Elidor is a short novel, a favourite from late childhood. Timeless, visionary, a tale of magic and myth, of hope and depair, it was a dark antidote to the happy Blyton bubble. In Alan Garner's world, reality had teeth and an edgy urban feel. Parts of his world were dark, malevolent and twisted. Primal forces were at work here and there was an impending sense of doom.
Having said this, much of the novel has humour and a sense of fun. Many years later, a reader inevitably has a different perspective rereading a favourite novel. It is a tribute to Alan Garner's writing that he can switch from powerful fantastical scenes to humdrum family life in a suburban home of yesteryear - and carry the reader with him.
This novel was originally written by Alan Garner in 1965, from his own radio play. It features four young teenage children, David, Nicholas, Helen and Roland, who inadvertently break though the fabric of time and space at a weak point, to find themselves in another universe. The plot moves to and fro between the sprawling city of Manchester, and Gorias, the gateway to Elidor. Elidor is, as it sounds, a magical fantasy world; a world of beauty and goodness, a golden Utopia, as described by one of its inhabitatants, Malebron, but a world which is under threat from evil forces.
At the start of the novel, the family is in Manchester, in the process of moving house. The children are therefore left more or less to their own devices. It is a typical gloomy day, and our protagonists go into the city centre, to find something to do to relieve the boredom (and naturally avoid being given jobs to do). A mechanical street map provides a few minutes' diversion, and on impulse they agree to find a road picked apparently at random.
From now on the foreboding seems to increase. The children walk along increasingly deserted back streets, parts of the "slum clearance", feeling more and more apprehensive as they notice the difference from their own comfortable suburban home. The reader is not sure whether it is the unfamilarity which is putting the children on edge, or something else, something more sinister. There seems to be more squabbling, but then perhaps this is part of the gritty realism of a typical family, rather than the more familiar descriptions in children's literature from the period, of idealised families. The children discover a church in ruins, and an old football. Inevitably during the game which follows, someone kicks the ball through one of the church's remaining windows, and the glass crashes into splinters. From that chilling moment, everything in the children's world changes as they discover the strange, mystical and mysterious world of Elidor,
"Round, and round, his voice went, and through it came a noise. It was low and vibrant, like wind in a chimney. It grew louder, more taut, and the wall blurred, and the floor shook. The noise was in the fabric of the church: it pulsed with sound. Then he heard a heavy door open; and close; and the noise faded away. It was now too still in the church, and the footsteps were moving over the rubble in the passage downstairs. 'Who's that?' said Roland. The footsteps reached the stairs, and began to climb."
As one by one the children are lured through the portal into the twilight world of Elidor, we view this through Roland's eyes, and feel what he feels. Roland is the most sensitive, the one we identify with. He is the one in the group whom nobody else will listen to, but is proved to be right. All the children are sensible and courageous, but only Roland remains clear-thinking and loyal under almost intolerable peer pressure. All the children must make choices and take on responsibilities far beyond anything their parents could understand. And here again is an irresistible tacit assumption made by older children's books, that the adults have closed minds. Adults may be cruel, stupid or risible - mere figures of fun. They may on the other hand be kind and sensible. But they are always, without a doubt, unimaginative and clueless.
Alan Garner here has made the parts where the four children are back in the dreary world of Manchester, a welcome relief; amusing sections, probably based on his own experience. Who can remember parties gone to under duress? Or duty visits to friends approved of by parents? Probably quite a few readers will recognise and chuckle at some beautifully drawn cameo roles. The inept but well-meaning father, the long-suffering but patient mother might also raise a smile. The aspirations of the parents in moving to somewhere just outside Manchester, the description of poverty-ridden slums, and post-war bombsites with ongoing demolition still awaiting construction, all set this story firmly within the late 1950's or early 1960's. It was a world and a time where children could go off and play in such places, where children were expected to devise their own amusements for much of the time, where even lower-middle class parents such as these were not overly concerned if the children walked back on their own late at night from a party.
There is now a nostalgic element to all of this. At the time it felt realistic - my own childhood sat somewhere between these children's and those in the back-to-back housing which was being cleared away and replaced by highrise tower blocks. I belonged to neither group, but knew children in both. I had discovered Alan Garner for myself and loved his writing. He seemed to speak to me alone. I loved his lyricism, his poetry; the way he could convey the beauty of a sound, an image, something unknown and intangible, and almost indescribable.
Yet his was also a grittier world than the cosy reality of most approved children's writers. He had an "edge". He had the imagination of C.S. Lewis - but his was a darker, brooding, gutsier world altogether. Think of a pagan version of Narnia, and you're almost there. I read several novels by Alan Garner, but later discovered that after the first four, his reality became increasingly darker than my own.
The amusing domestic episodes may come across to a modern young reader as almost historic. The technology seems ancient, from the days before everyone had computers. The talk of mechanical maps, radio signals, the horizontal and vertical holds on the television and the tiny white dot on the television screen getting smaller and smaller as it was turned off. At the time of publication they served to disperse the tension, and also make the reader yearn to be back in the fantasy world of Elidor. Perhaps they still do.
Although the children use slang from a bygone age, which may make a modern reader grimace or wince a little, these are no mere simpering characters, but a believable family. In the Watson family as any other, there is competitiveness, quarrelling and minor squabbles. Much of the narrative deals with the children's difficulties with parents and teachers, and the sheer impracticality of concealing their other-world responsibilities from their daily life in Manchester. But Elidor crashes through normality,
"The sound of air being torn like cloth burst on them, a dreadful sound that cracked with the force of lightning, as if the sky had split, and out of it came the noise of galloping hoofs. There was no warning, no approach: the hoofs were there, in the mist, close to the children, just ahead of them, on top of them, furious ... All about them was hoof and mane and foam,"
With writing like that, the readers longs to be back in the world of Elidor. It is a magical land, seen only in glimpses. The powers of evil seem to probe into the dreariness of Manchester, yet there is Elidor, whose very name seems to conjure up light and hope. But Elidor is all but dying, and overrun by evil. It is up to the four children to guard four treasures from the dark forces, but since their true nature is not apparent in their home world, their experience in Elidor becomes more like a dream, a dream which just occasionally bursts through into their comfortable yet ordinary life.
The two worlds merge at unexpected times. Roland has strange glimpses - some of which fill him with fear, but of course nobody believes him, and this is a trigger for him to push and push until ultimately the inevitable happens. Roland has personal integrity and responsibility. He knows he cannot be blameless for any terrible events which may be caused by his actions. He is a real hero, not a cardboard figure. But he is the only one in the end to hold to the promise all four made; the only one to stay true to the memory as time passes. He never becomes blind to the sinister portents, picking up ominous signals and clues; vague dark shadows in space, a cryptic design, and a rhyme on an old broken piece of pottery. He never forgets their immensely important task of guarding the treasures. It is Roland alone, who remains constant in his awareness of their destiny, and their part in the struggle to hold back the terrible darkness by fulfilling the prophecy.
After a humorous episode in which the children are either excuciatingly bored, or squirming with embarrassment, we become aware that they are in real danger. The tension is cranked up unrelentingly as, pursued by dark forces, they,
"... ran from pool to pool of the street lamps and sometimes they glimpsed a shadow, and sometimes there was a tall silhouette; and there was always too much darkness. When they turned the corner the white fluorescence of the railway station at the end of the road was like a sanctuary. They drove themselves toward its glass and concrete, as if ...danger of spear-edge and shield-rim would be powerless in the neon glare."
And the conclusion of the novel is a masterpiece of terror, leaving the reader wanting more - yet dreading what it might portend. For there is never an easy, happy ending, in a pagan myth.
Alan Garner's writing stems from myth and fantasy, but he invariably chooses the darker side of Faery. Two of his natural successors are Philip Pullman and Graham Joyce, although both authors conform to the present taste for longer novels. Philip Pullman has also created an "other" universe which does not always adhere to conventional moral precepts. Graham Joyce's novels have a similar pagan feel to Alan Garner's.
The origins of this particular novel are from a Welsh folktale, whose title can be translated as "Elidor and the Golden Ball". In it, Gerald of Wales, "Giraldus Cambrensis", described his 1188 journey across the country in a medieval account, "Itinerarium Cambriae", or "The Itinerary Through Wales". In the account, Elidor was a priest who, as a boy, was led by dwarfs to a castle of gold. This castle was in a land which, although beautiful, was not illuminated by the full light of the sun. Alan Garner develops this idea, making the golden walls of Gorias contrast with the dull sky in Elidor.
Reading the novel resulting from Alan Garner's script, it is possible to envisage how atmospheric the play must have been. The language is almost mystical in parts when read aloud, and with today's opportunities for excellence in cinematic special effects, it seems surprising that it has never been filmed.
This time round I listened to the text, and also read it on the page. It still had the magic. Even with 21st century eyes and a great deal more experience, I still found Alan Garner's writing very evocative, imaginative and powerful. And I still found the part when Findhorn finally appears almost unbearably poignant.
All things have their note, and will answer to it.