Most fantasy novels are set in a pseudo-historical setting because we love swords, cloaks, and princesses. Many authors do a considerable amount of research to make their setting authentic and believable. Often it is the historical details, rather than the fantastic ones, that form the groundwork for the world of the imagination. People must still eat, sleep, and go to the bathroom in whatever context they are set, and so those are details that the author must provide. We understand that the agriculture, government, technology, and and warfare in a story must adhere more to the examples of the past than those given by the modern world. We cannot have our knight galloping past a combine tractor, nor does it make sense to have a feudal system if the wheat can be harvested and processed mechanically. Additionally, we must be careful to avoid infusing our sword-wielding characters with modern values and sensibilities.
It’s true that humans will be humans no matter the context, but that doesn’t mean context is irrelevant to the way we approach the world. In Mongolian, there are over 500 words to describe the traits of horses, with about half of those describing the coat color alone. Mongolians spend a significant amount of time in their stories describing horses, and will often dwell on a horse’s pedigree longer than the hero who rides it. The Mongolian obsession with horses may seem alien to the average modern Westerner, who spends the majority of his time sitting indoors. In the same way, our characters should give attention to certain details that we would miss.
One of the most astounding criticisms I’ve received of my novel, The Wind from Faerie, is that I dwell too long on descriptions of nature. There are certainly valid criticisms to be made of my work, but this one seems utterly off base to me. I’ve often thought I don’t spend enough time describing the soil, the plants, the animals, and the clouds. The ancients were intimately tied to nature in a way that is difficult for us to understand today. If our ancestors could smell the snow on the air, and see the threat of it in the quilted clouds, then they could bring the flock to safety and insure that the fire is stoked before a flake has fallen. I only have to go back two generations in my own family before I reach a relative who had to farm without any mechanical aid. Someone who has to use a horse or ox to plow their field will know that animal like a member of their own family, and will gain an eye for all such creatures. My protagonist, Kellan, grew up stalking through the forest primeval. It is only logical that he would pay attention to bark and leaf, and that he would interpret all else through that lens. When he sees the marble columns of Parthicum, he is reminded of the august trunks of his native forest.
There are many reasons why I love the movie Gladiator, but one of my favorite details is how Maximus (the protagonist) is always examining the soil. He was a farmer before he became a general, and he never loses those instincts. He even stoops to feel and smell the dust of the Colosseum, the dust that may very well be soaked with his own blood by the day’s end. That’s good storytelling. Even today, those that spend time in nature will form a bond with it. Imagine a rancher, crouched among some thin and brittle grass. He’s in Iraq, waiting for an enemy convoy to roll by on the road, but all he can think about is that poor grass. A goat could hardly get a mouthful off it, and it would be a dusty mouthful. Suddenly, he has a concrete way to relate to the Iraqis. He can sympathize with those herdsmen, trying to eke a living from that thin grass while it’s getting trampled by foreign boots.
I’m currently working part time at a local college and am helping teach biology to the students there. In biology, there are roughly two levels of understanding life. The first is understanding what is happening on a molecular, cellular, and genetic level. This is essentially the stuff we can’t see, things that have strange names, and processes that involve a bunch of dots and arrows. It is understandably difficult for most people to learn. The second level is anatomy, behavior, and ecology. In this category, we are talking about how things grow and reproduce, how they get their food, and work in a community. Most importantly, we are dealing with plants and animals now, how they look and act. People are always good at learning the second category, even if they have no interest in biology. It isn’t just the difference between abstract concepts and concrete examples, those are present in both categories. The difference is that humans are hard-wired to quickly grasp the natural world. Plant and animal identification can be picked up quickly by anyone, and the average person can do a better job identifying species than our best computers. In botany class, after correctly identifying a tree, my professor would ask us why we had come to that conclusion. We’d often jokingly reply, “Because it looks like one.” The human mind can take note of all the subtleties of an organism at a glance, and that’s even true for those of us who spend an inordinate amount of time indoors. Imagine how much more adept our ancestors were, who were immersed in it, and for whom understanding nature was a matter of life and death.
Many of our characters live in a world in which nature is a part of their daily lives. They would know the songbirds that wake them in the morning, and the owls that call at night. They would know the names of the weeds, the trees, and the useful plants. They would know the insects that bite, those that spoil their crops, and those that predate the pests. They would know the names of the mountains and rivers, what creatures one might encounter there, and in which season. They would know what can lame a horse, the value of a cat, and how to train a dog. They would know when to sow, and when to reap; they would certainly know not to drink the water from every stream. In the midst of all their practical knowledge, they would also love and respect the natural world. They would recognize its beauty and its joys. Nature would be in the stories they tell, and the songs that they sing. They would define themselves relative to the natural world; it would inform their very identity. If we don’t know how our characters relate to nature, then we don’t know our characters.
If you find yourself at a loss for words to describe the beauty of nature, and the cycles of life alongside her, then I highly recommend reconnecting with your roots. Connecting with the natural world is an essential part of a healthy and happy life. We would be greatly benefited if we walk on the same trails of our ancestors, which are ultimately the same trails our characters must trod. Get outside and see the world!