The Incomer

by Margaret Elphinstone

We are the land. The elements that created the land live in our bodies. We are born, we bring to birth, and we die, and the land takes us. There is no difference. What is done to us is also done to the land, and what is done to the land is the thing which is done to us. There is nothing else.' Naomi, the enigmatic fiddler, arrives in Clachanpluck, bringing her music and the ominous potential of an incomer. Her unexpected arrival enriches this remote forest village even as she disrupts it. This is a story of an all-consuming love of the land; the power of friendship; the seasonal round of creation and death; and the physical thrill of storm and rhythm, fire and candlelight. The impending sense of catastrophe - global and personal - which haunts this world, finally erupts in violence: trust and love are the casualties. The Incomer follows in the tradition of the ballads: fantasy gilds the mundane and the ordinary is made extraordinary. 'A beautifully imagined society with its holistic pantheism and imbued with the sense of the power of music.' The Scotsman 'An immensely satisfying book to read because of its rich symbolism and allegorical qualities.In reading a book such as this with the female re-instated, we realise how much of woman and her psyche has been expunged from Western literature.' Cencrastus

Genres: Science Fiction

229 pages, Paperback

First published June 1, 1987

About the author

Margaret Elphinstone is a Scottish novelist. She studied at Queen's College in London and Durham University, where she graduated in English Language and Literature. She was until recently, Professor of Writing in the Department of English Studies at the University of Strathclyde in Glasgow, now retired. Her academic research areas are Scottish writers and the literature of Scotland's offshore islands.

Elphinstone published her first futuristic novel in 1987. Her first historical novel, The Sea Road was published in 2000 and won won a Scottish Arts Council Spring Book Award. She is also the author of Lost People (Wild Game Publications, 2024) The Gathering Night (Canongate Books, 2009), Gato (Sandstone Press, 2007), Light (Canongate Books, 2006), Voyagers (Canongate Books, 2003), Hy Brasil (Canongate Books, 2002), Islanders (Polygon, 1994), Apple from a Tree (Women's Press, 1990), A Sparrow's Flight (Polygon, 1989), and The Incomer (Women's Press, 1987).

She did extensive study tours in Iceland, Greenland, Labrador and the United States. She lived for eight years in the Shetland Islands and is the mother of two children.

Reviews

[Sadie Slater · Rating 4 out of 5]

It must be very nearly thirty years since I found a copy of Margaret Elphinstone's The Incomer in the local library. I was a science-fiction loving teenager who was passionate about feminism, and the Women's Press's SF imprint was a sure sign that a book would be relevant to my interests, so of course I snapped it up. Somewhat unexpectedly, it ended up having a profound influence on me; among other things, it was the book that first introduced me to T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets, and I also remember it as being the first time I realised that it was actually possible for someone to be attracted to both men and women, and to act on that*. I think I read it a few times over the next couple of years, but I hadn't really even thought about it in years before I found a copy in a second-hand bookshop a couple of years ago; it took me a while to get round to re-reading it, partly because I was worried about how it would stand up, but I found myself thinking of it recently and decided to take the plunge.

The Incomer is, basically, a classic 80s postapocalyptic feminist utopia**, set in Galloway a distant future where, following the destruction of "our" society by an unspecified cataclysm, people have returned to subsistence farming, living in small, close-knit communities, working in harmony with nature. The patriarcy has been replaced by a matriarchy, with women as "householders", leading extended family groups of children, siblings, aunts, nieces and nephews, but not fathers and partners; the nuclear family is no more, and whatever romantic relationships may be formed in adult life blood relationships and the family of origin remain the most important thing, while children belong to their mothers and only know their fathers as friends and neighbours. It's a peaceful, contented vision of the future, and if adult-me is perhaps less enamoured of the idea than my younger self was (there's a lot to be said for modern technology) I could imagine a lot worse. The novel follows the villagers through a winter when a stranger, a travelling musician, is staying with them; it's not particularly plotty, more a gentle exploration of their society, and the way in which the women of the village safeguard it from the dangers that lurk in the past and threaten to emerge into the present.

It's beautifully written, full of lovely, lyrical descriptions of the landscape and the forest. It's scattered with quotes from Four Quartets (the characters find two books from the old world, a romance novel which they find incomprehensible, and Four Quartets which seems to them the most straightforward and logical thing in the world), but reading it now I'm so much more familiar with the poems I can also see their echoes throughout the book, in the language and imagery and the way the characters experience the world around them and its relationship to the past. Even some of the structure of the novel seems to owe something to Eliot; there were times when I felt that I was reading, if not quite a feminist reworking of Four Quartets, certainly a feminist response. It's a quiet, thoughtful book, and I did enjoy revisiting it; it certainly hasn't lost everything that I found it it years ago.

One thing that hasn't stood up well, though, is the depiction of gender. It's telling that, in the 80s, the only alternative to the patriarchy seems to have been a matriarchy; it's clear, in the world of The Incomer, that the women are in charge, and the men are seen as a bit useless, not party to the deep mysteries of the world. The women are the keepers of the new peace, and are ruthless in the extent to which they will go to preserve it; an act of violence sees them transformed into Furies, pursuing the wrongdoer and exacting justice. Women are nurturing and keep their society together, while even in this brave new world the men struggle to express their emotions, to talk between themselves about what matters or to behave with tenderness and compassion to each other. Almost all of the femal characters are seen in sexual relationships with men, and although one mentions the possibility that she may have had female lovers and this is accepted as perfectly normal, it still seems to be a largely heterosexual society. Really, it's a sign of how far the dialogue around gender has moved in the last thirty years; not that it was completely impossible to imagine a post-gender future in 1987 (Marge Piercy's Woman on the Edge of Time managed it a good ten years earlier, after all), but it was clearly still possible for a radical green utopia to feature very traditional gender roles and heterosexuality-by-default in a way I don't think it would be now.

And as for my bisexual epiphany? Well, on re-reading, I do wonder if the scene were two female characters, both of whom have prevously been seen in sexual relationships with men, declare their love for each other and get into bed together was really just intended to be platonic bed-sharing, companionship and friendship and mutual support; it's certainly not spelled out that this is a sexual scene, if it's supposed to be one. (The heterosexual sex scenes are not remotely explicit, but it is pretty obvious what's going on.) Still, I don't suppose it really matters what the actual intention was; what matters is the realisation it brought me to.

* I was about 13, and it was the 80s; there was no Internet and Clause 28 was a thing, so this wasn't necessarily an easy thing to find out, but I'm very glad I did as I'm sure I was at least marginally less confused because of it.

** Interesting that that really was a thing; more modern postapocalyptic visions tend to be dystopias, but there was certainly a pervading view in the 80s that the end of our civilisation (which was probably just around the corner) might herald the birth of a better one. Even Star Trek got in on the act, while in more recent books, Station Eleven seems to be part of the same tradition.

[Sue Chant · Rating 4 out of 5]

Difficult to describe this novel – nothing happens that could be defined as a plot, and characterisation is sketchy, but the evocation of the land is wonderful, reminiscent of how Alan Garner describes Alderley Edge in his novels - lovingly detailed but with an undercurrent of menace - or David Herter’s On the Overgrown Path - nature that exists beyond human comprehension. However the people at the centre of this land are so closed in and uncommunicative it’s impossible to understand what’s meant to be happening. There are lots of cryptic conversations, a fair bit of crying, and a modicum of melodrama but nothing I could point my finger to and say with certainty “This is the meaning of the story”. Notwithstanding, I enjoyed it a lot for the atmosphere and felt completely satisfied at the end.

[Kat · Rating 3 out of 5]

While certainly readable I found this a little too vague. It paints an interesting picture of life in a particular small village, and it has a dreamlike quality that I often enjoy in SF - but I feel that either it was fractionally too aimless or that I missed the point.

[Tail Dragger · Rating 4 out of 5]

I loved this "lift the veil" tail.