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The Two Confessions
In Samuel Trevan’s history the Reformation was aborted. In England, the 'Spanish Armada' was welcomed ashore. In his 2000 A.D. the Church rules the known world. A continent-spanning Christendom benignly guides the lives of millions from cradle to grave – and beyond. The supernatural is natural and everyday.
Which is fine by Samuel Trevan - until the Church gets in the way of business. Capitalism is discouraged but rising, and Trevan wishes to surf that wave. It’s the only way he sees to escape his humble beginnings and gain the girl he loves. Even if it means taking on an entire civilisation.
Step by step, Trevan finds himself caught up in a titanic struggle between two opposed ideologies – the ‘Confessions’ of his age. He also soon discovers that neither side are entirely what they seem. Meanwhile, other, hidden, players intervene to influence the outcome.
Set in the same world as Whitbourn’s prize-winning 'A Dangerous Energy' and 'To Build Jerusalem', The Two Confessions offers a vision of a radically different England. Whilst dovetailing into an already richly realised ‘alternative history’ it is also a gripping stand-alone novel of action and ideas.
‘A humdinger… a terrifying story, marvellously inventive and written with great power and conviction.’ - The Times. Praise for John Whitbourn’s first novel, A DANGEROUS ENERGY.
‘My top ten fantasy and science-fiction novels… John Whitbourn’s A Dangerous Energy and Popes & Phantoms. Absolutely brilliant. Read them.’ – Michael Scott, author of The Necromancer.
334 pages, Kindle Edition
First published December 27, 2013
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
September 1, 2020
If you purchased this book based on the front cover thinking it’s a biography of Ozzy Osbourne, you’re in for a disappointment. It is in fact the concluding part of John Whitbourn’s Pevensey Trilogy, following on from the excellent A Dangerous Energy and To Build Jerusalem. Although just to add, the three novels only share the same alternative history and occasional overlap of characters or references, so reading The Two Confessions isn’t predicated on having read the first two novels.
The Two Confessions is on a par with the first two novels in the trilogy. If anything, it slightly exceeds them, although in truth you can throw a blanket over the three. Whilst not as original as A Dangerous Energy or as immediately accessible as To Build Jerusalem, the author’s dark, dry humour is again pitch perfect. There are so many quotable lines, but it would do them an injustice to relay them out of context here. The action part of the novel is sinister and brilliantly realised. If I were pitching that part as a film, it would be, The Descent in the Mines of Moria directed by HP Lovecraft.
My own confession, is that some (ok, a lot) of the theological aspects and historical references within John Whitbourn’s works go over my head. Perhaps I should have paid more attention in Religious Education and History at school. However, far from being an irritation, some elements really pique my interest and I enjoy exploring what they could relate to. There can’t be many works of dark fantasy/speculative fiction that have an educational side effect as an unintended (or perhaps intended) consequence!
If you’re new to the works of John Whitbourn, The Two Confessions perhaps isn’t the best starting point. I would politely suggest starting instead with his collected short stories, Alternate Englands, which are so good as to rank alongside the short stories of Stephen King, Richard Matheson and Roald Dahl, in my opinion. If you don’t like at least a few of his tales of the uncanny and/or alternative histories, the chances are you won’t like his novels. I can also highly recommend Binscombe Tales, BABYLONdon, and if you happen to know a Mountie, The Age of the Triffids, which I consider a masterpiece. Put them all on your wish/hit list, or Whit list.
The Two Confessions is on a par with the first two novels in the trilogy. If anything, it slightly exceeds them, although in truth you can throw a blanket over the three. Whilst not as original as A Dangerous Energy or as immediately accessible as To Build Jerusalem, the author’s dark, dry humour is again pitch perfect. There are so many quotable lines, but it would do them an injustice to relay them out of context here. The action part of the novel is sinister and brilliantly realised. If I were pitching that part as a film, it would be, The Descent in the Mines of Moria directed by HP Lovecraft.
My own confession, is that some (ok, a lot) of the theological aspects and historical references within John Whitbourn’s works go over my head. Perhaps I should have paid more attention in Religious Education and History at school. However, far from being an irritation, some elements really pique my interest and I enjoy exploring what they could relate to. There can’t be many works of dark fantasy/speculative fiction that have an educational side effect as an unintended (or perhaps intended) consequence!
If you’re new to the works of John Whitbourn, The Two Confessions perhaps isn’t the best starting point. I would politely suggest starting instead with his collected short stories, Alternate Englands, which are so good as to rank alongside the short stories of Stephen King, Richard Matheson and Roald Dahl, in my opinion. If you don’t like at least a few of his tales of the uncanny and/or alternative histories, the chances are you won’t like his novels. I can also highly recommend Binscombe Tales, BABYLONdon, and if you happen to know a Mountie, The Age of the Triffids, which I consider a masterpiece. Put them all on your wish/hit list, or Whit list.
March 16, 2020
Dipping once again into the works of “counter-reformation green anarcho-jacobite” fantasy writer John Whitbourn brought me to this, the final installment of the series his first novel, “A Dangerous Energy,” began. The world is one where magic is real and largely controlled by the Catholic Church, which in turn controls vast swathes of the planet, keeping it at a pre-industrial level of technology even into the 1990s. This world’s Britain is staunchly Catholic, ruled by the Stuarts, not at all a United Kingdom, and generally not a great advertisement for what the counter-reformation, magic, or the Jacobites do for a country. Life is squalid, limited, and dark- for characters in Whitbourn’s stories, shading towards pitch black.
Our protagonist, Samuel Trevan, is an orphan turned proto-industrialist struck down by the Church’s strict laws against over-exploiting labor (in one of this alternate universe’s more extreme points of departure, the Church doesn’t generally side with employers). He was going to make a fortune manufacturing rifled muskets (because that’s where they’re at, technologically) and then marry the upper-class girl of his dreams, but no such luck once the Church gets done with him.
Now expendable, Trevan is employed by some of the realm’s deep state fixers to fix a case of spooky mines in rural Devonshire. Trevan wants money, his handlers want discreet elimination of a problem down there. And what a problem it turns out to be- demi-devils, part human part demon, but even worse- heretics! Specifically, Bogomils- for those not versed in heresiology, these were the predecessors to the more famous Cathars, and were dualists who believed the material world was somewhere between irrelevant dross and actively evil. Our word “bugger” comes from “Bogomil” because of their supposed sexual practices (to help reduce reproduction). These Bogomils are in touch with some cask-strength Lovecraftian elder god type thing and aren’t shy about sacrificing people (in a nicely nasty touch, the Bogomils’ friends, those dastardly Unitarians, are too squeamish for it and leave before the rituals get spicy).
Trevan’s whole crew gets sacrificed, but then Trevan is saved by… not quite a deus ex machina. Is there a Latin word for elves? Either way, elves exist in this world, magical and aloof from humanity but not above messing with it (in a way that reminds me of archons from the lore of the dreaded Gnostics). This is where things get fuzzy. The elves say they save Trevan because he’s a massive threat to them. The industrial revolution he could usher in would destroy elfdom- even his touch or proximity is toxic to the fae folk. So they take him, give him all the money he wants, let him marry the girl, and try to hide him. If they’re so indifferent to humanity, why don’t they kill him, or let the Bogomils sacrifice him?
Eventually, Trevan gets doxxed and the Bogomils show up, but not to sacrifice him: to try to recruit him. They want the industrial revolution, for reasons obscure but in tune with Whitbourn’s general vibe- in his world, heresy and “progress” go hand in hand. They harass Trevan so bad he eventually has to hide in a monastery, which is where the novel ends. The end, no moral!
Well, some moral. Whitbourn is as much a horror writer as a fantasy writer, so there’s limits to how sunshine-y his worlds would be in any event, but from a “deep green” perspective the world is probably better off, and some of the filigree in the worldbuilding makes clear settler colonialism didn’t get far, either. More than anything, man is small and mostly knows his place. Whereas, Whitbourn’s antiheroes and villains are small, battened by forces beyond their comprehension, but entertain delusions about steering their own ship… that is to say, they’re moderns. And in Whitbourn’s world, the moderns lose.
They have to, because this is essentially cosmic horror — horror about the universe’s essential cruelty and pointlessness — but with precisely one out: a remote but all-powerful God who, for mysterious reasons, chooses to communicate with man through the Catholic Church. That’s where reactionaries fall apart- man is small and irretrievably corrupt, therefore let’s pick a few of them (or just one!) and give them all the power. In Whitbourn’s world, those people have the direct line to the one bare trickle of cosmic hope, so I guess it makes sense they call the shots. Still and all though- the world as Whitbourn shows it is dark, cramped, and dirty (the writing displays horniness that borders towards the cringeworthy). The Bogomils have some good points about the grossness of the world, even if, in the fine old reactionary genre formula, the more ideas they have the more awful their behavior.
Anyway… a lot going on here. I may have gotten into Whitbourn out of ideological curiosity but I’ve stuck with it because he writes genre fiction with verve and heart (and a high work rate- he has dozens of other books). This one had a pretty good dungeon-crawl and some sinister yokels, even if it also had inexplicable plot points and slow bits. It’s all part of the unique package Whitbourn delivers. And he (or someone pretending to be him for some weird reason) has commented on my blog! I emailed him about doing an interview. Fingers crossed! ****
Our protagonist, Samuel Trevan, is an orphan turned proto-industrialist struck down by the Church’s strict laws against over-exploiting labor (in one of this alternate universe’s more extreme points of departure, the Church doesn’t generally side with employers). He was going to make a fortune manufacturing rifled muskets (because that’s where they’re at, technologically) and then marry the upper-class girl of his dreams, but no such luck once the Church gets done with him.
Now expendable, Trevan is employed by some of the realm’s deep state fixers to fix a case of spooky mines in rural Devonshire. Trevan wants money, his handlers want discreet elimination of a problem down there. And what a problem it turns out to be- demi-devils, part human part demon, but even worse- heretics! Specifically, Bogomils- for those not versed in heresiology, these were the predecessors to the more famous Cathars, and were dualists who believed the material world was somewhere between irrelevant dross and actively evil. Our word “bugger” comes from “Bogomil” because of their supposed sexual practices (to help reduce reproduction). These Bogomils are in touch with some cask-strength Lovecraftian elder god type thing and aren’t shy about sacrificing people (in a nicely nasty touch, the Bogomils’ friends, those dastardly Unitarians, are too squeamish for it and leave before the rituals get spicy).
Trevan’s whole crew gets sacrificed, but then Trevan is saved by… not quite a deus ex machina. Is there a Latin word for elves? Either way, elves exist in this world, magical and aloof from humanity but not above messing with it (in a way that reminds me of archons from the lore of the dreaded Gnostics). This is where things get fuzzy. The elves say they save Trevan because he’s a massive threat to them. The industrial revolution he could usher in would destroy elfdom- even his touch or proximity is toxic to the fae folk. So they take him, give him all the money he wants, let him marry the girl, and try to hide him. If they’re so indifferent to humanity, why don’t they kill him, or let the Bogomils sacrifice him?
Eventually, Trevan gets doxxed and the Bogomils show up, but not to sacrifice him: to try to recruit him. They want the industrial revolution, for reasons obscure but in tune with Whitbourn’s general vibe- in his world, heresy and “progress” go hand in hand. They harass Trevan so bad he eventually has to hide in a monastery, which is where the novel ends. The end, no moral!
Well, some moral. Whitbourn is as much a horror writer as a fantasy writer, so there’s limits to how sunshine-y his worlds would be in any event, but from a “deep green” perspective the world is probably better off, and some of the filigree in the worldbuilding makes clear settler colonialism didn’t get far, either. More than anything, man is small and mostly knows his place. Whereas, Whitbourn’s antiheroes and villains are small, battened by forces beyond their comprehension, but entertain delusions about steering their own ship… that is to say, they’re moderns. And in Whitbourn’s world, the moderns lose.
They have to, because this is essentially cosmic horror — horror about the universe’s essential cruelty and pointlessness — but with precisely one out: a remote but all-powerful God who, for mysterious reasons, chooses to communicate with man through the Catholic Church. That’s where reactionaries fall apart- man is small and irretrievably corrupt, therefore let’s pick a few of them (or just one!) and give them all the power. In Whitbourn’s world, those people have the direct line to the one bare trickle of cosmic hope, so I guess it makes sense they call the shots. Still and all though- the world as Whitbourn shows it is dark, cramped, and dirty (the writing displays horniness that borders towards the cringeworthy). The Bogomils have some good points about the grossness of the world, even if, in the fine old reactionary genre formula, the more ideas they have the more awful their behavior.
Anyway… a lot going on here. I may have gotten into Whitbourn out of ideological curiosity but I’ve stuck with it because he writes genre fiction with verve and heart (and a high work rate- he has dozens of other books). This one had a pretty good dungeon-crawl and some sinister yokels, even if it also had inexplicable plot points and slow bits. It’s all part of the unique package Whitbourn delivers. And he (or someone pretending to be him for some weird reason) has commented on my blog! I emailed him about doing an interview. Fingers crossed! ****
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews