Review of "The Farthest Shore" by Ursula K. Le Guin

“The first lesson on Roke, and the last, is Do what is needful. And no more!”     (p. 133)

A foundational motif in Ursula K. Le Guin’s  Earthsea novels is the idea of the balance. It occurs frequently in ruminations about power, and it is manifestly on display in reflections on the limits of power as wielded by wizards. To be able to weave spells and be able to change appearance, to change the weather, to compel people to act in certain ways and to be forced to protect one’s true name lest it be misused in these spells illustrates the risks that accrue to the inhabitants of this world. Who will protect us from any ill-intentioned individual with training who may use this power for private ends, to gain wealth, to exact revenge, to become a ruler? It is something that occurred to me thirty years ago as a young teenager when I first encountered these and other fantasy novels, and I reflected on the possibility of abuse while at the same time being fascinated by the dramatic and fundamentally romantic vision (romantic in the sense of giving expression to one’s desires while unimpeded by society) of men of power and their adventures.

These gaudy displays of power seem to have obsessed the young wizard Ged when he left to pursue his training in Roke Island. He wanted to leave a deep imprint on his world, burdened as he was by anxiety and by his own insecurities. It was something I deeply understood, but at the same time, I was both puzzled as well as horrified by this character’s wounded pride and the destructive acts that it led him to commit. As we recall, in the first book of this series, A Wizard of Earthsea, he wove a spell that opened up a conduit to the other side, and brought forth a shadow that was to pursue him for the rest of the novel. It was as such a cautionary tale as well as a rite of passage, for the young man learned the danger of his ambition as he sought reconciliation with the consequences of his acts.

In the last novel of the original series, The Farthest Shore, we encounter the wizard as an old man. He has been Archmage for five years, and has a long series of successfully completed quests that have given him fame as well as offering hope to Earthsea. And yet this is a novel that follows the original mold offered in the first book, for it Is also a rite of passage as we are introduced to a new character, a descendent of the legendary ruler Morred and a heir to the throne. His name is Arren, and he is sent to Roke to deliver disconcerting news about changes that have been noted on the outer reaches of the worldly domain.

These changes are always evident on the frontier, and one gains the sense of unknown forces that threaten order and stability and, in a fundamental way, the sense of meaning evident in cultural practices. People in far-flung lands are losing the ability to practice magic, and are seemingly becoming bewildered because their sense of order is being destroyed. It is, thus, not a matter of simple magic that is disappearing, for one would have to believe that such an occurrence might be wield such a big impact on populations in which there are limited practitioners of this lore. I tried to compare it to the sense of native elites in conquered realms who are supplanted, and how this very probably led to a bewildering loss of cultural integrity and order in societies such as those of the Americas. In this case, this construct is impacting all sectors in general, and it is affecting not only commerce (the weavers of Hort town can no longer produce quality silk nor can the dyers of Lorbanery produce the colors for which they have been renowned, among many other examples) but also in the loss of the songs that constitute such a distinctive element of their identity. Crops are not tended, families become alienated and apathetic, and instances of sustained and inexplicable violence and destruction are growing.

The Archmage Sparrowhawk meets with Arren, and from the beginning we see that the young messenger and heir to the throne will be entering into an apprenticeship. He will accompany the wizard as he ventures out to the western lands to investigate this phenomenon and try to address what appears, from the very beginning, to be a threat to the “Balance” that should prevail.

It is noteworthy, once again, that we will encounter another narrative in which familiar issues of trust and honesty will manifest themselves. In this fictional world the author has always sought to assert that there are many ways of knowing, and that silence and observations constitute powers ways of interacting and being, contrasting with the dynamic impulses of action and saying. This companionship, in which the apprentice Arren will frequently be wracked by doubt and will be frustrated by the lack of communication offered by his mentor, will echo once again the troubled apprenticeship of Ged with the wizard Ogion of Gont. As we recall, Ged was a character who felt the urge to action, and was singularly impatient and desperate to prove himself, and ultimately left his master in order to complete his training in Roke. He wasn’t ready, in other words, for what Ogion was able to teach him, that which he desperately needed to learn. This was self-control.

Arren, on the other hand, was born to power and responsibility. He is a heir to the throne, and has been trained from an early age, but has not been tested. He has observed and been obeyed, but he will need to similarly restrain himself and try to learn the many lessons that he will be taught by Ged/Sparrowhawk. These will be hard lessons, and will manifest time and again the real dangers that are offered by this world, but also, the value of trust.

As they proceed on their trek to the West, they encounter many dangers. They are ambushed, and Arren has to be rescued after he is taken prisoner by slavers. They will also be hounded in other locales, and after being attacked while trying to land on the island of Obehol, they will float helplessly for days on the open sea, with a wounded Sparrowhawk unable to offer guidance.

They are making their journey to the west for they have encountered a recurring story about a dark figure who promises immortality. This figure is draining the vitality of this world and of its inhabitants, and threatening the equilibrium that is so important. The narrative offers, as do so many of Le Guin’s stories and novels, passages of sheer poetic beauty, as they describe encounters with different cultures, from the sea peoples of the South to the culture of the ancient dragons of the west. One can never forget that Le Guin’s father was an anthropologist at Berkeley, and that this anthropological concern has been a mainstay in her fiction. And yet, there is something inscrutable in these cultures that defies understanding, a hidden element that always lies beneath the surface, and that harks over and over to the idea of what is not perceived, what is not obtainable unless it results from a deeply felt sense of communion with the Other. The sea peoples may seem to lead an idyllic life that harks to a prehistoric epoch, lacking as they do writing or any formal economy, but they preserve a certain wisdom that is sorely tempting to those who have tired of the Western narrative of struggle, rationality and progress. She is feeding into a disaffection that many of her readers have with the world as we know it, with our urge to return to a simpler time, one offering less deception.

There are many challenges, and at first, Arren judges himself harshly. He seems unable to measure up to the Archmage who occupies for him an almost mythical position, one that is shared with his legendary ancestor, the mage Morred. Arren is no wizard, and feels that this fact is a liability, and yet he felt sure that he could contribute to this venture, and assist Sparrowhawk as they tried to find the source of this imbalance that is threatening the world.

And this reflection on his own vulnerability and fears is echoed, in a work that plays on these interconnections, in the story of Cob, a wizard who was an adept of the hidden and disreputable lore of Paln, and who was able to call up the dead at will. This wizard was terrified of death and thus abused his power, seeking a way to overcome these limitations to help free him from fear. It is this wizard who is draining the world of order, who is dissociating the words from any element of power they may have held, who is causing amnesia and a dispiriting loss of hope. With the aid of the venerable dragon Orm Embar, they will be led to the westernmost island of Selidor, where they will encounter this wizard, and venture into the land of the dead to help repair the breach that has been opened. The parallelism is striking, for in the first novel Ged had opened up a similar breach that ended up costing the life of the Archmage Nemmerle, and here one suspects that Ged is still doing penance for this act.

What follows is a mesmerizing but also terrifying description of a journey through the Dry Lands, this being the land of the dead. They cross the stone wall that separates the realms and journey ever deeper, a journey that was begin in the living world on the ocean but that continues in a world in which there is no water whatsoever. The description of the dead would seem to validate the fears of Cob, for it is terrifying, a land of shadow in which no emotions attachments survive.

“Instead of fear, then, great pity rose up in Arren, and if fear underlay it, it was not for himself, but for all people. For he saw the mother and child who had died together, and they were in the dark land together; but the child did not run, nor did it cry, and the mother did not hold it or ever look at it. And those who had died for love passed each other in the streets.” (p. 173)

Only the names survive as empty visages, futile memories that can never evolve, never generate new memories, and are condemned to an eternal stasis.

In this journey Arren will exhibit extraordinary courage as he learns to accept his instincts and extend his trust to himself, and not only to his powerful mentor. He will play a crucial part in overcoming Cob by guiding Ged, an encounter which necessarily represents an end for both wizards. Cob will be divested of his fear and, in an act that would seem to echo an earlier episode in which Sparrowhawk had given a new name to a tormented witch, will seemingly be renamed and will retreat into the society of the dead. And Ged will spend the last of his power closing the breach, needing the help of Arren to undertake a journey through the Mountains of Pain to return to the world.

It is thus that we close a cycle in the story of apprenticeships in which Ged, in the closing novel of this trilogy, relinquishes his authority and ushers in an era in which Arren, whose true name is Lebannen, will return to claim the throne of Earthsea, fulfilling thus a long-ago prophecy. A price will have to be paid, and yet, the balance serves as the perfect metaphor to describe not only a transaction but also an equilibrium that has been an eternal concern of humanity itself. I would venture to say that this journey also will teach the new king a lesson in the perils of abuse, by expanding his perspective and, as with any rite of passage, showing him a broader world. This lesson is developed in the metaphor of the wave:

“That selfhood which is our torment, and our treasure, and our humanity, does not endure. It changes, it is gone, a wave on the sea. Would you have the sea grow still and the tides cease, to save one wave, to save yourself? Would you give up the craft of your hands, and the passion of your heart, and the light of sunrise and sunset, to buy safety for yourself—safety forever?” (p. 122)

The illusion of eternal safety is tempting but, once can’t help feel, also perilously close to the description offered of the dead lands, an illusion that is devoid of vitality, that is dry and stale and pitiful, that represents a closed realm.

Although I can’t help but think that these urges represent an almost primal instinct. Who is not afraid of the dark, who does not fear loneliness and the threat of violence, in whatever form it may take, whether it be economic, political, emotional, etc.? Is this not one of the fundamental attractions of order, the ability to rely on constraint and security from risk, to hedge bets, to use the language of Wall Street? (I am writing this at a moment in which another investment firm, J.P. Morgan, has admitted to the loss of two billion dollars in a scheme to reduce risk that backfired dramatically, and that recalls the many abuses committed by the banking sector during the first decade of this present century, leading to a prolonged recession that is still hurting the country.) For all the wisdom gained by this character, I can’t help but feel that there are institutional vulnerabilities that are much more worrisome, even in this fictionalized and simplified setting. Any concentrated authority necessarily holds the seeds of abuse, and prophecies in this setting serve as a tool by which to limit the scope of oversight, for what is prophecied would seem to allude to the will of a higher authority that we can’t challenge.

Will King Arren/Lebannen remain noble? Will this world regain stability and enter into a new world order that promises peace and prosperity for everyone? If my questions elicits a gut reaction in the negative, it is only because I have chosen catch words the refer to those applied to our real world, one that was to be inaugurated by the New World Order of the post-Cold War period, in which Globalization and Neo-liberalism promised prosperity for all, but in which we continue to live with renewed sources of strife. Such is doubtless the case in this fictional setting as well, if the history of Earthsea, as related in this book and others, is to be heeded. There have been many episodes of wizards, warlords,  tyrants and other imperialist agents abusing their powers, causing strife between lands and periods of destruction that range from many petty wars to the disappearance of an entire island, an occurrence that I take as the metaphorical equivalent of nuclear or terrorist-inspired holocaust. What assurance do we have that the “Balance” will hold? None, of course, and I am left to reflect on how these fables remind us of the many perilous journeys of self-discovery that are unavoidably ours to undertake as well.



Eternal Observer -- ORomero (c) 2013
Copyrights ORomero 2013