The Bonehunters

“The past, even dead, especially dead, could continue to work harm.” – Leslie Fielder.

“The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past.” – William Faulkner.

The past is a restless, uneasy thing. Suffering constant historical and political revisions, it rarely remains unchanged or static, revealing a worrying tendency to extend its claws to the future and repeat itself. And if the past is the starting point, but also the one of arrival, it denies progress. In The Bonehunters, the sixth installment of The Malazan Book of the Fallen, Steven Erikson works with the idea that the past is prophecy: a relentless foe that is tragically faced, materializing itself as destiny.

The story follows the 14th Military Army of the Malazan Empire, led by Tavore Paran, who seeks to destroy the rest of Sha’ik’s rebellion by eliminating its leader, Leoman, while chasing him down to the city of Y’ghatan, known for being the stage of one of the Empire’s most famous defeats. Meanwhile, the historian Herboric repeats his journey with Felisin to fulfill a mission that he rejects; Icarium and Mappo continue their cyclical journey to recover the memories of the former; and Karsa seeks to fulfill his role of liberator, although being still trapped by the chains of his formation as a Toblakai warrior.

Tavore’s military group is at the center of the novel, participating in the two most important climatic moments in the book and possessing the arc that best symbolizes its main theme. The 14th Army’s journey is one of genesis and development, finding in Y’ghatan the key moment of its creation, and a symbol of the useless struggle against the past: the name Bonehunters metaphorizes the group’s fate to revive historical tragedies as if the Malazan were relentlessly chasing the past.

The siege of Y’ghatan, which, given its scope, would serve very well as the final climax in any other book, here is the initial turning point in the story. First, Erikson prepares the confrontation by comparing the two sides regarding their military strengths and weaknesses. Tavore’s army has numerical and technological superiority, while Leoman’s soldiers have more battle experience and geographic advantage. Leoman’s army is fighting for a cause that they are not only prepared to die for but also eagerly await this end, considering it glorious – no wonder they are constantly referred to as “fanatics” by their own commander. Tavore’s group, on the other hand, seems lost and aimless, continuing the fight merely because it is commanded to. To make matters worse, Leoman clearly has a plan, but Tavore is too introspective to demonstrate if she is as confused as her army or if she has something up her sleeve. On the other hand, her loyalty is unshakable, while Leoman’s is even questioned by his right-hand men, such as his friend Corabb.

Corabb is responsible for offering the point of view of Leoman’s rebellion. He is a fascinating character that, at one point, is philosophizing about the stars and revealing to be poetic and optimistic, and, at the other, is resenting Leoman’s lover, showing to be needy and sexist. His character arc is effective, involving the deconstruction of his binary worldview: at the beginning, Corabb completely vilifies the Malazan, assigning them exaggerated defects, and embracing as the truth any news or rumors that confirm his stereotyped – and therefore limited – worldview. His hatred is depicted as necessary to mask as righteous the violent nature of his own positions and attitudes. Corabb’s trajectory, however, is optimistic, showing him gradually dismantling his Manichaeism after each time he’s attacked with contrary evidence, and finally acquiring a multifaceted worldview that allows him to see “certainty” as a poison that corrupts the soul and blocks the capacity to feel empathy.

Few antagonists in The Bonehunters are not given shades of complexity. Even a monstrous creature demonstrates its own sense of justice when we observe the world from its point of view. Leoman, for example, goes far from being one-dimensional. Despite being treated as the antagonist, he shows himself gentle and sensible in several moments, and his genuine friendship with Corabb makes him more human. If at a certain moment he is described as “pure evil”, it actually doesn’t villainize him, because it refers only to his tendency to commit the act considered most heinous by the narrative – and the central point of Memories of Ice – which is betrayal. His attitude during the confrontation in Y’ghatan, therefore, becomes central to the formation of his personality.

The battle itself begins by repeating the strategy of balancing the forces involved, immediately deconstructing one of the assets of the Malazan army. By following the sappers who will be responsible for breaking down the city walls, the reader notices that they are divided into two groups: there are those thatdon’t know what they are doing, and there are those that do, but are insane and suicidal and are handling explosives. Thus, when the battle begins, what is seen in Y’ghatan is a chaos of blood, guts, and much, much fire.

Erikson, then, shortens the length of each point of view, jumping from one to the other very quickly, causing a disorientation that reflects the chaos of the situation. In the same vein, he extends the length of the chapter – perhaps the biggest one in the series so far – to suffocate the reader with the same desperation of the characters, without offering a moment to breathe. When describing the fatalities, the narrative highlights the human element involved, regardless of the side of the conflict: a Malazan soldier dies thinking about in varied he has failed his mother, suffering a kind of regression to a childish state, and a Leoman fanatic when stabbed, utters the name of a woman in anguish, which fills his foe with sadness.

However – and this is a price for the battle to take place at the beginning of the novel – several small characters who are slaughtered didn’t have the proper development and can so blend with each other. To compensate for that, the last part of the chapter – focused on a slow and excruciating escape – allows several important characters to have more intimate moments of development. The highlight is the brief response (“A welcome gift”) of a certain character, who completes his character arc at that moment. In addition, this chapter even discusses themes dear to the series, presenting the reader with beautiful passages about compassion (“Compassion existed when and only when one could step outside oneself, to suddenly see the bars inside the cage”), and excellent metaphors like that of the birth that occurs near the end, marking the birth not of a person, but of a group.  And this is all just in the first turning point of the novel.

The other characters’ plotlines are less busy, but not less complex. Herboric’s journey, for example, mirrors the futility of what happened in Deadhouse Gates, and his new companions are each one haunted by a specific past: Cutter, by guilt and a feeling of abandonment, after having been turned down by the woman he loves; Felisin, by Sha’ik’s legacy, which is looming over her; and Scillara – who reveals herself to be the most insightful and empathetic member of the group – by the fruit of the rape she suffered. All of them doomed to face the same problems over and over again: Herboric’s indifference continues to put those close to him in danger; Cutter’s guilt is further reinforced by more moments of powerlessness; Felisin retreads the steps of her predecessor; and Scillara continues to face male oppression. The novel even touches on issues like abortion, even if indirectly when discussing adoption. A man, for example, claims to be inhuman the act of separating  yourself from your child and has his hypocrisy quickly questioned by another character, who asks, “How old do they have to get before you lose all sympathy for them?” When the man reaffirms that his concern is only the life of the child, the counter-argument is equally striking: “No it is not. Your obsession is with propriety. Your version of it, to which everyone else must bend the knee. Only, Scillara’s not impressed. She’s too smart to be impressed.” Scillara never ceases to have a voice, and she makes the discussion even more elaborate by pointing out that conviction becomes a tool of oppression when it is inexorable.

Mappo is another one that embodies the metaphor of the book’s title, seeking to recover the memories of Icarium among the bodies that his friend left behind. The Trell has to face the consequences of helping his friend – their relationship gains great sexual undertones (“Would that you were a woman”) –  reach a goal that can destroy Icarium.  It is just fitting, then, that Icarium’s name makes reference to Icarus, as his objective is his ruin: at a certain moment, Icarium seems to even fly to his memories.

Now, with Karsa Orlong, Erikson continues to demonstrate an unrivaled ability to make a character’s growth appear in their way of speaking. Karsa’s dialogues, for example, are unique, revealing his evolution through the union of many traits, such as his new awareness of his own culture (“It is blood-oil that drives Teblor warrior to rape”), the remnants of his literal way of thinking (“I shall, although it is not made of wood, and so it should be called Inn of the Brick”), and his political insights (“Better is never what you think it is”). The character sees himself as a savior, distinguishing himself directly from the series’ antagonists for seeing value in doubt and criticism, considering tradition, certainty, and religion as prisons. However, the impulsiveness that was stimulated in him during his life as Teblor warrior now makes him pay a terrible price, shackling him to promises and challenges that may go beyond his capabilities.

Thematically ambitious, the narrative also penetrates into religious discussions, opposing itself to any faith that restricts critical thinking, placing its norms and interpretations as sacred and inviolable: the narrative frequently shows how certainty limits and imprisons. Doubt, on the contrary, liberates, allowing the doors to empathy to be always open by never denying beforehand the perspective of the other. In the same sense, even monotheism is put in check, due to its inherent limitation: “The existence of many gods conveys true complexity of mortal life. Conversely, the assertion of but one god leads to a denial of complexity, and encourages the need to make the world simple. Not the fault of the god, but a crime committed by its believers.”.

The Bonehunters’ narrative also discusses the negative social consequences of believing in any kind of paradise, stating how the promise of a positive afterlife can function as a tool of political control: it can stimulate conformism in the face of oppression, making it difficult for changes to happen in the real world:

“There is something profoundly cynical, my friends, in the notion of paradise after death. The lure is evasion. The promise is excusative. One need not accept responsibility for the world as it is, and by extension, one need do nothing about it. To strive for change, for true goodness in this mortal world, one must acknowledge and accept, within one’s own soul, that this mortal reality has purpose in itself, that its greatest value is not for us, but for our children and their children. To view life as but a quick passage along a foul, tortured path – made foul and tortured by our own indifference – is to excuse all manner of misery and depravity, and to exact cruel punishment upon the innocent lives to come.”

Gods play a pivotal role in the novel, being constantly associated with spiders, trapping mortals in their webs of political machinations. Therefore, it is curious that is Cotillion the god to receive more projection in the narrative, as he appears to be the only deity that acts directly to fight injustice. Cotillion never conceals that he manipulates humans and plays with them, but he also shows traces of empathy, such as when he proactively informs Apsalar of what he knows about Crokus. As Paran defends in a certain moment, it is the gods who claim compassion, yet remain inert, who most need to account for the injustices of the world – a criticism that reaches even one of the most interesting characters of Midnight Tides.

Finally, if the final climax of the novel is not bigger in scope than the battle of Y’ghatan, it’s undoubtedly more thematically important. It deconstructs history, with characters defending that it is not about facts, but about narratives: history, when it’s recounted, is a form of discourse that, despite expressing a certain ideology, has the appearance of truth. Therefore, interpretations of the most basic facts can always be revised when convenient, which can be beneficial or culminate in the repetition of terrible errors and the rise of hate speech. However, the confrontation that occurs in the climax manages to find an optimistic side to this discussion by being interspersed with a special melody: a song that honors figures from previous books that shows that if the past foretells tragedies, it can also predict some achievements.

At some point in the novel, Karsa finds some people that call the past “Frozen Time”. It’s a perfect metaphor, because while it puts the past as being initially frozen, locked-in time, it also assumes that a little heat is enough to bring it back to life. In The Bonehunters, the past does not remain static. It is more than a warning; it’s an omen: it is not enough to be cautious about it; it’s necessary to continuously fight to – perhaps – avoid its repetition.

December 21, 2018.

Originally published in Portuguese on April 28, 2018.