Guest Post: J.T. Greathouse / Exploring The Hand Of The Sun King through the senses
Guest Post: J.T. Greathouse
Author of THE HAND OF THE SUN KING
I am very excited to be sharing a guest post from J.T Greathouse, debut author of The Hand of the Sun King. I had the pleasure recently to interview J.T alongside Brian Staveley for the launch of The Empire's Ruin and it was then I knew I had to get J.T on the blog. Then it hit me, something I used to love asking authors to do was to describe their worlds through the senses, and this seemed a perfect fit. The Hand of the Sun King is a beautifully evocative novel, from sounds to scent and colours ] that really put you in Wen Alder's world as you journey along with him. So enough from me and over to J.T:
When
Stephen asked me to write a guest post describing the world of THE HAND OF THE
SUN KING using the five senses, my mind immediately went to the idea of writing
something in character from the point of view of an imperial scholar describing
the Empire of Sien in all its glory. In real history, imperial projects (from
the Roman Empire to the Ming Dynasty to the global hegemony of the United
States) tend to justify themselves in a few different ways—often through some
appeal to a grand narrative of “civilization,” in the sense of “civilizing” the
peoples conquered and colonized, but also by appealing to the idea that
imperialism produces tremendous wealth and luxury. In fact, it “produces”
wealth and luxury for only a small subset of its own citizenry, and it does so
by extracting wealth from the margins—be those margins the frontier colonies of
the empire or the marginalized citizenry—toward the aristocracy at the imperial
center (be it an imperial bureaucracy, a class of nobility, or simply those who
control the levers of imperial power).
So, here
is a document from the Sienese Empire, composed with an insider’s perspective,
using an appeal to the senses to justify brutal acts of imperial violence that are
only hinted at in this text itself, but which are necessarily implied.
An Ode to the Splendor of the Empire, in
Six Senses
Composed by Gu Rill, upon his elevation
to Voice of the Emperor
Sight
The
Empire of Sien is as wide as the horizon, stretching the length and breadth of
the known world wherever the Emperor’s gaze has settled. From corner to corner
it is rich with life and color--in the far west, where the yellowed sandstone
obelisks and sparkling oasis of An-Zabat hold open the gateway to those alien
lands beyond the rippling sands of the Batir waste, whose grand bazaar plays
host to the iridescent flash of exotic birds from distant lands and a rainbow
of rich spices and shimmering silks. Then, to the eastern edge and the island
of Nayen, whose verdant forests--where ever the red smear of a fox tail, the
fluttering wing of an eagle-hawk, or the yellow eye of a wolf might be spotted
between the rough-barked trees--and iron-gray mountains stand sentinel against
the frothing wrath and ink-dark mystery of the sea. To the north, where frigid
nights leave the grassland fronds of the Girzan Steppe heavy and crystalline
with frost in winter, and the summer sun beats down upon the backs of the
uncountable herds of horse and cattle. To the south, where the Pillars of the
Gods rise in white-capped splendor to hold aloft the dome of the sky, and
beyond, where the tangled jungles and marbled valleys of Toa Alon hide
countless ancient secrets.
And
at last, to the center, the heartland of Sien, once fractured, now made whole
as all the world will one day be, where mighty rivers surge between rolling
hills dotted with farms that burst forth with abundance, and cities that sprawl
beyond the reach of any eye stand testament to the Emperor’s wisdom and the
wealth of his people.
What
a wondrous menagerie, those people! The copper-skinned An-Zabati, bright and
brilliant as the sun and sand, but flighty and dangerous as the desert wind.
The Nayeni, thick hair flecked with reddish fire, handsome in their brutality,
but bestial as the wolves they, in their ignorance, long worshiped. The Girzan,
pale as the moon with dark eyes as piercing as the stars. The Toa-Aloni, dark
as the shadows of their jungles. And presiding over all, we Sienese, like
imitations of the Emperor himself worked from clay by skillful hands, even the
meanest among us fine-boned and richly featured.
Can
there be any doubt that a stranger from afar, upon witnessing such marvels and
wonders, would fall to their knees in awe?
Yet
this is only the beginning, for there are myriad fonts of beauty inaccessible
to the eyes, but no less rich.
Taste
When
in history has the cultured palate been provided with greater opportunities for
expansion and pleasure? Here, where I now sit in Center Fortress, at the very
heart of the Empire, I might dine upon delicacies that would astonish my
forefathers. At my hand, upon my writing table, I have a bowl of tart lychee
from Toa Alon, chilled and stuffed with a tangy goat cheese perfected upon the
Girzan steppe, a fusion of north and south that flowers to life upon my tongue
in testament to the greatness and unity of Empire. There, on the plate nearby,
a delicate, flaking whitefish harvested from the Nayeni sea, served raw but for
a drizzling of warm butter upon a bed of bamboo leaves. And, though it seems
strange to speak of delicacies from a desert, An-Zabat delivers to us spices
from distant lands to dazzle the tongue--most wondrously, the five-part
peppercorn that so pleasantly numbs the cheeks.
Though
all the bounty of the provinces pales in comparison to that of the heartland,
which has given us the gifts of hearty rice and wheat, of sweet clementines and
persimmons plucked ripe from the tree, of rivers rich with eel and skies oft
darkened by the wings of game fowl. My mouth waters, now, at the though of my
dinner to come; peanuts in black vinegar, duck basted in its own fat mixed with
a paste of autumn chili, and dumplings stuffed with pork and aromatic leaves.
Ah! Despite the lies of those who would stir dissent and rebellion against the
Emperor’s never-changing-name, to be a servant of Sien is to risk
over-stimulation of the tongue and over-stuffing of the belly.
Touch
After
one has indulged the palate and the belly, there is no shame in falling upon a
cushioned divan, letting one’s body rejuvenate while caressed by our fine
Sienese silks, the pride of the heartland. The provinces are not without their
material luxury, of course. Who can dispute the beauty and elegance of Toa
Aloni marble, or the smoothly-sanded woodwork of the Nayeni, who despite their
ferocity show an unmatched cleverness in carpentry? The Girzan Steppe offers
the greatest wealth of fine textures--the rough antlers and crushed velvet of
hunted beasts, the fine wool of their goats and sheep, hides and furs to keep a
winter’s chill at bay. And as ever, borne from the west on the windships of
An-Zabat, come such wonders as transparent muslin like spiders’ silk, the ruddy
skins and shimmering feathers of fantastical, foreign beasts, and the smooth
surfaces of wondrous stones and faceted gems--though none, of course, pretends
to rival the water-cool smoothness of Sienese jade.
Hearing
While
one relaxes the body, one must not feel any guilt for indulging in luxurious
textures, for when is one in a better state of mind to contemplate the profound
verses and fine music that are the Empire’s greatest pride. Is it not written
in the Classic of Poetry that the Emperor himself, in the first century of his
eternal rule, would oft lie upon a bed of goose-down pillows, his head propped
upon his hand, and compose the masterworks of rhythm and meaning that would
come to underlie the very imperial examinations themselves? How more
appropriate, then, to listen to those verses and aphorisms while reclined in
just such a fashion?
Naturally,
there are other delights of sound that waft from the far corners of the
Empire’s grasp: the Nayeni have a predilection for rhythmic strings that
undergird heroic tales, the An-Zabati for whirling dances to pipe and drum, the
streets of Toa-Alon oft ring out with the bright tones of the hammered harp,
and the Girzan have their haunting shepherd’s choruses and lutes of horn and
gut. All small rivals, of course, to the fine tones of the zither, the
spike-fiddle, and the reed-flute, the high instruments of Sinese composition.
But
the highest art the ear might attend to is, of course, formal poetry. I need
not sing its praises in my own words, for the Emperor himself has done so in
his classic;
A
turn of phrase,
A
veiled allusion,
An
image to stir the silt of memory,
And
make the heart to sing,
Has
life any finer wine?
Smell
Second
only to poetry in stirring the heart and dredging up lost loves and forgotten
struggles is the fifth sense, oft considered least among equals, but as a
younger brother rightfully supports his elder, it elevates the others, adding
layers to taste and a texture to the air itself. Why else should we dedicate such a weight of
silver and expense of effort to procure the perfumes and incenses that enliven
and bring honor to even the furthest-flung magistrate’s house or family temple?
Sandalwood from the jungles of Toa-Alon, lavender and rose grown in the oasis
waters of An-Zabat, the musk of Girzan oxen, the mint and cinnamon that grow
plentifully in the forests of Nayen – I have traveled the world in service to
the Emperor, and I remember these places as much by the evocation of their scents
than any memory of color or sound. Were it not for the bounty of Empire, the
pungent stink of sweat and desperation might cling to our temples, as our
streets would reek of dung and offal, and our dining halls of acrid grease and
candle wax.
Magic
A
common scholar might end their tribute here, with some final verse to unite the
bodily senses in soaring tribute to the Emperor’s wisdom and beneficence. Yet
those elevated to his Hand, or, as I soon shall be, to his Voice, know the
world is even richer than those senses can convey. By the gift of the Emperor’s
canon we sorcerers are blessed with an apprehension of the Pattern of the
World, which the bodily senses gesture towards, but always incompletely. We
feel in our bones, blood, and minds the unification of all things, the
interwoven energies of birth, death, decay, and rejuvenation, and through it
the pulse of magic. A chill in the lungs as conjured winds fill the sails of an
An-Zabati ship; a cramping down every limb as Nayeni witches skulk through
their forests in the bodies of beasts; but, more potent still, the feverish
flush and rumble of thunder in the wake of imperial battle-sorcery, the
soothing calm and muting of the world as healing magic knits broken flesh. And,
greater than all, like the thrumming of a pulse through the weave of the
Pattern, the weighty thread of the Emperor’s will, pouring forth in uncountable
streams from his thousand-armed throne to enfold all the Empire in his power
and grace.
-
Every time I read that I just have to take a moment to pause, because DAMN I love this post so much. It's such a beautiful entry point into the book, giving you a flavour of JT's beautiful poetic writing picking up on the characterisation and nuances that exist within this world. I was drawn in from page one and what you get isn't just a book but a reading experience, where you constantly wat to know what is going to happen and how everything ties into each other. You feel the frustrations of Wen Alder as much as you are frustrated at him as a character and I think that's an excellent position to be in. On the one hand as a fantasy book it feels completely familiar like an old friend but then takes you to places you didn't expect, with a healthy does of magic, mythology and stories within stories. The Hand of the Sun King is out NOW from Gollancz (and there's also a BEAUTIFUL Goldsboro edition which I can't wait to drop through the letterbox) so grab a copy!
The Blurb:
My name is Wen Alder. My name is Foolish Cur.
All my life, I have been torn between two legacies: that of my father, whose roots trace back to the right hand of the Emperor. That of my mother's family, who reject the oppressive Empire and embrace the resistance.
I can choose between them - between protecting my family, or protecting my people - or I can search out a better path . . . a magical path, filled with secrets, unbound by empire or resistance, which could shake my world to its very foundation.
But my search for freedom will entangle me in a war between the gods themselves . . .
About the Author:
e).
His short fiction has appeared, often as Jeremy A. TeGrotenhuis, in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Writers of the Future 34, Deep Magic, Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show, and elsewhere. In addition to writing, he has worked as an ESL teacher in Taipei, as a bookseller at Auntie’s Bookstore in Spokane, and as a high school teacher. He currently lives in Spokane, Washington with his wife Hannah and several overflowing bookshelves.
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