MYTHOLOGICAL BEAST Stephen Donaldson Heroic Fantasy, which is sometimes referred to as ‘Sword and Sorcery’, has its current superstar in Stephen Donaldson (1947— ) whose series, The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever, became a publishing sensation on both sides of the Atlantic when it was launched in 1977. The books were hailed as ‘comparable to Tolkien at his best’, underlining that here was another writer following in an already well-established tradition. Although stories of ‘heroic fantasy’ can be traced back to the ancient Greek voyages of discovery, it is generally accepted that the term ‘Sword and Sorcery’ was coined in 1960 by the American fantasy writer Fritz Leiber (of whom more later) to categorise the works of J. R. R. Tolkien and T. H. White (The Once and Future King trilogy) at one end of the spectrum and, at the other, Edgar Rice Burroughs (the ‘Barsoom’ series) and Robert E. Howard (Conan the Barbarian). Inevitably, these stories of vivid imagination, set primarily in fantasy worlds where swordsmen and adventurers big and small pitted themselves against supernatural foes, were full of heroism and bloodshed. Humour was almost non-existent—although, as this section will demonstrate, the genre did lend itself to comic fantasy in the form of vulnerable heroes in less-than-heroic situations. Stephen Donaldson’s Chronicles typify this shift in the heroic fantasy genre by having as their principal character a leper. The author developed the idea during his childhood spent in India where his father was an orthopaedic surgeon working extensively with lepers; it was from this that he conceived the character of Thomas Covenant. The first trilogy of Chronicles was completed ten years later, after he had returned to America and gone through college (getting an M.A. in English). The huge manuscript was then turned down by 47 publishers before finding a home with Ballantine Books, Tolkien’s publishers in America. The immediate success of the work in the United States was followed just as quickly in Britain where the books sold almost half a million copies in just eighteen months. Since then Donaldson has produced a string of what he refers to as ‘operatic fantasies’, describing strange, beautiful, uncanny landscapes where, despite an ever-present sense of doom, his particular brand of wild magic offers hope—the very essence of heroic fantasy. ‘Mythological Beast’ is one of his few short stories and was published in the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction in January 1979. In it he makes amusing use of a classic fantasy theme against the backdrop of a technocracy of the future, to weave a story that neatly encapsulates the theme of this section. * * * * Norman was a perfectly safe, perfectly sane man. He lived with his wife and son, who were both perfectly safe, perfectly sane, in a world that was perfectly sane, perfectly safe. It had been that way all his life. So when he woke up that morning, he felt as perfect as always. He had no inkling at all of the things that had already started to happen to him. As usual, he woke up when he heard the signal from the biomitter cybernetically attached to his wrist; and, as usual, the first thing he did was to press the stud which activated the biomitter’s LED readout. The display gleamed greenly for a moment on the small screen. As usual, it said, You are OK. There was nothing to be afraid of. As usual, he had absolutely no idea what he would have done if it had said anything else. His wife, Sally, was already up. Her signal came before his so that she would have time to use the bathroom and get breakfast started. That way, there would be no unpleasant hurrying. He rolled out of bed promptly and went to take his turn in the bathroom so that he would not be late for work and his son, Enwell, would not be late for school. Everything in the bathroom was the same as usual. Even though Sally had just used it, the vacuum-sink was spotless. And the toilet was as clean as new. He could not even detect his wife’s warmth on the seat. Everything was perfectly safe, perfectly sane. His reflection in the mirror was the only thing that had changed. The tight lump in the centre of his forehead made no sense to him. He had never seen it before. Automatically, he checked his biomitter, but again it said, You are OK. That seemed true enough. He did not feel ill—and he was almost the only person he knew who knew what ‘ill’ meant. The lump did not hurt in any way. But still he felt vaguely uneasy. He trusted the biomitter. It should have been able to tell him what was happening. Carefully, he explored the lump. It was as hard as bone. In fact, it seemed to be part of his skull. It looked familiar; and he scanned back in his memory through some of the books he had read until he found what he wanted. His lump looked like the base of a horn or perhaps the nub of a new antler. He had seen such things in books. That made even less sense. His face wore an unusual frown as he finished in the bathroom. He returned to the bedroom to get dressed and then went to the kitchen for breakfast. Sally was just putting his food on the table—the same juice, cereal, and soyham that she always served him—a perfectly safe meal that would give him energy for the morning without letting him gain weight or become ill. He sat down to eat it as he always did. But when Sally sat down opposite him, he looked at her and said, ‘What’s this thing on my forehead?’ His wife had a round bland face, and its lines had slowly become blurred over the years. She looked at his lump vaguely, but there was no recognition in her eyes. ‘Are you OK?’ she said. He touched the stud of his biomitter and showed her that he was OK. Automatically, she checked her own biomitter and got the same answer. Then she looked at him again. This time, she, too, frowned. ‘It shouldn’t be there,’ she said. Enwell came into the kitchen, and Sally went to get his breakfast. Enwell was a growing boy. He watched the food come as if he were hungry, and then he began to eat quickly. He was eating too quickly. But Norman did not need to say anything. Enwell’s biomitter gave a low hum and displayed in kind yellow letters: Eat more slowly. Enwell obeyed with a shrug. Norman smiled at his son’s obedience, then frowned again. He trusted his biomitter. It should be able to explain the lump on his forehead. Using the proper code, he tapped on the face of the display, I need a doctor ... A doctor would know what was happening to him. His biomitter replied, You are OK. This did not surprise him. It was standard procedure—the biomitter was only doing its job by reassuring him. He tapped again, I need a doctor. This time, the green letters said promptly, Excused from work. Go to Medical Building room 218. Enwell’s biomitter signalled that it was time for him to go to school. ‘Got to go,’ he mumbled as he left the table. If he saw the lump on his father’s forehead, he did not think enough about it to say anything. Soon he had left the house. As usual, he was on time. Norman rubbed his lump. The hard bone nub made him feel uneasy again. He resisted an urge to recheck his biomitter. When he had finished his breakfast, he said goodbye to Sally, as he always did when he was going to work. Then he went out to the garage and got into his mobile. After he had strapped himself in, he punched the address of the Medical Building into the console. He knew where the Medical Building was not because he had ever been there before (in fact, no one he knew had ever been there), but because it was within sight of the National Library, where he worked. Once the address was locked in, his mobile left the garage smoothly on its balloon tyres (a perfectly safe design), and slid easily into the perfectly sane flow of the traffic. All the houses on this street were identical for a long way in either direction, and as usual Norman paid no attention to them. He did not need to watch the traffic, since his mobile took care of things like that. His seat was perfectly comfortable. He just relaxed in his safety straps and tried not to feel concerned about his lump until his mobile deposited him on the kerb outside the Medical Building. This building was much taller and longer than the National Library; but, apart from that, the two were very much alike. Both were empty except for the people who worked there; and the people worked there because they needed jobs, not because there was any work that needed to be done. And both were similarly laid out inside. Norman had no trouble finding his way to room 218. Room 218 was in the Iatrogenics Wing. In the outer office was a desk with a computer terminal very much like the one Norman used at the library, and at the desk sat a young woman with yellow hair and confused eyes. When Norman entered her office, she stared at him as if he were sick. Her stare made him touch his lump and frown. But she was not staring at his forehead. After a moment, she said, ‘It’s been so long—I’ve forgotten what to do.’ ‘Maybe I should tell you my name,’ he said. ‘That sounds right,’ she said. She sounded relieved. ‘Yes, I think that’s right. Tell me your name.’ He told her. She looked around the terminal, then pushed a button to engage some kind of program. ‘Now what?’ he said. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. She did not seem to like being so confused. Norman did not know, either. But almost at once the door to the inner office opened. The woman shrugged, so Norman just walked through the doorway. The inner office had been designed to be cosy, but something had gone wrong with its atmospherics, and ...
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