflicting motivation. Just...an egg. Perhaps it has a rich inner life.

That makes it hard to really pick this chapter apart; it's like going to critique an art gallery only to find that all of the canvases are unpainted, and not even in that interesting modern-art I'm-making-a-statement way, just in a the-artist-forgot-what-paintings-look-like way. I fear we'll mostly be counting unnecessary adjectives and adverbs.

Where were we? Oh, yes, spring rains. Nothing to really move the plot forward like weather.

Torrents poured down for weeks without end. The skies rained relentlessly, soaking every field and forest, every cliff and valley, until the very island seemed ready to drown.

   Water tumbled down gulleys, streams, and rivulets.

and brooks and creeks and aqueducts and...oh, sorry, I thought we were just showing that we owned a thesaurus.

Once-green valleys started to resemble muddy lakes. Birds fluttered helplessly in the downpour, searching for safe places to build their soggy nests. What became of smaller, more delicate creatures—the fragile mist faeries, the lavender-winged butterflies, and the mysteriously glowing light flyers—no one could guess.

No one! Not even an omniscient narrator! I'll get you started on the Unnecessary Modified Count by pointing out "helplessly", "soggy", "fragile", and "mysteriously", at the very least.

   So powerful was the ongoing storm that the giants' ancient city of Varigal, nestled high in the hills, flooded completely. As the ground shook from the pounding footsteps of displaced giants,

...ancient, pounding...but that's all right, because we finally have characters! Let's see what the giants do!

herds of wild unicorns galloped away from the rising waters that now filled their cherished glades.

Oh, no, let's not, then. Ah well. Mark down "cherished" and try to move on, although the next sentence is so terrible I'm going to have to interrupt before we even hit the verb.

Spirited men and women who lived in the Town of the Bards, so recently restored after the brutal reign of King Stangmar,

So. "Spirited", "brutal", and to be honest, "so". But that's not even what strikes me here. What strikes me is the idea of a Town of the Bards. I've seen bards in other books; there are bards I love, like Fflewddur Fflam; I've even played bards in the occasional game. But the idea of an entire town of bards makes me shudder—I used to act, and I know how much ego clashing occurs among six actors and a director. Can you imagine an entire town of that? To say nothing of the pressure on the children: "But, Mommy, I don't want to be a bard!" "You've got two choices, honey. Run away to another town, or start practicing that lute." And what happens when something needs repairing? Do you have to make the three-day trek to the Town of the Carpenters to hire someone? I'm finding myself siding with King Stangmar, though that could be because he's the only named character we've got.

tried to organize a water-themed opera—but even the most passionate performers finally gave up when the whole stage (together with a good part of the town) washed away.

Say it with me: "And there was much rejoicing." Seriously, your town floods, and your response is to organize an opera? They deserve to be washed away. Heckuva job, Bardie.

Even the immense white spider known as the Grand Elusa was forced to abandon her underground cave that glowed with magical crystals.

We now have a village of giants, a town of bards, galloping unicorns, the Grand Elusa, assorted faeries and butterflies. And not one of them is worth more than a single throwaway line. It could be clever world-building, but it reads like an author who wants you to know just how rich and developed his world is without having to develop anything.

   The River Unceasing swelled, rising higher than anyone could remember. Waves roared down the river channel, ripping out trees by their roots, rolling along boulders, carrying the remains of bridges and fisherpeople's huts—along with a few young giants who whooped with delight at their exciting ride. The muddy waters raced seaward, toward the Shore of the Speaking Shells: the spot where, not long before, someone called Merlin had washed ashore.

All right, fine, the giants make a brief reappearance. That's countered by the Shore of the Speaking Shells; compare the Shrieking Eels and the Pit of Despair and other melodramatic names from The Princess Bride. The Princess Bride was parody. This isn't.

   The little green egg, swept up in the flood, rolled far downriver. By the time the floodwaters finally diminished, it had traveled many leagues from the place where the baby dragons had been slaughtered. At last, it came to a stop in the tangled grasses under a rowan tree whose graceful branches still sagged from all the rains.

   Just as the egg ceased rolling, a gray-streaked river otter spied it. Sensing that it was, indeed, an egg,

Indeed! An egg! What a clever otter!

the old otter scampered over. Anticipating a small but tasty meal, his long whiskers quivered with excitement.

old, small, tasty, long—there's a line between "descriptive" and "paid by the word".

In these days of theft, murder, and gathering armies—when an invasion by the wicked warlord from the spirit realm, Rhita Gawr, had grown increasingly likely—any morsels of food were highly prized.

   Just as he grabbed the egg in his furry paws, a falcon shrieked and plunged from the sky.

His paws are furry, in case you were having trouble picturing the gray-streaked long-whiskered otter.

The otter spun around, losing his balance and dropping the egg. He rolled down the slippery bank, landing in the water. Two seconds later he lifted his face above the surface, just in time to see the falcon rising swiftly skyward, talons clutching the precious egg.

You may be wondering why Barron introduced an otter who was going to last two short paragraphs. I'd wonder, too, but I'm just so pleased to have a real live character finally show up. And a character with complex motivation: he's hungry and excited! Really, though, this is typical of the chapter (and, I suspect, the book): lots of irrelevant details, no real action at all.

   Westward flew the falcon, over the enchanted trees of Druma Wood. She sailed just above the branches of the forest's tallest tree, the ancient oak Arbassa, where the young woman Rhia—famous for her ability to talk with trees, rivers, and even living stones—had long made her home. Without warning, one of those gnarled branches lashed out, clawing at the falcon's wing. She screeched angrily, nearly dropping the egg. But she held on, beating her wings furiously to gain altitude. As she flew off, the oaken branch swiped at the air, crackling in frustration.

I had to resist the temptation to interrupt every other word here. There's the overly dramatic inversion of "westward flew the falcon" (in the previously-discussed book, it was "higher and higher [he] climbed"). There's the parody-level insistence on giving proper names to everything in sight, going beyond giant spiders and now extending to trees; and along with it the aforementioned little details like Arbassa and Rhia placed there to make it look like the author thought things through. There are the gratuitous modifiers like "gnarled" and "angrily" and "furiously", though the most glaring is "oaken" in the last sentence—it's the branch of an oak tree. What's it going to be other than "oaken"? And combining Barron's needless adjectives with his ill-considered details, what's a "living stone"? If it's living, why it is surprising that someone who can talk to (living) trees can also talk to (living) stones?

I'd complain about the fact that the tree, which is the first named character to actually appear (as opposed to being mentioned as Really Clever Background), has no clear motivation here—does it eat falcons? does it eat eggs? was it just lonely?—but motivation is far too much to ask for here.

   Veering south to avoid the forest,

Just for the record: once you're over the forest, it's too late to veer to avoid it.

the falcon rounded the coast of Fincayra, then flew over the lost homeland of the treelings, strange people who lived now only in legends. Ahead, across the water, she spied the long, rugged peninsula whose cliffs held her nest. She clucked with glee: Nearly home now, she'd soon be feeding this egg to her brood of hungry chicks. Five of them, to be exact—always crowded in her nest upon the ledge, always squawking at each other, and always hungry.

Just look at that attention to utterly irrelevant and distracting detail! Five chicks! If Barron hadn't been exact, I'd have been left with such a vague picture of events. And it explains so much; no falcon would go through this much work for only four chicks. And of course, it's good to know that it's not a smooth peninsula. With cliffs.

   All that remained of her journey was the simple crossing of the channel that divided her peninsula from the main island. She'd done it hundreds of times before with ease. Nothing could interrupt her flight now. Even when ocean currents roiled the waters of the channel, no waves could reach as high as that cursed branch!

Why, nothing could go wrong! Not when it's a "simple" crossing done "with ease"! I almost admire Barron for not using the Dash of Suspense here, which tells you how much he's lowered my standards.

   Glancing down at the channel, she noticed something odd. An extraordinary boat, looking for all the world like a huge upside-down hat,

I can't believe I'm saying this, given the sheer amount of irrelevant detail Barron keeps throwing in, and his penchant for dramatic synonyms ("glancing" rather than "looking", say), but: "upside-down hat" does positively nothing to create the image for me. Hats are too varied. An upside-down bowler? fez? sombrero? ten-gallon hat? fruity thing that Carmen Miranda would wear?

bobbed on the water. How had it come to float there?

Indeed! How is it that boats, even extraordinary ones, come to float in the ocean?

If some giant had tossed his enormous hat into the sea, he was nowhere in sight now.

   The bird noticed that the great vessel was drifting toward an immense wall of waves that bordered the only island in the channel—a place so remote and hostile that it was called the Forgotten Island.

Quick note: if you have a name for it, it's not forgotten. Actually, as long as I'm stopped, "immense wall of waves"? Waves have this thing they do where they move, in contrast to walls, which have this thing they do where they just stand there. Is this magical? Is it actually a wall, or...oh, forget it.

Here, as every seabird knew, no people had walked for centuries. For the island's sheer cliffs held untold dangers and many mysteries—including the truth of why Fincayran men and women had lost their wings long ago.

   Battered by the churning wall of waves, the floating hat started breaking apart. Its sides, made from woven boughs, started to collapse; its hull groaned and split apart.

"Woven boughs" helps a little. On the other hand, I don't know what Barron thinks the hull of a boat is if it's independent of its sides.

The vessel began to sink, dropping lower and lower in the water.

   Suddenly the falcon heard a terrible shrieking sound. Fearing attack from another bird of prey, she banked sharply to the side, diving lower to evade her pursuer. At once she realized her mistake. That sound was coming not from above, but from below. And it wasn't the sound of any bird. No, it came from children. Human children!

Human children—the worst kind! Also the worst kind of falcon, if its survival instincts can't distinguish the sound of a bird above it from the sound of children below it.

   Above the din of bursting boughs and splintering wood,

The boughs, you understand, are not wood. They're...I don't know, something that bursts instead of splintering, allowing Barron to work in an extra adjective.

many children wailed in fear. They climbed out of the rupturing bowl of the hat and onto the rim, trying desperately to cling to wood, rope, each other—anything that might float.

Very small rocks! Churches! Lead!

Many of them toppled into the sea, shouting in terror as they fought to keep their heads above water.

   As a mother herself, the falcon shuddered at this ghastly scene.

"Ghastly". Speaking as something who's never been a mother himself, I'd like to think I'd shudder to see children drowning.

Yet she couldn't do anything to help. All she could do was continue her flight across the channel, bearing some food for her own children. She beat her wings faster, squeezing the green egg in her talons.

   Just then another strange sight caught her eye—this one so astonishing that she almost dropped the egg. With all her concentration, she peered at the water below to make sure this wasn't an illusion. But no. This was real.

   Mer folk! From far beneath the waves, their sleek, glistening forms broke the surface.

Sleek, glistening, adjectival forms. And don't forget the (green) egg! This is a story about the egg, you know. Or maybe about the falcon. Eventually perhaps a dragon. It's getting a little hard to keep track, though at least we can be assured that this long digression from the "action" wouldn't be here if it weren't going to come up again later in the book in an important way. (Note: someone who has read the book assures me that no, it never comes up again, though perhaps )

The falcon circled overhead, amazed to see them—creatures so rare and secretive that even the sharpest-eyed hawk might only see, in a lifetime, one fleeting glimpse of an iridescent tail fin or shoulder. And the mer folk's numbers continued to swell. Several of them appeared, then dozens more, rising out of the deepest sea. Here, a scarlet-scaled torso twirled, flashing bright. There, a graceful fishtail slapped the waves, creating a luminous veil of spray. And there, a pair of muscular bodies leaped high, breaching, before falling back into the sea with a double splash.

   The mer folk swam toward a single spot, where a new, enormous wave was steadily lifting out of the sea. Higher it rose, water streaming off its colorful crest. Watching from above, the falcon clacked her beak in surprise when she realized that this wasn't a wave at all—but a bridge. A luminous, living bridge.

My gratuitous-modifier counter has broken. My luminous, graceful, scarlet-scaled, muscular, fleeting, iridescent counter.

   The mer folk had entwined themselves together! Interlocking tails and fins and arms, they were forming a great, radiant archway. Swiftly it rose higher, gleaming with watery hues. Part solid, part liquid, it vaulted out of the depths.

My great, radiant, swift, gleaming counter. Are mer folk really part liquid?

   Before long, the living bridge reached from the sinking vessel over the crashing wall of waves—all the way to the shore of the Forgotten Island. Like a rainbow of the ocean, glowing with the colors of sea rather than sky,

Fun fact: the sea has different colors than the sky. Rainbows of the ocean don't have those boring "blue" and "green" colors; they're primarily grue, bleen, and octarine.

the archway gleamed. Small seabirds started to gather—terns and skimmers, kittiwakes and murres—piping and cooing and whistling as they soared around the magnificent bridge.

   As the falcon watched in awe, her thoughts returned to the children struggling in the water. Would they find the bridge in time? Would it lead them into some greater danger on that forbidden island?

The falcon's deep interest in a bunch of human children may seem strange, but she's been watching LOST for a few years (though she's starting to suspect that it's jumped the dangerous, gray-scaled shark).

Curious, she veered toward the island's coast, just for a brief look.

   As she sailed across the jagged line of sheer cliffs at the island's edge, a fierce gust of wind suddenly struck.

Lines of cliffs are always jagged. Most cliffs are sheer. The gust of wind is about to slam into her, so it goes without saying that it's fierce—sorry, no, it clearly goes with saying, in this book.

Slamming into her body with the force of a gigantic, invisible wing, the gust hurled her backward. Screeching with fright, she dropped the egg, which fell toward the rocky cliffs below.

   Before she could regain her bearings, another gust struck so hard that it flipped her completely upside down, tearing two feathers out of her tail. Crying out in panic, she spun helplessly through the air. Finally she managed to flap her wings so vigorously that she righted herself. When, at last, she could fly again, she fled from the evil island at top speed.

   As she flew toward her nest on the peninsula, her talons empty, she never even considered going back to that accursed place. She had no desire whatsoever to search for her lost egg, to see if it had been smashed on the cliffs. Just as she had no desire whatsoever to find out why those terrible gusts of wind had carried the vaguest scent of cinnamon.

The adjectives and adverbs are so overwhelming that I can't even pull them out individually. (Except perhaps "completely upside down"; it's good of him to specify, lest I be left with an image of a falcon who's merely turned 178 degrees over and not the complete 180.) Really, though, what's so striking at this point is that we've just read an entire chapter about flooding and otters and falcons and drowning children and apparently the entire point was to get an egg from Point A to Point B, courtesy of a cinnamon-scented mage. The protagonist of this novel not only has yet to take an action, it has been consistently acted upon, putting its excitement level somewhere below watching grass grow, where the grass at least gets to do something. It's as if Barron is taunting the reader: "You've read the other Merlin books, so I could write one about nothing at all and you'd read it anyway." Please, I urge you, if you're caught in this horrid cycle of adjective abuse. Read something good instead.

Please note: all text in bold is © 2008 T.A. Barron, used without permission but under what I believe to be fair use (i.e. using only text available on the web, for not-for-profit review purposes). All text not in bold is © 2009, me (tahnan@suberic.net).