Contrarywise by Zohra Greenhalgh
~Quick Review~
An enjoyable if confusing yet somehow still ordinary tale somehow loses all of its charm and introduces some seriously messed up plot points in a sudden and mad-dash attempt to avert a similarly sudden end-of-the-world plot line. Also, I’m still very, very confused about almost everything that happened. Can’t recommend even though I did very much like the first third of it. Trigger warnings for rape and other sordid topics.
~The Real Review~
(Apologies in advance. I couldn’t keep this one short.)
I want to take a moment to apologize to the gods of sci-fi and fantasy literature because I had to have done something to offend them. What exactly my sin was, I do not know. What I do know is that I've read obscure, vintage, woman-authored SFF for years without running into the nonsense to which I've recently been subjected. Somewhere, something went wrong, and I'm on my knees apologizing because dear cod, I can't take much more of this.
Contrarywise was extra bad because even as my appreciation of the book slid into toleration, I didn't see the kick in the teeth coming.
The book opens on Greatkin—immortal demi-gods, if you will—about to hold a banquet of great significance. Each Greatkin presides over some realm of existence. For example, Phebene is the Greatkin of Great Loves and Tender Trysts. There are a lot of Greatkin, but the only one that really matters is Rimble, the Greatkin of Deviance, the Unexpected, and the Impossible. He's essentially a trickster god.
Rimble is up to something, and though the prologue is long and dense and brimming with information, it was also confusing AF. It feels an awful lot like Greenhalgh is trying to be coy, teasing out just enough information to keep us guessing. Unfortunately, I don't think she correctly gauges how much information is necessary to impart for any of it to make sense. I was enthralled but also completely confused. If asked the significance of the prologue, I'd say, "Uh, Trickster is being tricky and lewd and ... changing things?"
No duh.
Once the actual story opens, I felt far more comfortable. It's told in an omniscient narrator POV that might spend a few pages describing someone up close, only to zoom half-way around the world and lecture on the history of a building and the modern-day politics affecting it, then skip into an explanation of how and why a nationality of people behaves the way they do, before returning to that first person to see how things have changed.
It has a somewhat Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell vibe, which is only furthered by the presence of the fey Rimble appearing and disappearing at will.
It helps that Greenhalgh clearly knows her world and seems to know what's interesting. For example, the effect of geography on biology—namely that the land of conception dramatically affects the characteristics of the conceived—is an interesting take on that old fantasy classic of nations producing folk of unrealistically homogenous passions and skill-sets.
She's also clearly thought this through past the topical level. Take the Jinnjirri. Hailing from a land where the ground shifts constantly, the people shift, too. Their hair shifts with their mood, and their gender shifts on demand. As their hair betrays their mood, they are said to be ardent head-coverers, keeping everything concealed under elaborate and artistic hats or head-wraps to ensure their privacy. One of the first scenes is a Jinnjirri removing her head covering around someone, and him considering it a compliment of their intimacy.
It makes sense and it's interesting, there's just one problem: there are at least six named Jinnjirri that spend time on screen, and aside from that opening scene, none of them ever cover their heads. We're regularly informed of their hair turning a fiery red or a despondent blue or a chilling grey.
I think this is indicative of one of the bigger (yet still tame) problems of Contrarywise: things don't "pay off" like you'd expect them to, and sometimes neat ideas are introduced to be neat—not to be applied.
Still, that's not a deal-breaker. Even with the extreme coyness of plot revelations and this neat-to-be-neat problem, I was enjoying myself. Perhaps this is because the story is so down-to-earth. From our omniscient viewpoint, we watch 11-ish characters (and sometimes their close friends/family members) live their lives. When the narration spins away from them, it's often to clue us into something meaningful that affects what they are currently up to.
So what are they up to? Not much. They have house meetings and fight with their parents/lovers/roommates. They get fired and worry about money and whose turn it is to do the dishes. It's actually quite banal. And yet there was some magic there, something special.
I think part of it was that, even from the beginning, it's clear that these characters are all connected in a grand but unrevealed scheme. This turned every silly argument or quest to find a place to eat into potential. Maybe the argument would make the character late for class, which would mean he'd need to talk to some authority figure, and on the way, he'd meet someone who would invite him to exactly where he needed to be for Rimble's plan.
I also think it's just the fun of characters. Many of them live together, even if they don't understand that their fates are connected. It's fun to watch a house where an old professor, an emotional and naive young woman, a hipster musician, an out-and-proud pickpocket, and quite a few other characters live together. It almost has a sitcom-y vibe—I could see some scenes in my head so clearly if felt they were written for live-action.
I also think it's deliberate characterization. Take, for example, the pickpocket. Podiddley. He's irascible and of dubious morality, yet also dedicated to an ancient and secretive religious organization. He doesn't always love what's expected of him in this organization, and he's never shy about complaining, but he also clearly has no intention of quitting, no matter how unpleasant or annoying things might get.
His master in this organization, a seemingly decent fellow named Doogat, is similarly well characterized. For starters, he couldn't care less about Podiddley's profession, so long as follows instructions. He also approaches everyone so carefully and uniquely that he felt perfectly old and wise and religious. He might teach Podiddley a lesson (as in, genuinely trying to teach him something) by boxing his ears. For another member of the house, though, his instruction might be more like a therapist-level difficult discussion, and for yet another member, it might be a sincere hug and kind, soft words.
Most of the characters were this engrossing, this lovable, this effortless to read about except the one-dimensionally obnoxious Cobeth. He’s the only truly villainous character, but his repertoire is mostly sneering at people and kicking them when they’re down. He’s easy to hate and not particularly well written. Everyone else, though, is tops. Alas, but it could stay that way.
Roughly 130 pages into the novel, the plot starts to shift towards center stage. I wish I could do it justice, even if my "justice" were coherently tearing it to shreds, but I cannot. Mostly because I still don't understand it. I know that the world was at stake somehow, though how, why, whose fault that is, or how it could be or was saved is beyond me. Greatkin Rimble could be the cause or redemption of the world's end. Or both. Probably both.
This, in part, ties back to Greenhalgh being too coy. I suspect if I had a multiple-page summary supplied to be by Greenhalgh, I could reread the book and "understand" most of the plot from what’s written. But if a deep understanding of the plot is necessary to understand the plot ... well, I'd argue that just means something is missing from the writing.
I don't think coyness is the extent of the failure, though. As the plot grew in intensity and scope, the book's quality and cohesion suffered. Other reviews back me up on this. Even people who liked the book copped to the conclusion being a mess. And it is. Unfortunately, too, it's a mess in a way that doesn't leave room for the things I liked about the first part of the book. Characters start moving too quickly to be enjoyed. Interesting tangents are stripped out and replaced with the occasional info-dump critical to the plot-point just unearthed (but barely understood.)
Still, I could have cut the ending some slack on account of my fondness for the first 130 pages, because I was extremely fond of them, were it not for one thing: god-sponsored incest.
Okay, frankly, it's my own fault. The Greatkin describe each other as sisters and brothers. They aren't, in fact, related at all. They simply all came into existence at the same time in roughly the same place, and thus dubbed themselves siblings. Fine.
It's still weird, though, when they talk about fucking each other. Greatkin Rimble has a huge erection and the Greatkin of Imagination says something like "That had better not be for me, brother," and Greatkin Rimble says something like "No, it's for our dear sister."
Weird, but ... those are just words, right? They don't have the emotional connection of siblings and they're not related. No reason to get hung up on it.
What sort of mindless optimist am I? The red flags where right there!
So there's this woman named Kelandris. She’s 32 years old and insane at the opening of Contrarywise, but flashbacks show us her past.
At the age of 16, she’s chosen by her village to be the Revel Queen at the Trickster festival. This honor she accepts eagerly. Even an ancient ritual that pits the men against each other to win the Greatkin Rimble’s favor to fuck her doesn’t disaude her. She’s always loved Greatkin Rimble, and she’s eager to serve.
Kelandris's has a sibling: a Jinnjirri named Yonneth. As they're both adopted, they share a kinship deeper than blood—they understand each other as outsiders.
(One of the curious things about Jinnjirri is that even though their sexual organs can and do change, they seem to be thought of mostly in terms of a single gender. I'm guessing this is based on what gender they most often present, and for Kelandris's younger Jinnjirri sibling, this is male.)
Now, Yonneth is the power-seeking sort, and he's upset that he can't be Revel Queen, even though he can easily change his sexual organs to be able to conceive. Being barred from this honor poisons him against his sister. To steal her joy of being the Revel Queen, he taunts her that maybe he'll be the one to win Greatkin Rimble’s favor and fuck her.
The day of the festival, Kelandris waits in the woods for the man who won Greatkin Rimble’s favor, but she cannot relax. The Greatkin of Deviance might actually send her brother to fuck her! Her fears are not confirmed. A man named Zendrak appears and reveals himself as more than a villager—he’s Greatkin Rimble's Emissary. They make passionate love, both obviously smitten with the other.
Now, sometime shortly after he leaves, she’s beaten senseless, stuffed full of mind-frying hallucinogens, and left for dead. I don’t recall the exact reason for this even though it’s one of the few plot-points clearly spelled out in the novel. So many confusing and brain-taxing things happen after it, though, that my memory was wiped entirely clear.
Zendrak learns of her suffering and returns. While he’s able to safe her life, he’s unable to save her sanity. Heartbroken, he leaves her in the hands of a healer.
Now, things are dicey here. Zendrak is 500+ years old; Kelandris is 16. Okay, fucking gross, but you kinda have to make some allowances in SFF for this shit. It's a common trope, that of the ageless and vaguely mystical older man in love with a teenager, and one people seem to take in relative stride so long as the guy is genuinely in love. See Buffy the Vampire Slayer if you have any questions.
(Don't get me wrong. I hate it. But I've been worn down to where it's not an automatic deal-breaker.)
It’s revealed that Zendrak is more than Greatkin Rimble's Emissary—he's Rimble's son. That erection Rimble took to his "sister" resulted in a pregnancy. In turn, this pregnant Greatkin took mortal form on a mythical land previously home to mythical four-legged sentient carnivores to carry that pregnancy to term.
Now, I was pretty damn sure the book said that the land of conception affected the characteristics of the conceived. I recall this because more than once, it was said that if someone conceived in one land-area, then traveled to a new land-area with new characteristics, the person would miscarry.
But, as I said, things start to get sloppy as the book goes on, so the lore of the world changed slightly. Now the land of gestation and birth also affects the characteristics of the fetus.
Thus, Zendrak is part Greatkin and part mythical sentient beast because that's the effect of the land on which he was gestated. He looks completely human, though, because ... shape-shifting? Oh, P.S., he's also Doogat, Podiddley's Mayanabi master. Again because shape-shifting. I'd be more careful with these reveals, but I think I'm roughly matching the tone and suddenness of how they're conveyed in the novel. Alas, I was never able to appreciate Doogat after this reveal.
Okay, so Zendrak is a four-legged mythical beast/Greatkin. Weird, a little annoying, and far too big of a reveal for late in the novel, but eh.
No, the kicker is this. Greatkin Rimble's lay with his fellow Greatkin didn't result in one child. It resulted in two, the second being Kelandris. Zendrak and Kelandris are twins. Then, instead of bringing them both into the world at the same time, Kelandris was dropped 500 years into the future.
So ... Kelandris is worried about having sex with her adopted brother. Instead, she has sex with her actual blood-related brother. Eventually, this information is made known to both of them. Zendrak don't give a fuck. He's mostly still mad that he's lost years of their relationship to her insanity. Once sane again, Kelandris also doesn't care. And in the background, Greatkin Phebene of Great Loves and Tender Trysts is actively trying to ensure they end up together because she believes theirs is a Great Love.
(Aside: there’s no good reason for them to be related. They could easily not and the book still work.)
This god-sponsored incest somehow is the key in saving the day—Zendrak's love is capable of stripping Kelandris of her insanity. But also, to regain her sanity, she must lose her humanity. This results in her being a just-barely-not-feral version of whatever weird mythical four-legged beast her and Zendrak are even though we only ever see them as people. Also also, after their first fuck Kelandris conceived*, then immediately lost the "pregnancy" due to the subsequent beating. Considering she was "pregnant" for all of a day, I'm not sure how either of them could know this, but now they also realize that the soul of the child conceived was, instead of being lost, transplanted into another that of another recent conception. Namely, the byproduct of Yonneth raping someone the night of the Trickster festival. Trickster also happened to guide this “spiritual child” of Kelandris and Zendrak so she could be there when everything wraps up. They all share a tender moment.
Oh, and Cobeth, the only obviously redemption-less character in the book? He’s actually Kelandris's adopted brother, Yonneth. He still fucking sucks and is killed by Greatkin Rimble and it's treated like he has an arc but he doesn't. He's one-dimensionally but also low-key obnoxious evil and brimming with hubris, then he dead.
It's a fucking mess.
So yeah. I've sinned because nothing else explains how a book with literal god-sponsored incest wound up in my hands after reading three other books recently with similarly messed up themes.
*What's with books touting one-day pregnancy? One day in and sperm might not have even gotten sight of the egg yet, and then there's still time for the egg to implant itself ... one-day pregnant isn't a thing.
Cover art by: Bryn Barnard
