Jespar is a former soldier, escaped nobleman, and general hedonist. Dreams of the Dying begins with Jespar leaving a brothel by way of the window; missing half his clothes and with only a few coins left to his name. This is, we learn, not an unusual state for him. Jespar’s a man dying to drown his sorrows – and his past – with fleeting pleasures.
He’s also a man on a mission. For no immediately-apparent reason, Jespar, of all people, has been summoned by the most powerful lord of a distant kingdom. When he arrives, he learns that the First Magnate, Oonai, is trapped in a magical coma, imprisoned in his own dreams. Oonai’s wife is convinced, due to dreams of her own, that Jespar is the key to his recovery. And the land very, very much needs the First Magnate right now.
Dreams of the Dying alternately presents Oonai’s past with Jespar’s present. In the former, we see the rise of a merchant-king, and begin to understand the forces that have led to his present situation. In the latter, Jespar takes the reader on a journey across the land, and, of course, into dream. Steadily Jespar’s story is revealed, as well as that of the land itself.
Dreams takes place in a fascinating and well-detailed world. Clothing, customs, languages – the economics of trade and taxation; the politics of factions and rebels. From the construction of pavements to the recreational drugs, absolutely nothing is less than fully realised. The fantastical elements are equally robust. The ‘initiated’ are cognisant of the mysteries of ‘dimensionism’, the magical system of the world that is passed off as pseudo-science for the uneducated masses.
The plot hinges on a previously unexamined branch of dimensionism; the revelation that dreams take place in a dimension of their own, the Imūma, and some – rare – people are able to visit, and even participate, in this collective level of reality. Oonai is trapped in his own kuluhika, his personal dream realm, which Jespar, with the aid of a dream-powered dimensionalist, is able to enter and, hopefully, retrieve him.
Certainly Dreams makes a valiant attempt to make a cigar more than a cigar. Yes, the lord’s dream dimension is, ultimately, a kind of mental dungeon, ready for crawlin’. But it is also reflective of (or crammed with) symbols and signs drawn from Oonai’s own past. In parallel, Jespar is dealing with his own trauma. In many ways, being caught ‘in his own head’ is Jespar’s worst nightmare – literally. In dealing with Oonai’s (externally-induced) horrors, Jespar needs to confront his own.
I try to ignore authorial intent, but, in this case, I think it is essential to understanding Dreams. In the book’s forward, the author reveals that, although Dreams is his first novel, it is set in Endaral, an existing and long-running game world. (Here’s the game!). Dreams is author’s valiant attempt to curate and consolidate almost two decades of existing lore. As part of the process, the author being admittedly ‘obsessive about consistency and cohesive world building’, he revised the magic system, the language, the history, the geography of this world. Dreams isn’t a ‘reboot’ as much as the new world bible: the official canonisation of a sprawling, organic mythos.
This objective is ambitious, but not unprecedented. Books have always played a critical, or, at least, distinctive, role across media properties, and not simply as tie-ins or merchandising opportunities. Books, as a format, are excellent for providing detailed lore (they can provide omniscient perspectives in ways other media cannot), are ‘non-interactive’ (e.g. excellent at delivering a ‘fixed’ narrative), are inherently authoritative (a perk of the format and its socio-cultural heft), and provide a type of immersion that both invites participation while still providing clear boundaries (allows the reader to imagine themselves in the world, while still showcasing an inviolable sequence of events).
There’s even a long heritage of books supporting, amplifying, or even introducing games. Perhaps most famously, Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman’s Dragonlance Chronicles – as a series of books – served as a showroom for the new world of Krynn, and was published simultaneously to the Dungeons & Dragons campaign modules. The reader effectively follows one ‘adventuring party’ through the modules, learning about the mechanics – and the possibilities – of this fascinating new universe.
The ‘shameless travelogue of my shiny world’ plot also has precursors. Weis and Hickman again, with Darksword Adventures. In this stand-alone book, the hero seeks to reclaim his birthright from a wicked uncle. Somehow, the search for justice – a bit like getting the right stamp at the DMV – takes him back and forth across the land. Even M.A.R. Barker, creator of Tékumel, supported his famously elaborate game world with novels like The Man of Gold, which are, rather blatantly, the high fantasy world of British Airways’ in-flight magazine. The role of books like these is to showcase locations and experiences; to sell the reader on the source material. It is a little shameless, but it is effective. It is also justifiable: complex worlds need – deserve perhaps – more than little ‘lore boxes’ in a campaign manual.
Books have even served as the vehicle for communicating a canon update. In this sense, Dreams’ precursor is perhaps the Forgotten Realms’ Avatar trilogy. The Realms, a popular world, was being – rather aggressively – rejigged in advance of the second edition of Advanced Dungeons & Dragons. The (rather spurious) plot of the trilogy essentially walked the reader through the changes to the world, but in a narrative way. It was an effective mechanism of showcasing what was new, as well as providing an (in-world) rationale as to ‘why’. They’re pretty awful as stories, but still a lot more fun than reading stat blocks.
The Dreams of the Dying is therefore a text with a purpose – to curate and canonise a world. Dreams can be applauded, and perhaps even recommended, for attempting, and meeting, this challenge. For many readers, this will be enough, and I hope they enjoy it.
However, and, I suppose, by necessity, Dreams of the Dying is therefore both peripatetic and pedantic. That is to say: Jespar goes from one place to another, explaining stuff. And that stuff is explained at length. The reader trudges from one new and exciting location to another, and, at each, learns something new about dimensionalism, the economy, philosophy, or politics.
The character development is equally didactic, with Jespar (et al) explaining their motivations and life-philosophies through self-absorbed monologues or lengthy expositional asides. That’s not to say it doesn’t ‘work’ (mostly), but ‘work’ is the right word: the characters are, for all functional purposes, treated like part of the scenery: objects of interest, described in detail. You understand what they’re doing, and why, but they’re not particularly likeable for it. Dreams is a book where the ‘hero’ is the world, which sounds very good as a cover blurb, until you realise that worlds don’t make particularly compelling protagonists.
Dreams of the Dying is the only SPFBO book of my initial allotment that I did not finish. I read slightly over 250 pages, but balked at the prospect of a half-thousand more. There’s an unbridled enthusiasm about it: Dreams is a book that finds itself absolutely riveting, and is desperately keen to share everything it can about itself.
SPFBO, to me, is about finding and showcasing the best of independent storytelling. Dreams of the Dying is clearly a labour of love, but not, unfortunately, a very strong story.
– Jared
Our other SPFBO 7 reviews:
- Finnian’s Fiddle by Chandler Groover
- Breakaway by Dezarea Dunn
- Red Harvest Moon by Miles Hurt
- A Change of Blood by G.P. Gabriel
- Bloodlines by K.R. Gangi
Check out our SPFBO 7 intro post here.
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