A prose poem inspired by Orford Ness, a place I have never visited and which could now only disappoint me. Rob Macfarlane writes, with haunting, louring illustrations from Stanley Donwood, the pair of them weaving modern myth from the site's history, a history that helpfully already has the contours of legend – an outlaw terrain become a place of military experimentation, which in turn has now softened into a nature reserve. Here it is the Green Chapel, on which five strange voyagers converge to prevent one final destructive forging by the Armourer and his congregation. Calling it the Green Chapel nods to Gawain And The Green Knight, of course, and that gives some idea of the mood here; it feels like eavesdropping on a ritual from some distant and half-understood culture, even as it's threaded through with references to the stuff of everyday life, from songbirds and winds to Lego Star Wars figures. But really it could be any clash of pantheons, of life and death, from the oldest Chaoskampf myths through to the latest superhero film. You could also draw a parallel with Alan Garner's Boneland – a fractured telling, and one which could hardly have happened without modernism, that nonetheless creates a feeling of something primal and ancient.
All of which said, it's not the first book this year where I feel obliged to mention the more mundane consideration of cost to reading time; £15 for an already slim volume with plenty of blank space. It's a lovely object, and one I was lucky enough to find in the library, but for those whose local services have been hit harder by the cruel ongoing absurdity that is austerity, it's hard to unreservedly recommend as a purchase. Part of me wonders if it might not be more at home as a performance, where its quality of litany and its story of coming together to thwart the seemingly inevitable could be a powerful combination.